‘Come,’ Ethan said. He took hold of her shoulders and turned her towards the river. ‘The best way to get one of your senses to work more fully is to alienate the others.’
‘What?’ Keeley asked.
‘Close your eyes,’ Ethan directed, hands still on her shoulders, breath close to her ear. ‘Close your mouth. Close your ears…’
‘Close my ears?’ She laughed. ‘Can I do that?’
‘Stop listening. Stop breathing through your mouth. Stop looking. Just… inhale.’
Keeley felt him press a little more on her shoulders and she heard him draw in a long, slow breath. Something about the timbre resonated with her and she found herself doing exactly as he asked, closing off all her other senses and tuning into the rush of air through her nostrils. And then, suddenly, there it was! There was something. Ordinarily there was very little at all, maybe only the faintest tinge of a change, but nothing to get excited about. But now, tuning in to Paris, the river, the cold of the night, the presence of this virtual stranger’s hands on her shoulders there was…
‘Something sweet,’ Keeley breathed. ‘Caramel maybe.’
‘And coffee,’ Ethan joined in. ‘Definitely coffee.’
‘Is it waffles?’ She was doubting herself now.
‘Yes,’ he answered, the pressure of his fingers increasing a little. Even through the-able-to-withstand-minus-fifty-degrees coat, Keeley could feel the warmth of his body. It was nice. It even felt a little bit ‘comfortable’. But wasn’t that what happened when you clicked with someone? You instantly fell into step with them somehow, like you had always meant to arrive in each other’s life.
‘And pee,’ Ethan blurted out. ‘Undernotes of pee, absolument.’
Keeley opened her eyes then, snapping back into reality and turning to face him. ‘I didn’t get pee.’
Ethan smiled. ‘Ah, that is good. You are still under the tourist illusion that everything in Paris is fragranced like it was manufactured in a perfumery.’ He nudged her arm with his. ‘I am Parisian. It is OK for me to admit that my city is only perfect because it embraces its imperfections. We learn to live with the scent of pee. No one knows where it comes from. We clean. We sanitise. After that, no one wants to know where it still comes from. It is simply part of the fabric of the city.’
Keeley smiled back at him as they began to walk again. He was the most unusual person she had ever met. Wearing the clothes of a businessman with his dark three-piece suit and his tailored winter coat but displaying the heart and charm of someone you might imagine leading a travelling circus – somehow a little bit of gypsy wanderlust mixed with Hugh Jackman’s Barnum.
‘London has its smells too,’ Keeley told him as they fell into step together. She may not be able to experience them fully anymore, but she could definitely recall them. ‘The Tube, that rush of warm, slightly sweetened air as the trains rush past… the parks in the springtime, daffodils, ducks… and different cultures.’ She breathed, remembering. ‘Crazy weird fruit outside Asian minimarkets and… the food stalls at Lower Marsh Market.’
‘It sounds magnifique,’ he answered her.
She turned her head, their eyes connected and Keeley felt it deep. Her words had resonated with him.
‘Have you been to London?’ Keeley asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Non.’ He seemed to stiffen up a little then, his hands going to the top button of his coat, fastening and unfastening it. ‘It is not somewhere I have… had the chance to travel to.’
‘You should,’ Keeley said, finding herself wanting to see his smile again. ‘I mean… it’s maybe not thought of as quite as romantic as Paris, but it has a lot going for it.’
He did finally smile then. ‘The ducks and the food stalls?’
‘Definitely the ducks,’ Keeley said. She looked up and saw they had arrived outside her hotel. ‘Oh.’
‘You do not want to be here?’ he asked her.
‘Oh, no, I do. I mean, it’s a very nice hotel. Our room is huge and… the Christmas tree in reception is definitely huge and—’
‘You say the word “nice” like it is a bad thing. You do not like this hotel?’
‘I don’t dislike it,’ Keeley said, checking out the entrance and that revolving door Rach had become trapped in. ‘It’s just… not really that memorable, you know. It’s clean and it’s modern and there are many glitzy touches of Christmas now, including an animatronic reindeer… but although it’s called “Perfect Paris” it could be… anywhere in the world.’
He was staring at her now. Properly staring and it was a little unnerving. Those grey eyes were fixed on hers and he wasn’t saying anything, simply looking at her and breathing slowly in and out. She couldn’t tell if he was absorbed or if what she had said had made him angry somehow.
‘Ignore me again,’ Keeley said hurriedly. ‘I really should be more grateful to even be here in Paris in December.’
Finally he spoke. ‘No.’ He looked like he was gritting his teeth. Maybe it was simply the cold weather. ‘I am curious for what you say about… this hotel.’
‘Well,’ Keeley said, turning to observe the façade again, ‘my job in England is to pull together themes to create a look that’s universally appealing to buyers looking for their perfect home.’ She smiled at him. ‘Except I don’t like to use the word “themes”. I prefer to use the word “feelings”. Most people, if they’re really honest with themselves, buy things with their emotions, whether it’s houses or cars or a new pair of shoes. Even if they might try to convince themselves it’s for practicality, you can guarantee the thought process has had a “feeling” attached to it.’
‘Shoes?’ Ethan asked, the corners of his mouth rising to form a wry smile.
‘Honestly,’ she told him. ‘Shoes you can run in – practical – are usually bought because you still remember the time your feet hurt so much when you wore heels for too long. Therefore, a feeling.’
‘This coat?’ Ethan offered, arms out, turning in a spin like he was performing on ice.
‘You might think it’s practical,’ Keeley told him. ‘To keep you warm in the winter but…’
‘But?’ he asked, sounding intrigued.
‘But… I think perhaps you bought it because, when you put it on, it took away a memory of when you were once bone-chilling cold.’
*
The breath caught in Ethan’s throat and it was all he could do to hold it together. Astute didn’t even come close. Somehow this woman had seen inside of him. He vividly remembered buying the coat. He had been with Ferne, browsing at one of her favourite flea markets, when he had spotted the nearly-new garment on a rack. The pure wool had felt good on his fingertips, soft yet also somehow strong. He had shrugged off the cheaper version he had been wearing and pulled the coat around him. Straightaway it felt like some kind of suit of armour. Looking at himself in the stallholder’s mirror he had seen two versions of himself. This version in the new coat, the vision of the him he could be, and then the old version. The too-skinny boy who had been bone-chilling cold every night of his life at the orphanage. This coat, although second-hand, had been the most expensive item he had bought up until that day. And it still meant the world.