‘Sorry,’ Keeley spluttered. ‘That was stupid and… way too deep and…’
‘Non,’ Ethan said, shaking his head. ‘I am sure you are right. About people leading with feelings. I simply thought, with vacations, people would want “luxury”.’ That’s what Ferne had wanted. That’s what Ferne had wanted for their clients. And Ethan still very much needed to trust that she had been right. Why wouldn’t she have been right? Perfect Paris was a success story after all.
‘Well, “luxury” means different things to different people,’ Keeley told him. ‘Like, “luxury” to my mum means getting all the Waitrose best stuff to impress her friends. Whereas, to me, “luxury” really does mean “comfort”.’ She drew in another breath as if musing on the subject a little further. ‘I always think the best things are the little cosy touches coming together to make up the bigger finished picture.’
Was this true? His heart was thudding in response to what Keeley was saying, but what was it telling him? That his best friend’s creation of a sleek, opulent brand was flawed? That Perfect Paris was a little too perfect? He didn’t know how to respond. He was so conflicted and he couldn’t get his brain to slow down.
‘You are free tomorrow?’ he asked her. Conflicted or not, something was telling him he wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear what she had to say and get to know more about her ‘feelings’.
‘I…’
‘Excusez-moi, you are on holiday. You are busy. I apologise.’ What was he thinking? He had enough on his mind with Louis breathing down his neck. He should take her reticence as a sign and back away.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, I am here with my friend and I don’t know what she has planned but maybe we could—’
‘Run,’ Ethan suggested quickly. He’d said the first thing in his brain just to get something out there. Apparently backing away wasn’t going to happen.
‘What?’
‘The… exercise we talked about. You said you sometimes like to run. I could… maybe show you hidden Paris this way.’
‘Early,’ Keeley breathed. ‘And, to be completely honest with you, I’m more a 4k person than a 10k person.’
Somehow she was suddenly closer to him now, her body only an inch or two away. ‘Early would work for me,’ he answered.
God, the overriding feeling he had now was that he wanted to kiss her. Long and slow yet fierce. As that realisation hit, it was all he could do to stop himself sweeping her into his arms. Why was he allowing himself to feel this way? How come he could not stop it?
‘Is six too early?’ she asked him, wetting her lips a little.
The action sent a shot of adrenaline spiralling around him like lights around the boughs of a Christmas tree.
‘Six is… comfortable,’ he whispered.
His heart was beating hard, and it took every bit of restraint he owned not to simply take her face between his hands and draw it towards his. And then, somehow, her fingers found his or maybe his fingers found hers. Whichever way it was, their hands became entwined, skin on skin, tiny movements, so delicate, but infinitely there. He had absolutely no words for how the connection was making him feel. And he understood it even less.
‘I should go,’ she said, breaking the contact, albeit slowly, one gentle fingertip at a time.
‘À bientôt,’ Ethan said, watching her as she finally stepped away from him. ‘Bonne nuit.’
‘Goodnight.’
Twenty-Eight
L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris
I want to see this guy. Take a photo. Find out his last name so I can stalk him on socials. French kiss his face off. I can’t sleep. Morphine needs to be stronger man.
The text ended with the emoji of the green pukey face and the smile dropped from Keeley’s lips at Erica’s message sent an hour ago. It was 5 a.m. and the comment about morphine reminded her again exactly how sick Erica was. There she was, texting every nuance of her chance encounter with Ethan and Erica was back in the hospice, clinging to the time she had left. She would FaceTime her again later, show her some more of the sights of the city and attempt to keep her spirits high.
Keeley put one foot out of bed and onto the carpet and straightaway the floorboards underneath let out a creak. She gritted her teeth. It was too early to wake Rach up. Rach was never good in the morning until she’d had at least three strong coffees with two sugars. Plus, Rach would ask her where she was going and Keeley still felt a little odd about telling her she was meeting up with a man she had met on the street. Holding her breath, she planted her second foot on the floor and stood up. This time the floorboard groaned like it was a bit-part monster in Doctor Who.
‘Who’s there?’ Rach sat bolt upright in bed, even in the dark a large shadow of blonde bed-hair apparent.
‘Sorry,’ Keeley whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you, but this old building’s floor had other ideas.’ She crept across the room then, heading for the shower. Why she was showering before going for a run she didn’t really know. Except she didn’t fancy smelling day-old before the real perspiration kicked in. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be quiet.’
Rach’s bedside light flicked on and Keeley could see that her friend’s make-up was all over her face. Literally all over her face.
‘Rach, your make-up…’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I fucking know!’ Rach replied, whipping the covers off her body and leaping out of bed to get to the dressing table mirror. There was no concern for the floorboards and the people sleeping below. ‘This is after I tried to clean it off last night. It’s like… like… I’m Pennywise or something. Bloody Adie at Price Squash. This is supposed to be the best you can get in Bulgaria. They even call it Low Re-al.’ She put fingers to her lipstick-bleeding lips and rubbed to no avail.
‘How was the ballet? You should have woken me up when you got back.’ Keeley stepped across the bathroom threshold and looked at herself in the mirror. Not too bad for little sleep. Her eyes went back to Rach when an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming and she watched her friend’s demeanour transform. The mascara encrusted, eye-liner ringed eyes turned into something from a soft-focus romance movie and her friend let out a breathy sigh.
‘Oh, Keeley, the ballet was… the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Really?’ Keeley answered. This was huge and surprising news coming from someone who didn’t often use the word ‘wonderful’ and, when Rach did use it, it was often about a basement flat that was as far from ‘wonderful’ as cubic zirconia was from diamonds.
‘Really,’ Rach insisted. ‘It was amazing. And, Keels, the big news is… I’d met Silvie’s son before. And so have you!’
‘What?’ Keeley stopped running the tap and paid proper attention.
‘Louis Durand is my hair hero Louis.’
Keeley didn’t understand.
‘Louis!’ Rach said again, all bright eyes despite her make-up spread across her face. ‘Louis who saved me from the revolving door. Louis who we bumped into at the afternoon tea. Louis who actually looked into my eyes last night instead of just staring at my boobs.’