‘Yes, Mum,’ Keeley replied.
Twenty-Nine
L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris
Ethan checked his watch. What was he doing? When had he last run through the streets of Paris? He never really had the time. What he should be doing was preparing for this meeting with Silvie, Louis and Ferne’s solicitor this afternoon. He had received an email late last night with only the vaguest of details, but it had said enough to get him worried. Where exactly did he stand? Was there some loophole he had missed with regard to his part-ownership of Perfect Paris? Had his grief veiled the nuts and bolts of things he should have paid more attention to? Perhaps, while Louis was rushing back across the ocean to get away from the desperate loss felt by pretty much everyone except him, it seemed, Ethan had overlooked details that were going to determine his future here. And, if something had happened to shake his foundations within the company, it might mean he couldn’t be at the centre of making sure Ferne’s hotels didn’t become an anonymous part of a bigger corporation. Who else was going to stand up for Ferne if he didn’t?
The door of the hotel revolved and there Keeley was coming out onto the street. This woman who gave him goose bumps simply by being in his orbit. His skin was already reacting underneath the long-sleeved tight-fitting sports top he was wearing. He had gone for joggers instead of shorts as there was frost on the ground and the air was just as cold. She was wearing leggings, trainers and a sweatshirt bearing a picture of a dartboard and, with her hair tied back from her face, she still looked adorable.
‘Bonjour,’ he greeted.
‘Good morning,’ she answered. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I—’
‘Not at all,’ Ethan said. ‘I… like your sweater.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at it. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t bring any running stuff with me so…’ She laughed a little. ‘It’s my dad’s. He’s part of a darts team back in England.’
‘Ah,’ Ethan replied. ‘In France we prefer to play petanque.’
‘My dad’s never been good with sports involving balls,’ she replied. ‘He once played cricket in the back garden with one of our neighbours and ended up breaking three windows with the one shot. Not a greenhouse. Don’t ask. It involved a budgie.’
He couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Could we start running now?’ she asked him, pulling the hem of the sweater down a little and starting to shiver.
‘You are cold?’ Ethan said.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s just, if we don’t start running now I might go off the idea and suggest coffee and a croissant instead.’
He could give in. He could easily swap the frozen streets of the capital for the cosy warmth and early-morning ambience of a coffee shop. But he needed the exercise, the blood pumping around his body to ready himself for whatever the day held. Plus, he really wanted to show her a little more of Paris. His Paris.
‘OK,’ he answered. ‘We will go.’ He started to jog, checking over his shoulder to see if she was following.
*
Keeley’s ribs were already hurting a little. She had inspected her bruises from the Pepe fall again when she’d got dressed this morning and they were still that initial wondering-what-colour-they were-going-to-grow-up-to-be-blue, lined up alongside the still-red scars from her operation and her ordeal. The running motion was definitely not helping. Not that she was going to let that show on her face. She was also not going to show the fact that street running was very different to running on a treadmill and her knees were partially jarring over every piece of solid pavement.
‘This is the best time to run,’ Ethan told her. ‘No one much around.’
They had passed along by the Seine, a cold mist settling over the water and they were now heading off the tourist beaten track from what Keeley could tell. The Christmas decorations on the buildings had changed a little from garish bright lights and sparkle to more gently traditional and home-made. Garlands of ivy and fir, painted wooden effigies, silver stars that looked well-used. All much swankier than Grandma Joan’s stash of Woolworths’ finest, as much as she was fond of them.
Ethan’s words were coming out level and even. Like the effort of running was having zero effect. Meanwhile, Keeley’s heart felt like it was the prominent bassline in a dance track. ‘Yes,’ she squeaked. She cleared her throat.
‘You are OK?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Yep.’ She wasn’t. This was such a bad idea. She never looked attractive during or after exercise. Why would she agree to this?
‘We can slow down a little if…’
‘No… I’m fine.’ She let out a raspy cough then hastily sucked in vital air. She wasn’t someone who gave in easily. Her still being here was the ultimate testament to that.
‘This is Passy,’ Ethan informed, keeping pace beside her. ‘Personally, I think it is one of the most overlooked areas of Paris.’
‘Is it an area for… rich people?’ Keeley replied. ‘It looks… affluent.’
‘Un peu,’ he answered. ‘But that is not why I like it.’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘Come this way.’ He sped up just a little so he was dictating the direction.
Keeley gritted her teeth and willed herself to dig into special reserves. They had run maybe just over a kilometre. She hoped he wasn’t going to suggest more than three or four more of them…
They rounded a corner and Keeley let out a gasp. This time it wasn’t from the exercise, but because of the view ahead. A cobbled street had appeared like someone had just drawn away a curtain of modern times and revealed a scene from yesteryear. There were thick stone walls and iron gates, lumps of rock attached to the base of houses and old-fashioned gas-style lampposts glistening with frost. This didn’t look like the previous rich person’s city paradise, it seemed as if something rustic and ancient had been plopped right into the centre of Paris’s metropolis.
Keeley slowed her run to take it all in. ‘What is this road called?’ she asked.
‘Rue Berton,’ Ethan answered. He was back alongside her now, matching her running rhythm. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s like nothing I would have imagined finding in the middle of Paris, so close to the Eiffel Tower.’
‘I know,’ Ethan replied. ‘You can imagine how things were years ago, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Monks,’ Keeley answered, continuing to jog, being careful with the sheen on the cobbles here. Slipping for the second time this break wouldn’t be ideal.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry,’ Keeley said. ‘I just imagined monks walking down the narrow lanes, whispering in prayer or something. It’s so… atmospheric.’
*
Ethan had always thought it was atmospheric. The place of daydreams. When he was younger, when he used to escape, he’d made his way down here to roam the alleyways and paths imagining he was someone else. Not a monk perhaps, but someone who wasn’t a street kid from the orphanage. Someone who could be anyone he wanted to be. And that chance had come… in the shape of Ferne.