‘Was she very old? Or sick?’ Jeanne burst out.
‘Neither,’ Keeley said evenly. ‘She had an accident. The paramedics, they did everything they could that night but… she couldn’t be saved. And I… didn’t get to say the goodbye I wanted to.’ Her voice wasn’t so even now and Ethan looked to her fingers, clasping hold of the table, nails digging into the wood grain.
She started to talk again. ‘I guess I wanted to give something back in memory of my sister and make a small difference. Help those who have the chance to recover and now… I help others through their final battle.’ She paused. ‘Everyone deserves someone holding their hand when they die.’
Her words hit home hard as she turned her face towards him, their eyes connecting. She was the most special, selfless person and he found himself only wanting to find out even more about her.
The moment was broken by the ringing of a mobile phone. It wasn’t his and Jeanne had turned her attention back to eating.
Ethan took another sip of his coffee and watched Keeley stand up and answer.
‘Hello, Rach… sorry… no, I’m fine. Honestly. No, I didn’t get your messages I was… helping someone and… I forgot the time. Yes, I’ll be back for breakfast I promise. OK. Bye.’
Keeley ended the call then retook her seat. ‘Sorry, that was my friend. She’d apparently sent me five texts and was considering calling the gendarmerie.’
She smiled but Jeanne didn’t react so well. At the mention of the police the girl had shrunk a little into her seat.
‘I should go,’ Keeley said. ‘Unless you need me to wait for news…’ Her eyes went from Ethan to Jeanne then back again. ‘From the vet.’
He watched Keeley finish her drink, making to leave. There was nothing she could do here. She had places to be. Except he didn’t want her to leave without knowing he would see her again.
‘If Bo-Bo dies will you come to the funeral?’ Jeanne said, all big water-filled eyes now and none of the insolence.
‘Funeral?’ Ethan balked.
‘You have to have faith, Jeanne,’ Keeley told her. ‘You believe in Bo-Bo, don’t you? You told me he is a clever dog.’
‘I saw the look on the face of the vet,’ Jeanne said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. ‘He does not believe he can be fixed.’
‘Hey,’ Ethan said, drawing the girl’s attention to him. ‘I believe he can be fixed. And I anticipate I will be paying a great deal of Euro once the fixing is done.’
‘A party then?’ Jeanne asked, eyes a little brighter. ‘If not a funeral then a party for his recovery.’
‘Will I be paying for that also?’ Ethan wanted to know.
Jeanne’s face was turning red now as she hit him with a look that suggested a meltdown was going to ensue if he did not agree.
‘A party,’ Ethan announced. ‘Of course. We will make sure he will have the best survivor party a doggy could wish for.’
‘And you will come?’ Jeanne asked looking at Keeley.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Of course, I will come.’
‘We should… exchange numbers,’ Ethan said. ‘For… party arrangements.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Keeley agreed. ‘That makes sense.’
‘Good,’ Ethan answered as he created a contact on screen.
Despite the unusual circumstances, it seemed that their next date was set.
Thirty-Two
Rue Lepic, Montmartre, Paris
‘I know I thought Noel’s tourist talk was a bit annoying, but his handwriting is worse than his droning on and on about facts and history. I can hardly see where we’re meant to be walking to,’ Rach moaned, folding and unfolding a tourist map that had lines drawn all over it.
They were strolling through Montmartre, following a walk their guide had set out for them. But Keeley’s train of thought was miles away, not on the cobbles, nor in front of the apartment that used to belong to Van Gogh. Instead she was worrying about a scruffy little girl and her sick dog and her friend in the hospice back home who hadn’t answered her latest text. She had received a text from Silvie, though. It was an invitation to dinner the following evening at her home. She hadn’t mentioned the ballet, but Keeley guessed by now she would have heard from Louis that he had had a different theatre companion than the one Silvie intended. She hoped she wasn’t too annoyed.
‘Ha!’ Rach exclaimed, appearing to read. ‘Noel says to stop at somewhere called Les Petits Mitrons. He says, and I quote, “in the window there are tasty tarts for you to try”.’ She snorted. ‘Do you think he meant to write that note about the area around the Moulin Rouge instead?’
Keeley forced a smile and put her hands inside her coat pockets as they continued to walk. They’d passed brightly coloured store fronts, still selling items outside on the street – jumpers, fresh seafood, the ripest-looking tomatoes – the famous Moulin Rouge with its iconic windmill on the roof, and traditional eateries as well as restaurants with flashing lights advertising seasonal twists on pasta and pizza. Now their surroundings had become more subtle and traditional. There were more cobbles, slightly less mopeds and a gentle vibe about it.
‘What’s up?’ Rach asked, coming up alongside her.
‘I… was just thinking about Erica,’ Keeley answered.
‘She’s probably snogging that Joe Jonas photo you told me you got her.’
‘Nick,’ Keeley said. ‘It was Nick Jonas.’
‘Really?’ Rach said with a frown. ‘Oh well, I guess we can’t all have the same taste in Jonas Brothers.’
Keeley let out a sigh. ‘I need to start making decisions about my future, don’t I?’
It had been Erica’s pep talk the other day. Or maybe it had been earlier this morning with the girl and her beloved dog? Or perhaps it was meeting the mysterious Ethan? All Keeley knew was for the first time in so long, she was starting to think about reaching out towards a future. Yes, she had only made a few tentative steps – coming here to France to meet Silvie, a cosy dinner with a handsome companion, accepting an invitation to jog at sunrise – but they were somehow the largest strides she had made since the accident. It was acknowledgement that she was here and she wanted to embrace the life she had, for however long it lasted. Because no one knew, did they? She might already know that the longevity of the current oldest person in the world might not be hers to grasp but, just like everyone else, she didn’t have a date in the calendar to plan to. All anyone had was the here and now and the hope of a later.
‘I’ve almost wasted the last year,’ Keeley admitted suddenly. ‘Worrying.’
‘Well…’ Rach began. ‘We all do that sometimes. Look at me, worrying about how to trump Jamie in the overtime stakes and the buying Roland gifts stakes, all because I know that bribery and corruption will get me ahead at House 2 Home.’
‘Well, I’ve let everyone tell me what to do. My mum, the woman in Asda who told me burnt-orange was this season’s colour… I even asked one of Mr Peterson’s dead stoats for advice the last time I was there. What kind of insanity is that?’