‘You don’t have to decide anything, Keeley,’ Lizzie said, voice a little robotic. ‘Nothing at all. It’s too fresh and it’s nearly Christmas and…’
‘Lizzie,’ Duncan interrupted. ‘Come on, that isn’t fair.’
‘I’m just saying,’ Lizzie continued, battling her emotions. ‘This kind of pressure might be too much for Keeley right now.’
‘I think that decision is Keeley’s to make, Lizzie,’ Duncan said, making direct eye contact with his wife. ‘Don’t you think?’
Keeley watched her mum again. She looked about ready to crumble like breadcrumbs into stuffing mixture. This moment wasn’t the moment to be making any decisions. Keeley took a breath and reached for the tureen on the table. The only thing to do right now was to do the very British thing and keep calm and carry on.
‘Can I have some more cauliflower rice?’
Five
L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Opera District, Paris
‘The red or the green? Or the… green swirls on the red? Or… the red swirls on the green? Or, I know it is a little out there, but maybe, perhaps for something a little different, we could think of… electric-blue and silver?’
Ethan Bouchard popped another sugared almond into his mouth from the glass bowl he had drawn nearer and nearer to him throughout this meeting with his assistant, Noel. Then he placed a finger on his top lip and his thumb to his chin in a pose he hoped showed ‘thoughtful’. As Noel had shown him swatch after swatch of fabric, Ethan had sucked in a sugar high to stop his eyes from glazing over. Filling his mouth with hard-boiled goodness was to stop him being sick or immediately reacting with the disdain he usually felt when Noel was trying to get him to make a decision about something Ethan considered mundane. And what constituted ‘mundane’? Literally everything in his life since his best friend and business partner, Ferne, had died. He sucked on this latest sweet and finally cast a glance at the fabric books Noel was proffering at him. Why was he doing this again? What was the point? Life was mean and it was cruel and everyone died in the end.
‘What exactly is this for again?’ Ethan asked, moving the sweet from one cheek to the other. He was bored and he was hungover. He could feel the alcohol floating from his system with every glitterised suggestion Noel was making. And his assistant should be capable of making a decision about whatever this was without requesting his presence first thing in the morning when he had other more important things to do. Right now he needed to… drink coffee and… smell other people’s cigarettes and dream about smoking them himself and… eat more sweets. He was a very busy man. He brushed a hand back through his dark hair and adjusted himself in the seat. He should try to look interested.
‘This is for the whole, grand, 2020 Christmas theme for all the hotels!’ Noel reminded, rather loudly in Ethan’s opinion. ‘It is very important! It is one of the most important decisions we make every year!’
Ethan could tell Noel was getting flustered. His perfectly gelled-back black hair was starting to shift out of sculpted in places and his cheeks were reddening like the fat breast of a seasonal robin. And that was Ethan’s issue here…
‘It is November,’ Ethan reminded.
‘Monsieur Bouchard, with respect, it is late November. We are behind schedule this year already. We need to make a decision as soon as possible. Our guests will be expecting a Perfect Paris Christmas any day now.’
What would Ferne choose? Before Ethan could stop it, the thought had arrived and the day’s not completely dour manner started to disappear quicker than the contents of the candy bowl. None of this was the same without Ferne. And how could it be? Ferne had made Perfect Paris. It was all her vision. He had helped her, yes, but whether she had actually needed his input to succeed… well, he knew what most people’s answer would be to that. That age-old feeling of not being good enough rode over his shoulders and he leaned back into the chair.
‘What do you think, Noel?’ He looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the cityscape outside.
Paris was alive. Paris was always alive. Here in the Opera Quarter, the former Parisian cloth manufacturing district, Ethan was constantly surrounded by all the things Ferne had loved most. The Place des Victoires with its nineteenth-century shopping arcades, designer names amid the covered shopping centres still resplendent with brass and wood panelling, was like a step back in time. Ferne had adored the boutiques, often spending hours and hours searching for something original, a dress she could make a new classic or a pair of shoes or a hat. To anyone else some of her purchases might seem a little ‘out there’ but the way Ferne saw things, the way his best friend had always worn things, was always unique. Somehow, Ferne could manage to make anything look like the new latest trend. Ethan had always teased her that of course this was the location she wanted their flagship hotel. How easy would it be for her to take a long lunch and stroll under the glass-topped roofs of Galerie Vivienne? He blew out a breath, making eye contact with a pigeon perched on a ledge just outside the window. That was where he liked to think of Ferne now, meandering through heaven’s shopping malls, picking out must-haves to adorn her, light on her feet, floating just above him, still somehow connected…
‘I think I could do a lot with blue and silver,’ Noel said, his enthusiasm for dressing the hotels emanating from his every pore as Ethan looked back to him. And then his assistant seemed to rein the passion in a little as he spoke again. ‘Although, traditionally, we have always gone for red and green…’
Ethan didn’t care. He really didn’t care. He wanted to scream ‘what difference does it make?’ Because what difference did it make? Green? Red? Blue? If he chose badly would a dislike to the décor for Christmas pull down reviews on Trivago? What to say? Would Ferne have liked a change? He couldn’t remember who had come up with the red and green concept from the outset. Had it been Ferne? Or had it been the team of colour experts she’d employed? The only thing Ethan knew was it hadn’t been him.
‘Blue and silver speaks of luxury and opulence and… fine dining and impeccable taste and…’ Noel continued. He was wafting his arms around now like he might be a ballet dancer from The Nutcracker.
‘If I sign off on blue and silver will this conversation be over?’ Ethan asked, popping another sweet into his mouth. Maybe he needed more alcohol and not coffee…
‘Absolutely,’ Noel replied, already beaming at his triumph. ‘Not one more word on the topic. I will handle everything. You will not even have to think another thought about Christmas.’
And that last sentence was music to Ethan’s ears. ‘Fine,’ he told his assistant. ‘Blue and silver it is. Make it so.’
Six
The Hour Glass Pub, Kensington
Keeley drank three quarters of the pint of cider before even stopping for a breath. It tasted so refreshing. It was exactly what she needed. She might have skipped the gym last night, but today was a new day. She had spent an hour working out there earlier, pushing her body to its limits, unconcerned for her rapid heart rate or the pinch of a stitch, she had carried on running through. Yes, more water might have been healthier than alcohol, but she needed the hit. She was alive. She wasn’t adopted. She had an invitation to Paris…