French Kissing (24 page)

By the time we left the museum, it was late afternoon. We strolled arm in arm along the left bank of the Seine, stopping to browse among the dark green
bouquinistes
, the second-hand bookstalls, that lined the pavement. I looked up at the blossom on the trees that grew beside the river, and decided that everything I'd ever heard about Paris in the spring, that it was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, was true.

We walked until we reached a point on the riverbank where we had a splendid view of Notre Dame rising above the Ile de la Cité – I was surprised to learn that the famous cathedral was built on an island – before deciding to head back to Montmartre. Our way to the nearest Metro led us past a number of souvenir shops, and although I'd spent the day looking at artistic masterpieces, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the garish T-shirts printed with badly drawn Parisian street scenes, the snow-globes containing miniscule models of the Moulin Rouge, and baseball hats with the logo
J'aime Paris
picked out in diamante.

‘Shall I buy one of these?' I said to Alex, holding up a shiny, golden, foot-high statue of the Eiffel Tower. ‘Do you think it would look good in my flat?'

‘Absolutely,' Alex said. ‘Because it really isn't one of those tacky souvenirs that seems like an ideal memento when you're on holiday, but as soon as you get home you wonder why you bought it.'

I took another look at my potential keepsake. ‘You may be right.' With reluctance, I replaced the statue on the shelf, and contented myself with some postcards.

‘So how did you like your first day in Paris?' Alex said, unzipping his sleeping bag.

‘It was wonderful.' I climbed into bed. ‘It really is a very beautiful city – and you know how much I like visiting art galleries.'

After we'd got back to his apartment, Alex had cooked us mushroom omelettes, and then we'd sat by the French windows, eating, talking and drinking wine, looking out over the rooftops as the sun set, and the sky grew dark and full of stars. After the amount of walking we'd done that day, and with another early start planned for the next morning, both of us had been very ready to call it a night.

‘Tomorrow, I'll show you more.' Alex turned out the lamp, and I heard a loud creak and a twang as he got onto the sofa. ‘
Bonne nuit
.'

‘
Á demain.
'I shut my eyes. I was tired, but pleasantly so, my mind and body relaxed. There was more creaking from the sofa, and then a loud thud. I flicked on the light-switch near the bed. Alex, tangled in his sleeping bag, was lying on the wooden floor.

‘Merde.
'With difficulty, he sat up.

‘Are you hurt?'

‘No. Maybe bruised a little.' He rubbed his elbow. ‘All I did was turn over – and then I was on the floor.'

‘You're just too huge for that sofa. Let's swap – you take the bed.'

‘I wouldn't hear of it. You're my guest.' He kicked his way out of the sleeping bag.

‘Alex, your feet hang over the side –'

‘So would yours, if you were lying on a two-seater sofa.'

For goodness' sake. Too tired to argue, and now really, really needing to get some sleep, I said, ‘Then let's share the bed.'

‘You wouldn't mind?'

‘No, of course not.' He could sleep in his sleeping bag on top of the bed – it was hardly any different to him sleeping a few feet away on the sofa.

‘
Are you sure?'

‘We're friends aren't we?'

‘Yes we are.' Alex walked over to the bed and before I could say anything, joined me under the duvet. ‘This is such a relief. It took me hours to get to sleep on that sofa last night, and I've had a crick in my neck all day.' He rolled onto his side, with his back to me.

I was in bed with a gorgeous man who was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. And I was only wearing a T-shirt.

He said, ‘Goodnight, Anna.'

‘G-goodnight.'

Alex's breathing changed to a soft gentle rhythm that told me he'd already drifted off to sleep. I slid over to the edge of the mattress, as far away from him as I could get without falling on the floor myself.

Twenty-seven

At some point during the night, Alex had turned over, and I awoke to find that we were lying spooned together, his arm draped across my waist. I could feel his steady breathing on the back of my neck. The shutters were closed, and the bed was soft, and it felt very good to lie there in the dim light and the warmth, with a man's strong arm around me. Then it struck me that when he woke up, it was going to be a whole lot less awkward for both of us – well, certainly for me – if our bodies weren't pressed together quite so intimately. Slowly, careful not to disturb him, I lifted Alex's arm off my waist, and slid out of the bed.

I showered and dressed, and when I came back from the bathroom, he was already up, wearing his jeans, and making coffee.

‘
Bonjour
,'I said. ‘Did you sleep better last night?'

‘I went out like a light.'

‘I slept well too.' Lying rigid on the edge of the bed, it had taken me a long time to actually fall asleep, but once I'd drifted off, I'd slept well and deeply. And now that I'd had a chance to think about it in the light of day, sharing a bed with a male who was a friend rather than a sexual partner actually didn't seem as outlandish as it had the previous night.

‘So we can share the bed again tonight? I don't need to rush out and buy an air-mattress?'

‘I'm fine to sleep in the same bed as you,
mon ami
,' I said.

Alex suggested that our first visit of the day should be to the summit of the hill of Montmartre, and so after breakfast, we joined the hundreds of other sight-seers climbing the steps and steeply inclined streets, up to the highest point in Paris and the domed basilica of Sacré Coeur. In the Place du Tertre, the main square, Alex steered me away from the portrait painters, the street hawkers, and the over-priced crêpe sellers, to the terrace in front of the church. The sun was shining and the air was clear, and the view out over Paris was, again, amazing.

‘Let's walk straight down the hill from here,' Alex said, once I'd decided I'd taken enough photographs. ‘Don't look back until I tell you.'

Steps and more terraces, thronged with camera-wielding tourists, took us down the hill. When we were roughly two thirds of the way down, Alex told me to look back up towards the summit, and when I saw the domes of Sacré Coeur, gleaming white against the clear blue sky, I actually gasped.

Alex, standing beside me, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, said, ‘It's impressive, isn't it? Despite the crowds.'

‘It is,' I said.

‘When I was a student, on summer nights, my friends and I would buy cheap wine, and come and drink it on these terraces. When it gets dark there are fairy lights. Sometimes, someone would bring a guitar.'

‘That sounds magical.'

‘It was. That was when I decided I wanted to live in Montmartre, although, as you know, it was three years after I left art school before I was able to afford it.'

‘Selfie? If it won't offend your artistic sensibilities.'

Alex laughed, and got out his camera. He put his arm around me, and I leant against him while he captured the moment.

‘Where are we going next?' I asked him.

‘The Arc de Triomphe.'

We continued down the hill, skirting around the famous carousel (instantly recognisable from so many movies set in Paris), edged through the bottle-neck of tourist-jammed streets at the bottom (Alex firmly leading me past the souvenir shops) and took the Metro to the iconic monumental arch that looms over the western end of the broad, tree-lined Avenue des Champs-Élysées. We debated whether to go up to the viewing platform, but in the end Alex decided we didn't have time – and there are only so many aerial views a girl needs to photograph, even in a city as scenic as Paris.

From the Arc de Triomphe, we walked along the Champs-Élysées, past cafés, shops, and the Lido nightclub, taking a brief detour along the Avenue Montaigne, where the haute-couture fashion houses have their flagship stores (I gaped at the windows full of designer dresses, Alex talked about the time he'd photographed the backstage craziness of Paris fashion week). Continuing along the Champs-Élysées, we came to a large hexagonal square with a high stone obelisk in its centre, and cars and motorbikes roaring around its perimeter.

‘This is the Place de la Concorde,' Alex said. ‘Once we get across the road, you can take a photograph along the entire length of the Champs-Élysées, with the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. And over there, on the other side of the square, is the entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries.'

After the noise of the traffic in the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries Gardens were a haven of quiet. We had lunch at a café under the trees, and then we walked along the dusty gravel paths, among the flower beds and manicured lawns, until we came to a circular pond with green metal chairs set all around its rim. Nearly every chair was already taken, but I spotted one that was free, Alex dragged another over from further around the pond, and we took a break from sight-seeing to sunbathe. I watched the people going past, some obviously tourists, laden with rucksacks, maps, and camcorders, others French, mothers pushing buggies or shepherding toddlers, a perspiring man in a business suit, students, and white-haired seniors. A French father appeared with two small boys carrying toy sailing boats, which they proceeded to launch, scurrying to meet the brightly painted wooden vessels as they drifted across the pond's smooth surface to the other side.

‘Did you sail boats here when you were little?' I asked Alex.

‘Yes, my father would often bring me here on a Sunday morning. Sometimes my mother and Hélène came too, but it was usually just the two of us.' He smiled, and stared off into the distance. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Are you ready to move on to the Louvre?'

The dark grey roofs of the Louvre were just visible from where we were sitting. A few minutes later, we were standing in the main courtyard of the museum, and I was asking Alex for advice on the best angle to take a photograph that included both the imposing royal palace that was the original building and the modernistic glass pyramid that was now its entrance. It was impossible for us to see all the works of art housed in the miles of galleries within the Louvre in one afternoon, but I saw the
Mona Lisa,
and despite the crowd gathered in front of this most famous painting, which limited where I could stand, I was able to verify that her eyes do indeed follow you as you move. For me, it was wonderful to see this masterpiece, and so many others that I knew from my studies, hanging on a wall instead of in the pages of a book or on the internet. Especially as I was able to discuss what I was seeing with Alex.

When we came out of the Louvre, the sun was low in the sky, and our shadows long on the ground, but it was still pleasantly warm. I didn't take any persuading to agree with Alex's suggestion that we take another walk by the Seine before returning to Montmartre. A broad ramp took us down to the stone quays that run alongside the river, Alex took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and we strolled by the water, enjoying each other's company without the need to talk. There were other people walking along the quays, couples holding hands or with their arms about each other's waists, and joggers and cyclists, but not many. More were sitting on the edge, soaking up the last rays of the afternoon sun.

‘It's the golden hour,' Alex said. ‘The best time of day for photography, when the shadows are no longer harsh.' He reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair off my face, and then he took a picture. And then, without my asking, he put his arm around my shoulders, held out his camera, and took a selfie of us both together.

I smiled at him and he smiled back, and then we went and sat on the edge of the quay, our feet dangling over the water. The sun sank lower, and the river grew almost too bright to look at. The Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower just visible in the far distance, became a silhouette.

For a while we sat in silence, and then Alex said, ‘When Cécile finished with me, I had to get away from Paris. Our lives here were so intertwined. We had the same friends, we were invited to the same events. Everywhere I went – restaurants, bars, clubs, and theatres – had an association with her. I thought I'd find it hard to come back here – but I haven't found it hard at all.' His eyes met mine. ‘I'm over her, Anna. Over Cécile.'

Finally. ‘I'm so glad, Alex. I've hated seeing you so wretched.'

‘That last terrible phone call, when all we did was yell at each other, I think that was what made me accept that she really was never coming back to me – and I was finally able to let her go, and start to move on. And now, showing you Paris, I've remembered so much about my life, so many good memories of growing up, studying, working and living here, that the bad memories suddenly don't seem to matter. I'm no longer in love with Cécile. Talking about her now, all I feel is indifference. It's as though all the pain and hurt I went through happened to another person.' His mouth lifted in a smile. ‘Thank you, Anna, for being there for me, for listening. Thank you for coming with me to Paris.'

Affection for him overwhelmed me. Sitting there with him in the golden light, the water gleaming beneath our feet, looking into his warm, dark brown eyes, I felt closer to him than I'd ever felt before. The longing to draw his head down to mine, to feel the touch of his lips on my mouth, became a physical ache, a craving for him that was so strong that I couldn't believe that he didn't feel it too.

‘I'm always there for you, Alex.'

‘And I for you,
mon amie Anglaise.
' He raised his hand to shade his eyes against the light, and gazed out over the river.