Page 100 of Hot to Go

I hang up the phone. I look at Charlie’s T-shirt and run ahand over the slightly faded logo. I think about a time when I first wore this in the summer when the weather was warm and sultry and I had just emerged from the sea, clambering over rocks onto the warm sand. The temperature has plummeted since then. An Indian summer in the autumn gave us a touch of warmth but now I’m looking over the banks of the Seine lined with the skeletons of wintry trees, the breeze making them dance in the shadows. We really are in the belly of winter, people are bundled up in wool coats, shielding themselves from the bitter cold, scarves wrapped around their necks, headed towards the warmth of all that light. I look out the window again, watching, waiting.

Charlie

‘Bonjour? Êtes-vous avec Laurent-Sabra?’ a woman in a suit by reception asks me. I look around at all the other suited and booted people by the desk. ‘Pour le dîner?’ she asks. Oh, does she think I’m some corporate bigwig here for a function of sorts? I look at the other partygoers in the foyer, all older men in suits, and look down at my brown boots and black wool coat wondering how she got that idea.

‘Aah, non. Je suis désolé?’ I reply.

‘Quel dommage…’ she mumbles, and winks at me.

I feel an elbow to my back as Max nudges me sharply. Look at you, Charlie. The French are flirting with you. That’s a lovely form-fitting red dress but the fur coat and the fact she’s possibly twenty or so years older than me is completely intimidating. I don’t think I’ve got the couilles to survive that sort of encounter.

‘Merci. Bonne soirée,’ I say politely, as she sashays away.

I stand there in this gloriously festive foyer, furrowing my brow from the encounter.

‘I think she just made a pass, Monsieur Shaw,’ Max says in hysterics. ‘Go on, have some fun. I won’t mind.’

I like the fact that he’s given me permission but I don’t think I could do that to Max, nor have the energy. Today, to make up for the fact that his stag do was a bit of a disaster, we took an early Eurostar over to Paris to attend a beer festival. I’ve liked the fact that Max planned it all, chose this very swanky hotel, and that like our dad, he kept our passports in a Ziploc bag. A weekend away from responsibilities and work felt very grown-up, to sip our way through tasters of golden French lagers, not watered down at all, and keeping up with our European counterparts, is the ultimate treat. Paris is like a dream. As Brooke would say, it’s one of those cities that’s pure vibes. Even in the cold, it’s the density of it, the narrow streets, the unpredictability of what you’ll find on any cobbled street corner. Will it be a quaint boulangerie, its misted windows filled with delights and baguettes just casually stacked in a basket or will it be a motorist in a retro Renault trying to kill me, swearing profanities into the air? And it’s just chic, so nonchalant. Even the bollards are more slender, the railings on the windows of every ornate building are more sophisticated, the people are so damn fashionable. This morning, there was an old lady I met in the lift wearing a velour tracksuit and an LV bum bag.

‘Where to next then?’ Max asks, as we walk through the foyer of this grand hotel that Max has booked for us. I notice his spine straightens as he walks through here with his shopping bags. He’s not just come here to get drunk with his big brother but also to splurge on gifts for Amy. Max is not like me. He’s not travelled much outside of the usual holiday destinations so everything is magical and wondrous to him. I took him for raclette earlier and I’d never seen someone so blown away by a bit of melted cheese and potatoes. ‘What was that place you were talking about before? To get the steak-frites?’

‘A bouillon?’ I tell him. ‘Or any brasserie really?’

‘Do we need to get there before they close?’ he asks, his eyes big, possibly a little sozzled.

‘Most of them never close.’ Max’s eyes open in wonder. We’re not in London anymore where our food options after midnight are kebab vans and 24-hour McDonald’s. ‘We have time to dump our bags, recharge?’

‘We could go in the jacuzzi, Charlie!’ Max tells me excitedly as he enters the lift.

‘We could.’

‘I just feel like we’re only here for a night, we should take full advantage. Pose now…’ he says, holding his phone up to the mirror in the lift as the doors close. This is also part of the weekend, as Max has said he’ll send pictures of everything to Amy. I think her photo roll must be full of pictures of me half sipping on pints. I hope she liked the comedy picture with the baguette. So like a mug, I do pose now in this lift, not because selfies will ever be my thing but because I can see how incredibly happy Max is to be here, spending time. With me. It’s a different face to the one I saw on his stag do. That one looked like it was just trying to have a good time, playing the role of a stag, fear in his eyes about what would happen next. Here he just looks like happy, excitable Max. The lift doors open.

‘What was the room number again?’ I ask him.

‘922.’

I am never quite sure what to do in a jacuzzi. I think the idea is that you’re supposed to relax but, in truth, all that bubbling and extreme warmth always feels a little violent, the jets hitting spots where they shouldn’t and when I say that, I mean they do rush up my arse. I move a little so it doesn’t do that. Max, however, looks very excited. I hope he’s not getting kicks out of this. This underground pool area of the hotel feels slightly unnatural, it’s lit by pink neon lights and surrounded by ferns tomake it look subtropical but really it just makes it look like a swimming pool a villain would have in his underground lair. One where the floor would open up and sharks would appear which is why I’ve given it a slightly wide berth. A group of ladies on some spa weekend are representing here in numbers which means they’re basically wading, doing ladylike breaststrokes in chic one-piece swimsuits. Almost like the antithesis to Max with his luminous yellow patterned swim shorts that clash a little with the surroundings.

‘You have a strange look on your face,’ Max tells me, looking over. ‘You don’t look relaxed.’

‘I’m just trying to remember whether it’s safe to jacuzzi when you’ve been drinking? Does this water also smell funny to you?’ I ask.

‘I haven’t farted, if that’s what you mean?’ he replies, to which we both laugh because we are brothers and men of a certain age.

‘Thank you for all of this, by the way…I appreciate it…’ I say. ‘I just thought I’d tell you before I forget.’

Max’s face lights up at the compliment. ‘Well, it was more Amy and Brooke’s idea. You work hard and sometimes you just don’t give yourself a break.’

‘I’ve just been to Seville,’ I say, feeling a need to be truthful.

‘For work, really. And we know you’ve had a tough year with work and…’ He pauses and just stares at me.

‘You can say her name out loud, you know.’

He doesn’t. None of the siblings have really known how to broach that subject for fear of breaking me.

The truth was I really liked Suzie. What I felt for her, I could feel in my very core, but I think I may have also fucked that up big time. I walked away. In my stupid head, it felt like a really sensible thing to do. It felt important to test this out, to see if it could survive some months apart so we could breathe and take stock. Who does that? Where in any romance book does ahero step away from big emotions like that and say ‘Waiteth one minute, fair maiden. This love is o’erpowering. I am going to leave and take stock.’ No one. So well done, Charlie for being just a little bit too mature about it all. Because I think Suzie saw my leaving quite differently. I reckon she must have seen it as me running, abandoning her, leading her on and, in the wake of a separation, that probably wasn’t what she needed at all. The more I think of my poor judgement, the more cringey I feel, the more I wonder how I will be able to go back in the New Year. Because I can’t stay at the school where I am. The school where I’m helping ration out pens and I have to share a room with a French teacher who day drinks. She’s not Suzie. She’s not even in the same arrondissement.

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