Page 35 of The Promise of Tomorrow
When the sign came up to remove their safety belts, Elena gagged and covered her mouth with her hand. The cabin span for a moment before her breathing calmed. ‘Those facts you gave me really helped,’ she muttered to Rory in a weak tone, not wanting him to know how she really felt.
Fists clenched, ear buds in, she listened to coffee shop jazz. For the first time in her life, she didn’t reach for a book to save the day, even though her Kindle was in her rucksack. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate. The minutes ticked by. One by one. Her fears magnified. What if a terrorist was on the plane? The pilot might suffer a heart attack. A door might blow off. Finally, finally the engine started revving again.
A beeping warned Elena to put her belt back on. She removed her earbuds. Rory put down the in-flight magazine and took her hand. She held on tightly. Her relief that the journey was almost over proved to be short-lived. Elena had done her own research. The descent was the most dangerous part of the flight.
Please don’t let me die. I’m not ready. Not yet. These last weeks have shown me I’ve got so much life to live – I’m doing this travel, I’ve had wild times out, but there’s still that one thing left. That love thing. There could still be time for that, right? And I’ll miss Mum and Dad. My friend Rory. Gary, too. Brandy and Snap are relying on me to set up that bigger tank I’ve ordered, and Tahoor, next door, needs a shoulder to lean on.
Elena began to hyperventilate. Why, oh why, had she suggested this trip? Who cared about a stupid Sacred Heart basilica and iconic iron lattice tower and all that fancy food? Blackpool had a tower too, and Asda sold ready-made crêpes and French wine.
Her chest tightened as the smell of a baby’s filled nappy invaded her nostrils, and she swallowed. Voices caught her attention and she opened her eyes to see a flight attendant crouched by Rory’s side. He’d called her over. Elena listened as the woman instructed her on how to breathe. A colleague then brought over a glass of water and Elena took several sips. They took the glass away and returned to their seats, having told her to carry on with the breathing exercises as the plane headed down to Charles de Gaulle airport.
Rory. His voice counting numbers for me to breathe to. My eyes screw up tightly as we land. Bounce. Bounce. The plane is bound to explode! At top speed we career down the runway. We’re going to crash! There’s Rory’s voice again, soft and sympathetic. And breathe. Breathe again.It is, the aeroplane’s slowing…
The attendants saw everyone else off the plane first. They dismissed Elena’s apologies and said they’d seen it all before.
‘I felt like a right fool on that flight,’ she said to Rory as they got out of the taxi in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, outside their hotel.
He put down his bags and gave her a big hug. Elena lost herself in it for a second. It reminded her of how her parents’ cuddles used to fix her problems when she was little – until the promise. She learnt, at that tender young age, that adulting was hard.
‘How about a second breakfast?’ he said cheerily. ‘We can drop our bags off first. Didn’t the hotel manager email to say we could check them in early?’ He went inside.
Yet Elena stopped for a second, mesmerised by her surroundings. The beauty, the quaintness of Paris had struck her in the car, but seeing it through the window had been like watching a TV show. Whereas now it was undeniable. Elena Swan had flown to Paris. She had! Her spirits lifted. What an achievement! A smart woman in large sunglasses strolled past, speaking expressive French into her phone. The smell ofgoodcoffee came out of a café next door to Hôtel Madame Chic. Not far away, water splashed. Elena squinted and spotted one of the many fountains she’d read about in books set in the French capital. Oh, the classic clothes, elegant, simple, and yes, she saw a beret; the ornate architecture, an iconic Métro sign; the pastry and garlic smells, the Edith Piaf song playing from a passing car; friends kissing each other on both cheeks and people-watchers sitting outside cafés; the pampered dogs in prams, their owners breaking rules like crossing at red lights… One by one the knots unravelled in her stomach and when an elderly man in a sharp suit, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, tipped his trilby in her direction, she beamed back.
Keen to drop off her rucksack and explore, not wanting towaste a second of this weekend, she hurried inside the hotel, which did not disappoint. In the reception area were two charming, upholstered chairs, with buttons and carved legs, styled like furniture from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The colours were all reds, purples, yellows, with floral designs across walls that had dark wood coving and skirting boards. Yet it wasn’t glitzy and had a worn, homely feel. French patio doors opened onto a small courtyard. The man at reception, in a black jumper with the sleeves rolled up, had short wavy grey hair and introduced himself as Jacques, the owner. He handed them a tourist leaflet and waved them off, saying to return whenever they wanted as there was a night porter. They stood outside the hotel’s honey-coloured front and took all of ten seconds to head into the café next door. Rory ordered a croissant, Elena a pain au raisin. He told her how it was also called an escargot – a snail – because of its shape.
After the first mouthful, she gave an appreciative sigh. ‘Oh my. That pastry is so very light.’
Rory slathered jam onto his croissant and offered her the first bite.
Look at me. On holiday abroad. I flew here. Now I’m eating snails – well, almost.
Elena opened the leaflet. ‘What first? Christmas shopping? Sight-seeing? A trip down the Seine in a Bateau Mouche? I want to do everything!’
Rory chuckled. ‘How about?—’
‘Actually, I’ve got it all planned.’
‘Of course you have,’ he said and rolled his eyes in a comical manner.
They caught an underground train to the Arc de Triomphe, ambled down the Champs Elysées, then continued to the Tuileries Garden, passing clusters of green chairs and militarylines of trees losing their leaves. When it was dark, they would follow Tahoor’s instructions and make for the Sacré Coeur. That’s how Elena summarised the day in a text for her parents.
However, their actual time in Paris, so far, had been so much more than that. The Arc de Triomphe looked utterly majestic, lauding over the chaos below of circling cars, honking and speeding, and over the wealthy Parisians and tourists who were shopping down the Champs Elysées boulevard. Rory rubbed his hands as he relayed facts – the Arc de Triomphe had taken thirty years to build, was fifty metres tall, and a giant, three-tiered elephant was almost built on the spot instead. The two of them ambled, Parisian style, down the Champs Elysées – 1.9 kilometres long and seventy metres wide – past Dior, Guerlain, Louis Vuitton, Lacoste too, and Apple.
They had an incredible French onion soup in a fancy bistro, with melted Gruyere on top of pieces of baguette, floating on top, served by a waiter in a burgundy waistcoat and black bow tie. Christmas lights hung in the elm trees lining the boulevard. They must have looked amazing at night. Decorated fir trees stood in the shops’ glass fronts, their lights already twinkling. The two of them chattered excitedly as they walked on from the Champs Elysées down to the Tuileries Garden, a stunningly pretty Paris park, named for the tile factories that used to be there. Normally Elena would stick rigidly to her plan that, originally, had included a trip to the Eiffel Tower, straight after the Champs Elysées. However, feeling more… carefree – that was it – she allowed a diversion. They’d visit the Eiffel Tower tomorrow and instead would spend the next couple of hours enjoying the Tuileries Garden and the Christmas markets there.
She linked arms with Rory as they toured the little wooden chalets, marvelling at the North African food items, the house ornaments and jewellery, the candles, handbags and wine,breathing in spices and the smell of waffles. Elena’s parents loved experimenting with foreign cooking, and she bought them some harissa paste, spiced olives and dates. Rory found a Dashika print T-shirt for his dad, and Elena couldn’t resist a City of Lights tote bag for her mum. For Tahoor, they found a box of cardamom-flavoured chocolates. They’d also planned to take photos of the hotel and a video of the Parisian sights for him. She bought a second-hand book, which was in French, so she couldn’t read it but the embossed cover was so beautiful, so solid. It gave her comfort to think that inside, on its pages, a happier world might exist, without complications.
As the late afternoon chill set in, they sat on a park bench sipping mulled wine, orvin chaudas Elena insisted on calling it. Gratefully, she wrapped her cold fingers around the warm mug. They’d just finished eating waffles out of polystyrene containers, slathered with cream, fruit, and a coulis that was as pink as Rory’s trousers.
‘I’ve spent the last two hours speaking French to actual French people. I’ve saidMerci. S’il vous plaît. Au Revoir. They actually understood me!’
Rory clinked her glass. ‘Same here.Va te faire foutregot rid of that guy who bumped into us and jabbed his finger in my face, as if it were my fault. I’ve picked up more than I realised, from watching the occasional subtitled French series on Netflix.’
‘Now for the best bit, according to Tahoor – the view of Paris, at night, from the steps of the Sacré Coeur. It’s about thirty minutes away on the Métro.’
Rory pulled a face.
‘I know, the underground system’s stuffy, stinky, and everyone looks so miserable, but that busker was amazing. This is what I came for – the real Paris, not just a picture-postcard view. I’venever understood people who travel abroad but then hunt out the nearest English pub. What’s the point?’
