Page 36 of The Promise of Tomorrow
‘You’d know if you’ve ever been stuck in a Greek bar that serves nothing but Retsina. It’s infused with pine tree resin and tastes like paint remover.’
‘What were you doing over there?’
‘Cliff diving.’
‘How on earth have you fitted in so many holidays into your life?’
‘Many trips were just weekends away and I used to take a few weeks off in between jobs, when I did contract work. Might have to slow down since I’ve only got twenty-eight days off a year, now.’
Despite the cold, she blushed and waved her hand in the air. ‘This… simply shopping and walking… must seem so lame to you. All the memories you have, your experiences… I… I wish I’d done more. Maybe even taken a sabbatical.’
His brow furrowed. ‘You speak as if it’s too late.’
A muscle in her cheek twitched.
He stretched out his legs. ‘Want to know something? The many countries, the countless adrenaline rushes, the competitive banter, it’s kinda meaningless now. It’s as if I’ve been on a quest my whole life, without really realising what it is. Whereas today, we’ve strolled and taken the time to soak up Parisian life. We’ve even bought matching berets. Tahoor will love that…’ He tilted his head and shot her a sultry look. Elena couldn’t suppress a laugh. His face turned more serious. ‘I’ve also spoken to locals…’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Even if it was only to swear. We’ve shared an experience that hasn’t just been about getting off on our individual adrenaline kicks.’ He stared at the Christmas market chalets. ‘In some ways today has meant more than any other trip I’ve taken.’
Elena wasn’t sure what to say. Still wasn’t when they sat on the underground train.
The more Rory opened up, the less she felt she knew about him.
They exited the station and stepped into the mystery of Parisian night. Elena shivered and pulled down her beret, as the faraway sound of a Peruvian flute band eerily floated through the December frostiness. A sign pointed to the Sacré Coeur and they were about to walk that way when someone tapped Elena’s shoulder.
She turned round.
Gulped.
In front of her stood a woman in a bright purple shawl, clutching a pack of tarot cards.
Elena dropped her rucksack.
‘You are English?’ said a heavily accented voice. The woman pointed to a nearby cabin. ‘Come inside. Perhaps I can tell you your fortune. I have a strong sense that you’ll want to hear what I have to say.’
The world span. The hubbub of Paris disappeared. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. Noooo. No! She closed her eyes, counted to five, opened them again, but the woman was still there. With terror etched across her face, Elena backed away.
‘Don’t be shy,’ said the woman in an ominous tone. ‘The spirits have a message for you.’
An animal-like howl shot up into the night sky. It took her a few seconds to realise that sound was coming from her own mouth.
‘Va te faire foutre!’ Elena screamed, and without her rucksack, without Rory, she ran, ran away, in the direction of the white basilica high up in the distance.
Thirty minutes later, Elena sat out of breath, on the stepsdirectly approaching the Sacré Coeur, body jerking, as if she were sobbing. She wasn’t – Elena was too much in shock even for tears. Her legs ached. She should have taken the funicular instead of climbing the slope to reach this point. She’d had to stop on the steps, halfway.
‘Mademoiselle?’
She turned to her right. A rough sleeper, with a straggly beard and a dog lying by his side, held out his bottle of wine. In his other hand he held a half-chewed baguette. Elena hesitated. Why not? She reached out her hand and took the wine as Rory appeared, panting. He took the bottle from her.
‘That won’t help,’ he said quietly, and handed it back to the man. ‘Merci beaucoup,’ Rory said. The rough sleeper shrugged and took a swig. Rory sat down next to Elena, his face pale, eyes widened. He put her rucksack on the ground, next to her. ‘That woman with the cards kept me a while. She was very persistent. In the end I just walked off. What’s going on? Come on. Tell me. These last few weeks have been so out of character. At first I reckoned you might be ill but… I sense it’s not that. You can trust me, Elena, whatever it is.’ His voice sounded urgent.
‘You wouldn’t understand.’ No one would. Not even Mum and Dad. How could they?
‘Why were you so scared of that fortune teller? Let me help. Please.’
Elena focused on the horizon beneath them. It was so very pretty, like in Tahoor’s photos, a busy stretch of glittering lights that contrasted the solemn, calm grandeur of the basilica behind them. Further up the steps, behind her, a jazz musician, busking, added a touch of magic. Elena Swan didn’t do scared. She’d gone against the whole team at work when she’d reckoned they were wrong. She’d advocated change where necessary, such as suggesting mental health sessions during thepandemic. Elena Swan wasstrong.She’d always had to trust in that.
‘Okay, let’s do a risk assessment of the situation,’ said Rory, ‘like I do before every extreme sport event.’ He took both her hands. ‘What’s the worst thing that can happen if you confide in me?’
‘You won’t believe me – or you will. Both are terrible outcomes.’
