Page 13 of Willows and Waterlilies

“What would you recommend?” I brave it to ask. She looks back at me with pure derision in her eyes before slumping over to retrieve a leaflet of some kind.

“Paris is extremely busy at this time of year,” she says, still without expression, “so you can go and queue at the Eiffel tower, the Louvre, or the Notre Dame. It matters not to me.”

“Oh,” I reply disappointedly.

“Er, if I may,” an older, gentlemanly type of voice says from behind me. I turn around to face a man who looks like he just walked out of an Agatha Cristie novel. With a crisp white Panama hat, a cream linen suit, and a greying beard, he tips the rim of his hat and nods with the warmest smile I’ve received since arriving here yesterday. “Do you like art?”

“You’re American?” I ask, ignoring the woman who is still rolling her eyes at me.

“Coincidence, no?” he chuckles.

“Not so much in a major city,” I laugh with him, now moving out of the woman’s line of sight.

“I guess not, my dear,” he says, offering me his arm as any gentlemanly fictional character would. “Even so, do you enjoy art?”

“I guess,” I reply, not having ever really thought about it. “It depends on whose art it is. I’m not so keen on the artist who likes to put dead animals in vinegar, or whatever it is.”

“Damien Hirst?” he asks, to which I shrug, for I really don’t know him that well. “Well, each to their own. The intricacies of the body, as well as the stillness of death, are enticing to some. It reminds us that we are all but biology at the end of the day, mortal, and leading a journey to the ultimate end.”

“I suppose,” I reply, furrowing my brow when I think of it from this point of view. “Then I must be someone who prefers to see life - the journey, rather than the end.”

“I was right,” he says with a proud look on his face, “you do like art; I knew you would.”

“Oh, really?” I laugh softly, liking this man already. A man who makes me feel comfortable and who won’t break my heart. “What gave me away?”

“Why, your eyes, of course.”

“My eyes?”

“Your eyes speak of heartache,” he says with a now serious expression. Apparently, my pathetic persona travels internationally with me. I guess it fell asleep on the long-haul flight over here and has suddenly awoken for all to see. “But they also speak of a fresh start; a chance to reinvent yourself in one of the most breathtaking cities in the world!”

“I’m not sure my heart is broken,” I murmur, “just my ego.”

“Ah, that can be just as devastating,” he says as though he’s been there many times himself. “So, you like art, life, and journeys, then may I suggest you join me on a trip to Monet’s Garden in Giverny. You cannot find more life or beauty and without the queues.”

“Is it far to walk?”

“You cannot walk, my dear, we shall journey by automobile!” he says as he gestures toward a sleek looking Mercedes. The thought of getting in a car with a complete stranger, no matter how gentlemanly he appears to be, screams abduction, rape, murder, or living in a basement for the next decade.

“Er…”

Before I can pull away and explain that I’d rather not be trapped inside a confined space with a complete stranger, another voice calls out to us.

“Dad, what on earth have you been doing?”

As soon as my eyes land on the owner of the deep, now-familiar voice, I freeze to the spot with my mouth hanging wide open. I’m sure I don’t make for the most sophisticated-looking person in Paris, but the shock of seeing Elijah Woods, a man who humiliated me, here in my retreat away from the assholes of California, has momentarily rendered my brain useless. He obviously recognizes me from the awkward rubbing of the back of his neck and his sheepish expression.

“Elijah!” the man still linking my arm with his, calls over to Mr Earl Grey himself. The bastard is still as irritatingly handsome as I remember him. “I’ve found someone to take that fourth ticket.”

“Er, I don’t think…” I begin to protest but I’m already being pulled over with enthusiasm.

“Apologies, my dear, I do not even know your name,” he chuckles as he gestures toward Elijah. “This is my stepson, Elijah, and my name is Joseph, Joseph Phelps. My lovely wife is already in the car, making the most of the air conditioning.”

“Hello,” I grin through my teeth, wiggling my fingers awkwardly at Elijah. “Er, Ellie, but I’m not sure I should come; you don’t know me. I might be a homicidal maniac for all you know.”

“Now, that would be exciting,” Joseph teases, before breaking into a wide smile.

“Dad…”

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