The four-hour deadline the doctor gave us originally has come and gone, and while we are stretched to the limit with worry, I insist that it’s now time to go make some enquiries.
‘No news is good news, Fran,’ Harry tells me when I complain about our lack of action.
I sit back slightly resentful and decide that if I don’t hear anything in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll take the matter into my own hands and question anyone and everyone around, until I get some answers.
I fish my phone from my purse to keep an eye on the time.
The date, Monday, 29th of February, is flashing on the top of the screen above the picture of Paul and I at Gare du Nord. The shock of the realisation that I was in Paris with him only yesterday knocks the wind out of me. It’s scary how our engagement already feels forever ago.
I close my eyes to regain a little perspective, and the images of this past weekend – one of the most romantic of my entire life – fill my mind and take me back into Paul’s arms.
***
Paris stretched majestically in front of us in all her timeless beauty.
Its terracotta chimney pots on the dark roofs, and its tall spires lit by the fading sun reminded me of the unique charm of this city. The Eiffel Tower twinkled from the heart of the most romantic place in the world, dispersing a love-scented atmosphere all around us, so when I took a deep breath, the crisp air filled my soul with the beauty of a wintry sunset in the French capital.
I held Paul’s hand as we walked from the station to the hotel.
La Maison St Martin was a quaint boutique establishment off the beaten track, one we always stayed at when in Paris – almost a second home to us now. The place was timeless with its old-fashioned style, the baroque furniture, the busy wallpaper, and the heavy brocade curtains on every window.
Josephine had stayed here several times before her fame took her to hotels of a different league. Forty years on, they still displayed her autographed portrait in the main reception room.
‘Hungry?’ Paul asked me as soon as we dropped our bags in the room.
‘Yes!’ I answered. ‘I’m starving,’ I added, thinking of the delicacies that this city had to offer. ‘Allons-y.’ I took his hand in mine.
‘We don’t come often enough,’ Paul said with a smile as we walked out of the hotel lobby.
We were at home in France, as much as we were in Britain, and it was always a great pleasure when we did get the chance to cross the Channel, and unearth our sense of belonging.
We strolled down a little alley that took us right down to one of the main roads. With my eyes open wide I admired the lit-up shop windows and the restaurants that were already getting busy with early diners.
‘True,’ I agreed. ‘And when we do, we always end up in the same places …’
‘Brasserie Juliette and Café Rue de Bac,’ we said at the same time before looking at each other and laughing.
‘Wait,’ Paul said, taking my face in his hands and gently kissing my lips. I smiled at him and he kissed me again, making my heart beat fast inside my chest.
‘We should explore a little,’ I said, ‘maybe try something new for once.’
‘Maybe we should,’ he murmured, placing a featherlike kiss on my forehead.
‘Let’s go to a place we don’t already know. Let’s be bold,’ I suggested.
‘All right. How about the first place we see? Whatever it is, we’ll go for it. Deal?’
‘Deal!’ I said, snuggling under his arm when we resumed our walk. ‘I hope it’ll be a crêperie,’ I said lifting my crossed fingers.
‘Crêpes for dinner – I don’t think so.’ He laughed, pulling me closer as we wandered down the road to meet our destiny.
Our expedition didn’t take us very far as the first restaurant we encountered was just around the corner.
‘Oyster bar? Nooo!’ I squealed, horrified.
‘A deal is a deal,’ Paul said, amused by my bad luck. I wasn’t very keen on seafood, always doing my best to steer away from the creatures of the sea. Feeling the disgust for those slimy, colourless crustaceans already closing my throat, I considered begging Paul to forget about our wager and choose somewhere else, but then I remembered Paul loved seafood and we rarely ate fish because of my aversion to it; so I decided that as long as I could wash it down with champagne, I was going to be all right.
‘Fine. Fine,’ I said, swallowing my repulsion, ‘but you owe me, my friend. We are going to have pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner tomorrow. Is that clear?’ I asked as he opened the door and gestured for me to go first.
‘Sure …’ he agreed with a chuckle. ‘We’ll make tomorrow pancake day.’
‘Yep,’ I said, steering us as far away as possible from the big counter displaying the most incredible variety of fruits de mer.
I chose one of their small round tables in the orangery and, despite the menu, I had to admit the place was stunning. Its tasteful combination of traditional and new was very pleasing to the eye. Almost as much as looking at Paul, who was finally relaxing and enjoying himself. A tough six months, I reminded myself as we held hands. He deserves a break.
‘What do you fancy?’ he asked, distracting me from my musing.
‘Nothing,’ I snorted, categorically refusing to look at the menu. Paul just ordered white wine and a seafood platter for two and I just hoped for the best while preparing for the worst.
We talked and laughed, and when the waiter arrived with a silver tray covered with crushed ice, we intertwined our fingers under the table, unwilling to break contact. The waiter placed the tray down with reverential solicitude, then quietly disappeared, leaving us to admire the edible artwork between us. Delicately laid on the ice, there was a bouquet of colourful shellfish and lemon wedges. Oysters and crabs, langoustine and halved lobsters were arranged so precisely next to mussels and prawns and clams that the platter looked like a mosaic.
‘Beasts from the sea,’ I said, trying to hide my repulsion, knowing that my face was possibly turning an alarming shade of green.
Paul smirked then poured our wine, ready to dig into this seafood extravaganza.
‘To us,’ cheered Paul, lifting his glass and clinking it to mine.
‘Santé!’ I replied, looking up.
His gaze immediately locked with mine, and I read a strange expression in it. He was about to say something. He seemed suddenly nervous, but then he grinned at me and said, ‘Everything looks so delicious.’
‘So deliciously slimy, you mean,’ I said with a growing sense of unease. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ I admitted, feeling slightly defeated.
‘Here, philistine,’ said Paul with the sweetest tone, feeding me a bite of the lobster.
I loved the romantic gesture but I opened my mouth reluctantly.
‘So?’ he asked as I chewed slowly on the succulent white meat.
‘Yes, okay, you’re right. It’s really good,’ I admitted, and when he smiled smugly at me, I rolled my eyes expecting a sagacious reply. Instead, he took my hand and kissed my knuckles softly.
‘I want tonight to be special, Fran, so if you don’t like it here, let’s just go somewhere else. We can have pancakes for dinner, if that will make you happy.’ And with those simple words