Journey to the Centre of Myself (12 page)

She starts the meeting on time and my gaze sweeps around the other fifteen or so people standing or sitting around. We are cramped up in the reception. She says we’re doing it as a walking tour as the Tower is only a fifteen-minute walk away. She hands out a card with her number on it and sets a meeting point at the main entrance should we get separated. We’re advised to keep someone from the trip in sight so we all stick together. It's like being a nursery school child and I wonder if she wants me to put on a luminous apron. There is no sign of the man I had been dreading seeing and my shoulders loosen. Good, I’m free to make the most of my day.

We begin the walk and although it is bitterly cold, everyone is smiling. A few people attempt bits of conversation, but I don’t join in. Maybe I’ll relax later, but right now I don’t want to find myself saddled with friends I don’t want or need. This trip is about exploration, seeing some of the world that’s been within reach all this time. A catching up on time I believe I’ve wasted, rotting at home when I could have been taking in these sights and smells.

It becomes obvious as we near the Tower; suddenly there are Salesmen everywhere, with replica Eiffel Towers laid out on blankets. People stop to browse and buy, meaning we are constantly jostled. I have sympathy for the families with small children who have to attempt to get prams round the path. You wouldn’t dare step out into the road when the Paris traffic hurtles past. I pass a man who has four white rabbits. I don’t know the purpose of the rabbits. To perform magic tricks? To distract parents and children while they’re pickpocketed? My Top Ten book warned me that Paris was notorious for the light of finger.

With the entrance in sight, more official looking pop-up shops line the roadside, selling even more Parisian paraphernalia. There are also crepes for sale and the smell of them makes my mouth water. I make a mental note to sample some while I am here, though from a restaurant or cafe.

We wait at the entrance for everyone to catch up and examine the structure. It reminds me of a large electricity pylon up close, which of course is what I expected. I’ve seen many pictures, but it’s hard to visualise how this vast structure was ever assembled.

The queues to go up stretch for kilometres and I worry about how long we will have to wait outside in the cold. I see one section that has less of a queue and stifle a smile when I see it’s for the stairs. Not as much time to wait if you take the stairs. I imagine you would have to be fit or foolish to attempt them, though.

Celine waves our party tickets and informs us we can go through the Group Bookings entrance. We all grin, thinking we’re skipping the queues as we walk past the waiting public who hold hot cups of coffee and chocolate to try to keep their hands warm. A man walks past me wearing a huge black coat and carries a baguette as long as he is—and he is tall. He looks like a French caricature, a stereotype. I can’t believe he’s real. Wow. I’ve seen a glimpse of real France now. My stomach rumbles, I could eat that baguette. I believe I’m going to leave France with a lot more weight than I arrived with, and it won’t be just the baggage allowance that’s increased.

We have to queue for thirty minutes, even though we have group tickets. Of course, there are other groups besides us. However, our queue is still a lot shorter than the other poor tourists. I turn back to look at them. Attendants are shepherding the queue so a lot more people fit into the grounds. I’m sure if I was at the back of that queue I would give up and go home. They have more determination and stamina than I do.

We slowly make our way through a tunnel structure, now out of the cold, and then we have to wait for our handbags to be checked by security. After this it’s time for another wait, this time for a lift. At last, I’m seeing the structure up close. The iron girders come together in a symmetry of style, held together by two point five million rivets.

Then the lift is rising, through to the first floor. We get out and, oh my goodness, it is so cold. We walk around the Perimeter, looking at the sights of Paris. The wind is almost intolerable up here so I escape into a gift shop. I spend around twenty minutes perusing before buying myself a shopping bag with a chic French woman on it, as if I might become that person through osmosis.

Then it's back outside where I let out a noise that is just a little too loud but indicates to those around me that I am so cold I think I am going to die, right here on the Tower. I am going to develop hypothermia. In the near distance, I see a few of my group and move to catch them up. Celine comes bouncing up and informs us it’s time to move onto the third-floor viewing platform. We head for another queue that states the waiting time is forty-five minutes. She has
got
to be kidding. Alas, she stands in the queue and we file in behind her. I’m not sure I’m going to survive the day.

While I wait, I hear the usual chatter in my mind. Beautiful Paris? Freezing your rocks off on a pylon that looks like a larger version of the Blackpool Tower and stands over a view you can more-or-less see from your apartment window anyway. Where you’d be warm and toasty and could drink wine, laid on the sofa, or in the bed and you could eat crumbling croissants and not worry about the crumbs because it’s someone else who has to clean up and you could read and…

‘Stop it!’ I shout in my head. I take a deep breath and start up an inane conversation with other members of the group, about how cold we are and how we’ll reward ourselves with a drink at the cafe when we’ve finished looking around the top.

It’s not just the wind that takes my breath away as I step out onto the viewing platform. Though the weather is not at its best, the view is astounding. I take in a perfect vista of Paris. The lattice work of the metal that keeps us from leaping to our deaths reminds me of a large version of my mini greenhouse staging. We are the little seedlings, protected from being blown off the shelf. It makes me think of how tiny and unimportant we humans are in the large scale of the world; my problems are an ant’s dropping in the faeces of the universe.

We head out of the grounds and talk about going to a cafe for something to eat and drink and to get warm. Mark, a tall, thin man with grey highlights to his brown hair says, ‘You’ll come won’t you, Karen?’

I regard him for a moment too long while I process he has noted my name. I thought I was blending into the background. However, it appears not. The wife of another couple touches my arm.

‘Course she will. We’re all going, aren’t we?’

Celine directs us to a cafe on the Avenue de Suffren. Obviously built for tourists, it has red and white checked tablecloths and cheap plastic bottles of ketchup on the tables. There are wicker baskets containing napkins and cutlery.

The cafe is packed, but the Manager herds us into a corner saying he will sort something out. Tables are quickly shoved together in a space near the toilets where no other patron has wanted to sit. I think of making my excuses and leaving. There’s a sensation of eyes watching me and I look up to see Mark’s gaze on mine.

‘Not exactly the image of Parisian haute cuisine I had in mind.’

I smile. ‘Not mine either.’ I look around. ‘It’s warm, though, so that gives it some gold stars.’

‘And it serves Moules Marinieres, so that’s another,’ he says.

I have no idea what that is, and this obviously shows on my face.

‘Have you not had it before?’

‘No.’

‘It’s exquisite but very fattening.’

I think of my vow to myself to explore new things. ‘Oh, why not? I’ll have that.’

It’s only later when I realise that although the end choice was mine, I still allowed a man to steer me towards it.

The mussels, however, are magnificent and melt as soon as they are in my mouth. The restaurant may look tacky, but the food is a triumph. I finally feel my courtship of Paris has begun. I order crepes with chocolate for my dessert. They arrive, two crepes with chocolate sauce melting across them. A huge smile crosses my face.

‘Someone likes their chocolate,’ says Mark.

I start to become annoyed with him watching my every move. Thank goodness I’m spending tomorrow by myself. I consider cancelling the other group trips I’ve booked.

I order a coffee, but I’m disappointed when a tiny espresso arrives.

‘They don’t do regular coffee in Paris,’ adds Mark. ‘It’s all espresso. It’s nice, though.’

‘I like espresso,’ I state a little tersely, ‘there’s just not enough of it.’

‘Perhaps you’ll join me with a glass of wine to celebrate our first day.’

‘Sorry, I don’t drink at lunchtime.’

‘Everyone drinks at lunchtime in Paris,’ he says. ‘If you’re going to fully experience being here, you need to choose a nice wine to go with your meal.’

‘I’m capable of deciding whether I want wine or not. Now, excuse me, I need the bathroom.’ I stand up and we are so crowded in, several people have to stand up to let me out and I feel I’m practically dry humping them to get past. They’ll probably be able to hear me urinate.

I don’t delay in the bathroom, but take a minute to gather myself. I need to get away from this annoying man.

I shake my hair back as if preparing myself for battle, come out and take my seat.

‘I’m sorry if I offended you.’ Mark says. ‘I was just trying to make conversation.’

‘That’s fine. It’s just that without going into detail, I’ve come away to be on my own.’

‘Fair enough. I was told to look out for you, that’s all.’

‘Pardon?’ I rock back in my seat.

‘Arjan asked me to. Said he wouldn’t be welcome around you, but could I make sure you were okay.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Well, there was really no need. As long as he’s not here I’ll be fine.’ My head is spinning thinking that he is part of this trip. He wasn’t just on my plane.

‘He asked me to give you this.’ Mark hands me a slip of paper with a mobile number on it and the words “Let’s meet, please,". ‘He says if you change your mind and want to speak to him, you can get him on this number.’

I rip the paper into shreds and fling it into the remnants of chocolate sauce.

‘Oh, like that is it?’ Mark says.

‘Like I said, I’m here to be alone.’

‘I understand. I won’t bother you again. Hey, he isn’t some kind of stalker is he? Do I need to ring the police?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ I answer, ‘just someone from my past, and right now, I’m fixed on the future.’

‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Again, I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t upset you.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we start again?’ I hold out my hand and we shake. ‘I’m Karen.’

‘Mark.’

‘Could I ask what wine you would suggest for an after dessert drink? I’m quite partial to Monbazillac, but they don’t seem to have that here.’

He grins and grabs the menu.

Chapter 14

Amber

I get up early the next morning, grab a couple of suitcases down from the top of the wardrobe and shove Will’s clothes into them. I don’t want him here any longer than necessary.

At work, Mirelle looks up from her desk. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, tendrils around her face. She has red lipstick and matching nails. She sees me glance at them.

‘Do you like my fingers of fire?’ She winks and then types with a flourish.

I think of my bitten ones. ‘Very nice. So what have your fingers of fire been up to?’

‘Crikey, you two, it’s only five past nine, can you calm it down so I don’t bring my breakfast back up?’

‘Ah, you’re just jealous.’ Mirelle flings some paper clips at Jo.

‘Yes, you’re right, I am.’ She laughs. ‘Come on, what’s been happening?’

We fill her in.

‘And so, he’d had so much to drink he couldn’t even manage it, so I threw him out of the house,’ says Mirelle.

‘Oh dear, does that mean you won’t want to see him again?’ I ask.

‘God grief no, he was a total loser.’

‘Oh dear, I best tell Shaun.’

Mirelle swings towards me in her chair and points a red talon at me. ‘Tell Shaun. Hmmm, what have you been up to, my mysterious one?’

‘He turned up at the house yesterday to make sure I was all right.’

Mirelle cocks her head to the side and pouts. ‘Awww, how sweet.’

‘It was a nice thing to do. Anyway, I don’t think that’s why he popped round because he asked for your number.’

She looks panicked.

I hold up my hand. ‘No, I did not give it to him, but if you are ever tempted to let him try again, I have Shaun’s number and I can text him.’

‘You took his number? The troll? Are you insane?’

‘How else could I get in touch with him?’

‘So now the troll knows where you live
and
he has your number.’

‘Stop calling him a Troll, and yes, we swapped numbers, so what?’

‘Defensive and you want me to stop calling him a troll? Hmmm, are you smitten, Amber?’

I fold my arms. ‘No, of bloody course not. He only came around because his friend wanted another shot with you.’

‘Yes, he went all the way over to your house, bearing in mind his friend knows where I live, checked you were okay and gave you his number because he wanted the gossip about me and his mate. You are beyond naïve. I’m happy you didn’t shag him. You didn’t, did you?’