Page 83 of Pretty Mess

“It’s beautiful,” I say simply.

He smiles. “La Ville Lumière. The City of Light,” he elaborates at my questioning look. His accent seems very good to me.

“Why do they call it that?”

He shrugs. “It’s quite a prosaic explanation for such a beautiful name. It was the first city in Europe to use gas lighting on the streets.”

“You know Paris well?”

“Very well,” he says, the finality of the tone underscoring the brevity of his response. I think I’ve concealed my disappointment, but maybe I haven’t because his face softens a little.

“There’s the Seine. We’re nearly at the hotel.”

The wide river is moving fast and looks brown in the dimming light. “Like the Thames,” I say, and then add loyally, “Probably not as good, though.”

He makes a soft sound of amusement. “Spoken like a true London boy.”

“Taylor Swift would definitely approve of me.”

We turn onto a bustling road that runs alongside the river. Cafes and crepe restaurants with bright awnings jostle for space with little tourist shops. Trees line the road, and people are everywhere. I can hear different languages spoken through the window and car horns blaring. I take a deep breath to calm my excitement and appear a little more sophisticated in front of Mac. Then I realise I shouldn’t bother because it won’t fool him.

The driver stops the cab outside a huge building. It’s easily nine or ten storeys tall and faces the river. It’s modern-looking with a glass facade, but when I crane my neck, I can see ancient-looking gargoyles set into the balconies at the top of the hotel. The gargoyles look like they’re peeping down at us. Uniformed hotel staff immediately approach and help our driver unload the luggage.

Mac climbs out of the car, and I scramble to join him. Then, I stand still and look at the river. An old bridge catches my eye. It’s ornately carved with antique lampposts lining either side.

“That’s the Pont Neuf Bridge,” Mac says, coming to stand next to me. The wind blows our hair back, and I smell exhaust fumes and a faint trace of river water that reminds me of the Thames.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say softly. “Like something from a dream, Mac. Thank you so much for bringing me here.”

He looks almost pleased for a second, and then his familiar shuttered expression comes down, and he gestures to the hotel. “Let’s go in. I need a shower before I start my meetings.”

“Is that because you spent the journey over here rolling around on a plane floor?”

He laughs. It’s a shame he doesn’t do it more because the sound is contagious. “Please let’s never speak of that again. My tailor doesn’t intend his suits to be worn for that purpose.”

“Maybe he should.”

A woman is waiting for us, dressed in the hotel’s beige and green uniform. She smiles charmingly at Mac. “Welcome back to the hotel, Mr Reilly. Your bags will be taken up to your suite.”

Suite? My eyebrow rises. I bet that cost a pretty penny. I amend that figure and add a few noughts when we get inside the hotel. It’s full of light from the enormous windows and it’s stunning. Large pillars rise from the foyer, and sofas and chairs are dotted around, upholstered in lime greens and reds. Bold patterned rugs lie on the floor, and the white walls are lined with huge abstract artwork. I can smell coffee and something else expensive—probably people’s money evaporating on entry. Everyone looks like they just stepped off a runway at a fashion show for business chic, and I edge closer to Mac, very aware of my battered jeans and old uni hoodie.

“Let me show you up,” the woman continues. “Are you here for business?”

She and Mac obviously know each other, and within a few seconds, they’re speaking French. I sneak a glance at Mac as we walk towards the lifts. His French is fast, his accent beautiful, and he seems fluent even to my untrained ear. They rattle off a conversation I have no hope of following, and I look around catching sight of myself in a big mirror opposite the lifts. My reflection stares back at me. My hair is a little messy, my face is tired, but my eyes glow excitedly. I think of the stuff I’d looked up on my iPad. There’s so much I want to see—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Orsay Museum, and the Arc de Triomphe.Familiar names that always seemed like distant dreams to me before. Four days seems almost too short a time to fit all of it in.

“Wes?”

When Mac says my name, I look up and find they’re both looking at me. “Sorry. I was deep in thought,” I say quickly.

“The world quivers in fear.”

I laugh and shove him lightly, noticing the lady’s glance of amazement before she glances away. “Shut up,” I tell him.

He chuckles. “I’m sorry we were speaking in French.”

The lift doors open and we step in. I smile at him. “Well, I suppose it’s handy seeing as we’re in France.”

“Nevertheless, it was rude of me when you don’t speak the language.”