Home > That Night In Paris

That Night In Paris
Author: Sandy Barker

Chapter 1


“I have completely cocked things up.”

“Hello to you, too.” My sister, Sarah, peered out from my iPad, her nose bigger than it was in real life.

“Sorry, hello,” I retorted. We were sisters and best friends—couldn’t we skip niceties in a crisis? And this was a crisis.

“So, how have you cocked things up?” she asked as the screen turned white.

“Sez, have you put me down?”

“Oh, yes.” Her face hovered over the screen. “I’m folding the washing.” She’d put her iPad face up on the bed, giving me a lovely view of her ceiling. “Sorry,” she added, her face moving out of frame again.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“So, you, cocking things up—go,” she prompted again.

“I slept with Alex.”

Her face reappeared as she righted the iPad and stared at me, a questioning crease between her brows. “Sorry, what? Alex?”

“My flatmate,” I answered flatly.

“Oooh, Alex. So, he does exist.” She grinned, obviously pleased with herself.

“Ha ha, very funny.” Sarah had stayed with me after her trip to Greece a couple of months before. She’d met my flatmate, Jane, but Alex hadn’t been around that week, so Sarah thought it was hilarious to joke that he wasn’t real. Believe me—and my lady parts—he was real.

“So, what happened?” She abandoned her washing and propped herself up against her bedhead, settling in for the duration.

I snuggled amongst the throw pillows on the sofa, also settling in. It had been two days and fourteen hours since The Incident (note the capital letters), but it was the first time I’d been alone in the flat and my first opportunity for a proper sister debrief. Until that moment, I’d been lying low in what I’d like to think was an impressive display of both restraint and stealth.

“Well, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before—the usual stuff really. Jane went out. Alex and I stayed in. We ordered Indian takeaway and opened a bottle or two of wine, aaand we ended up having drunken sex on the sofa.” She made a face. “What?”

“The one I slept on?” She looked like she’d smelled someone else’s fart.

“Yes, Sarah, that one. The sofa I am currently sitting on. It’s not like we had sex and then you had to sleep on it. You were here ages ago. Besides, we cleaned up afterwards.” Her grimace intensified. “Look, you’re focusing on the wrong thing.”

“Sorry,” she said. I waved off the apology. “Well, how was it?”

“What?”

“The sex.”

“It was drunken sofa sex. How do you think it was?”

“Oh-kay. So, what now?”

It was a good question. What I had wanted to happen was absolutely nothing. I’d wanted to wake up the next day, make our usual pleasantries over tea and coffee and get on with my life. What I didn’t want was Alex making goo-goo eyes at me over the toaster, then professing his long-held and undying love for me.

Yes, that really happened.

“Well, we each went back to our rooms and I fell into a wine-induced coma. When I woke up, he was waiting for me in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a weird look on his face. I took the tea and he launched into a monologue about being in love with me—how he’s always hoped something would happen between us, and that he wants me to meet his mum.”

Sarah’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open a little. It was the exact same reaction I’d had in the kitchen two days before. Her face contorted. “Fuuuuuck,” she said slowly. I hadn’t realised how much you could drag that word out.

“That’s what I thought—think. Yes, I still think that.”

“So, I’m guessing you don’t feel the same way?”

I snorted in reply. I couldn’t help it—totally involuntary. “Alex?” I asked, as though his name alone was enough to convey how ridiculous her question was. Of course, my audience of one had never met Alex, so how was she to know? The left side of her mouth pulled taut. Bollocks, that had definitely come out snarky. “Sorry,” I muttered. She shrugged, instantly forgiving me—one of the things I loved about my sister.

“It’s just that, yes, I mean, he’s cute in a British sort-of podgy, floppy-haired, Andrew Garfield kind of way, but I don’t really fancy him. Plus, he’s nice enough, but he’s so dull. He only ever talks about his work—boring as anything—and his latest obsession—get this, virtual reality. He’s even kitted out his room with a whole set-up since you were here.”

“Oh, wow. That sounds cool.”

“Are you paying attention? It’s not. Besides, I tried it. It made me sick.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I’ve been hiding from him.”

“So, how’s that going?”

“So far, so good. Although I had a near miss with him last night when I got up to go to the loo.” I could see the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth and watched her succumb to laughter. My giggles followed soon after.

“You’re a dork,” she said, her laugh subsiding.

“Yes, thank you, I know.”

“So, what’s your long-term plan? You going to keep skulking about your flat, hoping you don’t cross paths on the way to brush your teeth?” I could tell she was enjoying herself.

“Actually, no. I’ve booked a tour.”

She looked intrigued. “A tour?”

“Yep. For half-term. I leave on Saturday. It’s, uh, well, it’s a Ventureseek tour.”

I let my reveal hang in the air.

Sarah had worked for Ventureseek ten years ago as a Tour Manager. She’d shared all the glorious—and gory—details, and I had a pretty good idea what I was in for. What I didn’t know was how she’d react.

Apparently, it would be blinking at me, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish out of water. “I’m sorry, what? You’re going on a Ventureseek?” She used the tour company’s name like a common noun.

“Yes,” I replied, sticking to my guns. I’ve never really understood that expression, by the way, and I’m an English teacher, but whatever metaphorical guns were, I was sticking to them. Besides, I’d just forked out eleven hundred non-refundable pounds.

Her brows furrowed. “But you said you’d never go on one of those tours. You specifically said, and I remember this clearly, they were for drunken hooligans and idiots who couldn’t find their way around Europe by themselves. You said you’d never ever go on one—ever. You were quite clear about the ‘ever’ part.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So? What happened?”

“I panicked,” I answered, half-resolute, half-defensive.

She was quiet for several moments, then shrugged. “Huh. Well, okay. So, you leave Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“And which tour is it? I mean, how long?”

“Two weeks, fifteen countries, or something like that.” She nodded, and I could see her mind at work.

“So, Paris, the château, Antibes, Florence, Rome, Venice, Lauterbrunnen, Koblenz, and Amsterdam. Right?” Damn, she was good. Ten years on and she still knew the itinerary of a two-week tour looping around Europe.

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