Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Escape to Paris with a BRAND NEW feel-good romance

‘Sacha Mourad?’

Sacha snatched his hands back from Ren’s, leaving the ring still stuck on her knuckle. She tried to shove it back into place, but it wouldn’t budge in either direction. The voice summoned him again and heat rose to her cheeks.

She inwardly shook herself. Tattoos and work boots were a strange fetish to be suddenly developing. Pull yourself together, Ren!

Only when they were halfway down the corridor did she realise she probably should have left him alone to see the doctor, but she found herself in the consultation room, standing in the corner clutching his jacket as he and the nurse held a conversation in rapid French.

Before Ren could decide whether to sit or stand, Sacha had hopped up onto the examination table and was stripping off his shirt and it was somehow too late to tear her eyes off him. He had a full sleeve of tattoos, with another – two crossed swords – on his left biceps.

The hospital lighting showed up all the grooves of lean muscle. She couldn’t help thinking that Charlie, for all his hours in the gym and bulking diet, didn’t have definition like that.

Sacha exchanged more words with the nurse, a tight smile sometimes touching his lips. His front teeth were a little crooked – not much, but in Ren’s circle they would have been corrected. She quite liked them.

The nurse checked his eyes and performed a series of tests for balance and, Ren guessed, memory and concentration. While Ren stood in the corner, trying not to watch Sacha and definitely not to appreciate his expressive looks and incomprehensible words, the next Eurostar from the Gare du Nord pulled out of the station.

Sacha lifted his gaze and caught Ren staring. She took an instinctive step back, hitting the wall. What kind of idiot checked out the man she’d just knocked down?

An hour later, Sacha had been cleared of a concussion and they wandered out of the double doors of the Emergency department, his arm in a sling. Night had fallen and the rain had turned to misty drizzle that gathered around the streetlamps in hazy brightness.

Ren shivered at the sudden change in temperature and the encroaching darkness. A moment later, Sacha’s fleece-lined coat landed on her shoulders and she grasped the collar reflexively.

‘Shouldn’t you stay—’

He shook his head to cut her off. ‘Your hair is still wet.’

‘I’m sure Bilel isn’t far,’ she said, shrugging into the jacket. ‘Ow,’ she muttered, realising how much her finger ached from the ring wedged onto her knuckle.

‘Let me see,’ Sacha said, taking her hand. ‘Aïe, your finger is purple.’

‘It’s not…’ Sacha held her hand up to the light and Ren grimaced when she saw the mottling on her fingertip. She tugged once more ineffectually at the blasted thing, her breath hitching.

Ren took a slow breath in and out. ‘You know what else we say in English about bad luck? It comes in threes.’

‘Also in French: jamais deux, sans trois. Never two without three.’

‘As long as we do without four, I can keep it together,’ she muttered for her own benefit.

‘Do you have cream for the hands?’

‘In the car,’ she said. ‘Where is Bilel?’

‘Perhaps he called?’

She muttered another curse, remembering her dead phone, but on the other hand, she reflected ruefully, no one could call her if her phone was dead. No notifications, no urgent demands that she turn up and face the scandal.

Ren tried the smashed device one more time, but it definitely wouldn’t turn on. With a sudden laugh that was probably bordering on hysterical, she tossed it into a nearby bin, feeling liberated. Until, that is, she realised she was out at night with no phone – alone, without Charlie or an assistant. Had it suddenly got darker?

‘Do you have Bilel’s number? I could call him.’

She glanced at her companion. The warmth of his coat around her shoulders attested to the fact that she wasn’t quite alone. After another rummage in her bag, she handed Sacha a business card with Bilel’s number on it.

There followed a quick conversation in French, where all she caught was, ‘En fait?’ and, ‘Jusque-là,’ although she couldn’t remember what they meant anyway. After he ended the call, Sacha explained, ‘Bilel has had trouble changing the car for a new one and he’ll be at least half an hour. He is profoundly sorry.’

Ren glanced around and then wished she hadn’t. She was somewhere deep in the tenth arrondissement. There was a Turkish snack bar across the road and a handful of shops with their shutters down. A concrete wall ran around the hospital, covered in posters and graffiti.

So much for the city of light. Outside Ren’s beloved first arrondissement, it was a city of dark corners. She shuddered, taking a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry you’re not at home resting,’ she said, although it wasn’t quite true. If it weren’t for those mysterious boxes of antiques held hostage in Bilel’s car, he would have left her all alone with her irrational fears.

He shook his head, sending little points of light off his curls from the drizzle. ‘I have an idea,’ he said abruptly, ‘to fix both of your problems.’ He thought she only had two problems? ‘On y va!’ Gesturing for her to follow, he took off into the dark evening in the depths of a Paris she didn’t know. She should be wary of following. But being in Paris with a handsome stranger was a hundred times better than facing Grandmama’s wrath in London.

On y va, she thought to herself. Let’s go.

Sacha phoned Joseph as they walked, glossing over the reasons for his delay. He couldn’t explain to the old man that he’d been to the hospital, but he was fine, and he was now taking a strange woman to a bar, but not for the usual reasons. Although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a woman to a bar for any reason.

Within ten minutes, they had made it to the twentieth arrondissement, and paused at a crossing. The intersection wasn’t anything special. Sacha didn’t even need to look any more to picture the graffitied shutters of the Chinese supermarket, covered in profanities in six languages. The building had been repurposed from a theatre and the chunky lettering still remained, the concrete awning in need of a clean.

It was a typical Parisian crossroad, with cobbled streets, a mix of golden stone buildings from the nineteenth century, contemporary apartment blocks, and everything in between. Scooters and bikes and rushing pedestrians swept past them and shivering smokers sat at tables outside the café across the street, still busy at this time of night. It was Belleville – home – but Ren stared as though he’d taken her to Disneyland.

‘Welcome to Paris,’ he said drily.

‘This is not the Paris I know,’ she replied.

‘It’s not quite the court of miracles – the slums were demolished 150 years ago – but perhaps we will find here what you need to solve at least one of your problems.’

She followed him with a wide-eyed smile. He had noticed she smiled a lot.

As he paused across the street from their destination, she took it all in as though this was her first trip to the Louvre, not a bar. He kept hold of her hand when she nearly tripped on the uneven kerb. ‘This place is… interesting,’ she said, peering down the neighbouring alley, where the patrons of the bar spilled out, huddled under heaters.

‘First time in Paris?’

‘No, I visit all the time, I just… don’t know it well, apparently.’

Once inside, Ren stared at the red neon lettering above the bar, the bottles of spirits in rows and the clusters of young patrons. A tourne-disque in the corner played a mixture of cabaret, chansons and rhythmic Congolese soukous. A couple of white women with dreadlocks and lip piercings grooved in the middle of the room after setting their drinks on a decoupaged table.

Ren would have looked out of place, except her thoroughly dishevelled state disguised her chic outfit. She was pale and her make-up had worn off. Freckles had come out on her cheeks like stars. No one would even notice her tailored trousers, black-and-white designer boots and the earrings that matched her ring. Well, perhaps someone would notice the earrings. The diamonds were enormous.

‘Une margarita glacée et un thé à la menthe,’ he ordered when the barman approached.

‘Oh,’ she said and reached into her bag. ‘Do we pay now? Or later?’ She placed a 100-euro note hurriedly onto the bar.

Sacha slapped his hand over it and swiped it back in her direction. ‘Don’t you have anything smaller?’

‘Why? Are there pickpockets around?’

‘I’ve only seen a handful of 100-euro notes in my life. You don’t need to be extravagant. Most places in Paris do take credit card these days.’

‘I’m not being extravagant,’ she mumbled. ‘Surely there won’t be too much change from 100?’

He was speechless for long enough that the barman returned with their drinks and casually took the note, holding it up to the light to check it was genuine. Ren sniffed at the slight, before glancing down at her rumpled clothing with a sigh of dismay.

‘Thank you for the drink,’ he muttered, clearing his throat.

She didn’t reply, but turned her perplexed gaze to her glass. ‘Is that a frozen margarita?’

‘It’s for your finger.’

‘My… what?’

He picked up her hand and lifted it above her head. She stared at him, her mouth ajar. ‘We elevate the hand and then you hold your finger on the glass. The cold makes your finger contract and we take the ring off.’

‘O-oh,’ she stammered. ‘Good. I don’t want to… damage it. The ring, I mean, not my finger.’

‘Your finger, also. The ring is important to you?’

Her eyes clouded and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know or not, but his hand curled around hers instinctively. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not important at all. Perhaps it never was. Perhaps I never was – to him.’ He was close enough to notice her lip trembling. He opened his mouth to say something – he had no idea what – but she spoke instead. ‘But it is vintage Cartier.’

He released a slow breath. She was from a different world, after all. ‘Cartier makes it important?’

‘Of course!’ She glanced up at their joined hands – her elevated hand. ‘Have we held it enough, yet? My arm is going numb.’ And her face was too close.

He cleared his throat. ‘I hope it’s not the gangrène.’

‘It’s not gangrene. That’s a bad joke.’

‘Sorry. I have the habitude.’

‘The habit,’ she corrected gently. ‘It starts with an “h”.’

‘So does “habitude”. But I am French. We don’t breathe on each other when we talk.’

She spluttered for long enough that he almost felt bad for teasing her. ‘Well, you gargle my name like mouthwash.’

‘Ren?’ he repeated, stifling another unexpected smile. ‘It does not sound like mouthwash.’ He repeated her name a few times. ‘It sounds like reine, the French word for queen.’

‘Queen?’

‘It suits you, no?’

‘No!’ she said, her tone defensive. ‘Now, can I lower my hand?’

He nodded, letting her hand go and nudging the glass in her direction. He picked up his own tea, left-handed because of the sling, and took a sip. Ren closed her fingers around her tumbler and held it there, wincing at the cold.

‘Why “Ren”? Why don’t people call you Irena?’

She leaned heavily on the bar, as though she’d already had a few margaritas. Seeing the look on her face, he wished he hadn’t asked what he’d thought was a simple question. ‘My mother was Russian – hence the name.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That she was Russian?’

‘No, that she… was.’

‘Oh,’ she said, her voice trailing off. ‘I don’t remember much about her. She… My grandmother disapproved of her humble origins and refuses to call me Irena to this day. Since my parents died when I was a child, there isn’t anyone else to call me anything except Ren,’ she explained with false brightness.

‘What does it mean, do you know?’ That seemed safer than all of the other follow-up questions that sprang into his mind.

‘My name? I have no idea.’

‘You never looked up the meaning?’ She shook her head. ‘Here, let’s look.’ He pulled out his phone.

‘You’re not into some weird astrology with names, are you?’

‘Astrology is about stars.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘If you mean do I think there is… destiny in a name, then… no. But…’ She was staring at him with an unexpected focus that made heat rush to his cheeks. ‘But words have meaning and… power, in their own way.’

‘So what does my name mean then?’ she asked with sudden eagerness.

He unlocked his phone as quickly as he could and opened a browser to search. ‘It means peace. It comes from the ancient Greek goddess of peace.’

‘Hmm. I suppose that figures. I hate conflict.’

‘And tragedies.’

‘Exactly.’

He leaned on the bar and studied her. He’d met her at a low point, it appeared, but her low point was full of grace. He’d rarely reached for that word: la grâce. It sounded old-fashioned and almost reverent. He was probably just awed by her million-dollar manners.

‘What does your name mean, then?’

The tables turned, it felt strangely personal to share the meaning of his own name – a name his parents had chosen with care. But she’d answered him. ‘As a masculine name it derives from Alexander, which means… defender of people. It is also a feminine name of Arabic origin. In that case, it means helper or supporter.’

‘That’s… a lot to live up to,’ she said softly. He met her curious gaze and immediately wished he hadn’t. He didn’t need to set his heart pounding because a wealthy stranger looked at him like that.

She released a slow breath through pursed lips. Then she lifted her glass and took a sip of her margarita – a big sip.

‘Oooh,’ she said, cocking her head to inspect the cocktail.

‘Here,’ he said, spreading salt around the edge of her glass from a little bowl the barman had placed next to them. ‘And take a pincée and throw it over your shoulder.’

‘Does that make it taste better?’

‘No. It sends away the bad luck.’

‘This margarita and I were meant to meet tonight,’ she said with a smile. She reached for a pinch of salt and began to toss it over her shoulder, but he lurched to stop her, grasping her wrist.

‘Not that shoulder. The left.’

She grimaced. ‘I already let it go.’ He groaned. ‘Does that mean more bad luck? What do I do about that?’

‘I think the best thing you can do is drink the margarita.’ She laughed more heartily than the poor joke deserved and he laughed, too – slightly bewildered and reluctantly charmed. ‘You’ve never had a margarita before?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she admitted. She took another long sip. ‘Mmmmm, it’s good with the salt. I’ll have to see if they have these in the bar at the Ritz.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ he said. The Ritz… it figured. ‘Why haven’t you ever drunk a margarita?’

‘Oh, there are so many things you’d think I would have done and I… haven’t.’ She propped her chin on her other hand and looked around the bar again. ‘I’ve never been to a bar like this.’

‘I’ve never been to the Ritz.’

‘Oh, you must! There’s nowhere quite like the Ritz.’

‘I believe you,’ he said drily.

‘Ha,’ she responded. ‘Do you live around here, then? Not that you need to give me an address. I’m just making small talk! I’m not going to follow you home and steal your things.’

He didn’t need the reminder that they were strangers who didn’t know each other’s surnames. ‘I’m more worried about you following me home and posting cash into my letter box. Yes, I live some streets away. The quartier is called Belleville.’

‘You have a quartier and I have Cartier,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Were you going home from work when I… hit you?’

‘No, I was going the other way. My friend restores antiques. I was going to his stock room in Saint-Ouen.’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘You won’t report me to the police?’ She froze and opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Her eyes were huge and alarmed. ‘It was a joke,’ he said with a frown.

‘Ohhhhh,’ she said. ‘Your “habitude” strikes again.’ He inclined his head, staring into his tea. ‘If you smile when you joke, I won’t be so confused. So, why were you transporting stolen goods to wherever it was?’

‘They’re not—’

‘I know, I know. My turn to joke.’

‘Oh, I am helping to prepare for a grotte du Père Noël – you know?’

‘Père Noël? You’re playing Father Christmas?’

‘Non, my friend is the Père Noël.’

‘You’re one of his elves?’

‘Elves? Yes, you could say that.’

‘You don’t look like an elf.’

‘No? I look like a bicycle courier who steals antiques, non?’ Her tongue-tied apology tempted him into a smile, but she still didn’t pick up that he was joking. ‘Don’t worry. You look like the Queen of England to me.’

‘I hope I don’t look ninety years old,’ she said glancing at her rumpled outfit. ‘I look quite unkempt.’

‘My fault. Thank you for ruining your clothes for me. Those pantalons are probably by Louis Versace.’

‘Louis Vers— oh, you’re joking again. Actually, they’re Givenchy. But you’re lucky your head is worth more to me, because these are ruined.’

He imagined his definition of ‘ruined’ differed from hers. ‘I am lucky tonight,’ he agreed lightly. ‘Shall we try to take the ring off? You don’t have much ice left.’

‘Oh, it must have stopped hurting,’ she said, squinting at her finger. ‘Right, here goes!’ she said.