A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,13

‘Not one more word on the topic. I will handle everything. You will not even have to think another thought about Christmas.’

And that last sentence was music to Ethan’s ears. ‘Fine,’ he told his assistant. ‘Blue and silver it is. Make it so.’

Six

The Hour Glass Pub, Kensington

Keeley drank three quarters of the pint of cider before even stopping for a breath. It tasted so refreshing. It was exactly what she needed. She might have skipped the gym last night, but today was a new day. She had spent an hour working out there earlier, pushing her body to its limits, unconcerned for her rapid heart rate or the pinch of a stitch, she had carried on running through. Yes, more water might have been healthier than alcohol, but she needed the hit. She was alive. She wasn’t adopted. She had an invitation to Paris…

‘Christ! You know it’s barely lunchtime, right?’ Rach remarked, jaw dropping with an expression somewhere between admiration and astonishment.

‘Cheers,’ Keeley said, gesturing the glass towards her friend and taking another mouthful. It was Saturday. Keeley had suggested lunch. She needed to talk to someone other than family about the email from Silvie Durand. She needed to say words, out loud, rather than rolling them all around her brain and having them form knots even the best Scout leader wouldn’t be able to undo. She’d suggested here because she was also going to coat her stomach with the pub’s homemade steak and Guinness pie…

‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ Rach guessed. She sat forward in her chair, festive snowmen earrings hanging from her ears, leaning an elbow against the snow-sprayed windowpane next to their table. ‘Is Roland forcing the issue on Mr Peterson? Because, if you really don’t want to do it, even for a big bonus, then we can say the feathers… or the fur… is detrimental to your health.’ Rach took a swig of her flavoured gin and tonic. ‘I know I said you should stop playing the Little Miss Transplant card but, when it comes to stuffed carcasses, I’d be inclined to let it slide just this once.’

Little Miss Transplant. Yes, that was her. She was the keeper of someone else’s precious organ. A walking, talking, living mausoleum. And that was one of the reasons she shouldn’t be considering this offer to meet with her donor’s mother. What good could it do for either of them? More than a year had passed. What was there to say? No, she should email back, type that it was so nice to hear from her, that she would be forever grateful for the gift of life but… Keeley took another swig of her drink. Except no matter how she worded a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ it sounded like a ‘sorry, not sorry’. And this woman had lost her daughter. Ferne. Now her donor had a name it seemed to make things even harder.

‘Keeley?’ Rach said. It sounded as if her friend was asking for clarification to a previous question and Keeley had zoned out.

‘Yes?’

‘What’s wrong? Because I know there’s something wrong.’

Now that pint was fizzing back up into her throat and Keeley was regretting the speed in which she’d swallowed it.

‘The mother of my kidney donor wants to meet me,’ she started. ‘She’s offered Eurostar tickets and a stay in Paris in exchange for a chance to get to know me… a bit… I guess however much you can get to know someone in… a couple of weeks or so.’ The words were in the air and the look on Rach’s face said it all. Her friend downed her gin and tonic and looked like she wanted to give head to the ice cubes to get every last millilitre of booze from the glass.

‘Is that allowed?’ Rach asked suddenly. Her cheeks were now as red as the ones on the snowmen dangling from her earlobes.

‘Is what allowed?’

‘Mothers of donors being able to jump into your life like that without warning.’ She picked up her glass and swirled the ice cubes around. ‘Do they tell you about that before you go through with the operation?’

It hadn’t been a case of deep consultation on anything to do with the operation from what little Keeley could remember. She had been more-or-less unconscious, in and out, not knowing what was going on at all and calling out for Bea. She had learned later that Bea had never made it to a hospital bed. Bea had died in the taxi, the paramedics having to gently