table again. ‘Can we order lunch now? I really fancy the lentils and nuts Haggis.’
Keeley smiled. Now all she had to do was reply to Silvie Durand and accept her offer… and break the news to her parents. And then there was Erica. She wasn’t quite sure who was going to take it better but there was only one person whose time was really running out.
Seven
Bistrot Vivienne, Galerie Vivienne, Paris
Ethan was late. Deliberately so. He would not be coming here at all if he had the choice. He stood stock-still, a few metres away from his destination, looking at the person waiting to dine with him. He supposed he did have a choice, but he had cancelled a few times too often lately and his conscience was prickling him about that. Plus, being absent would have hurt Ferne and still, even in death, he didn’t ever want to think about hurting Ferne.
He pulled his coat around him, fastening the buttons, and continued to look at the woman waiting for him to arrive. Her hair was that silver colour people choose when the greys begin to appear. It looked good and the soft fall of the cut, following the curve of her jaw, suited her. She had always reminded Ethan a little of Dame Helen Mirren. Sitting underneath the glass ceiling of the arcade, at an outside table, the mosaic tiles beneath feet clad in boots with a flatter heel than she used to wear, she definitely looked a little older. Ethan sighed. Everyone had been aged by circumstance and loss. No one came out of tragedy unscathed. He watched her pour a little vin rouge, then bring the glass to her nose. Was this her first glass? He shook his head. Why was he judging? Wasn’t alcohol one of the first thoughts in his head every morning, even after a heavy night before? Or rather, the thinking was more about the feeling alcohol gave him. It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t the high from the intoxication, it was simply the knowing it was going to bring on a numbing of his senses and a switching off from reality. He stepped out from the doorway that was shielding him and paced forward.
‘Ethan!’
She leapt from her seat the second he must have met her sightline and her voice was that slightly too loud version of itself – the kind that might be attributed to someone who had indulged in vin rouge already. He waved a hand and hurried to reach the table.
‘Silvie,’ he greeted. He leaned in, expecting the usual two-kiss greeting that was customary. Instead, Silvie Durand embraced him, hard, her arms coming around his body and drawing him in close. It was a determined hug, more than strong, and as the moment ended, Ethan realised that Silvie did feel a little more slender. The very last time she had held him that way was at Ferne’s funeral. He swallowed. That day had been soaked with emotion, with everyone who had attended trying to console each other and make some sense of Ferne’s loss. He stepped back. ‘You are well?’
‘I am well,’ Silvie responded, taking her seat. ‘And you are late.’ She passed him the menu. ‘I have ordered a bottle of Saint Joseph.’
‘So, I see,’ Ethan answered. He sat down.
‘Ah, you disapprove.’ Silvie smiled. ‘Good.’
He went to reply, but decided against it. What could he say? He had been the master of day-drinking this past year and today he had only not had alcohol already because Noel had kept him in the hotel talking about the Christmas décor. Currently his assistant was walking around like the happiest orchestra conductor with a choir of hotel employees ready to play the tune of Christmas on his command.
‘I have ordered the pink shrimps to start. Enough for us both.’
Ethan felt a tug on his heartstrings. Ma crevette. From the moment his friendship with Ferne had begun he had called her that nickname. It meant ‘my shrimp’ and was a light-hearted reference to the fact that he had always dwarfed Ferne as far as height went. The pink shrimp dish here was Ferne’s favourite. His best friend wouldn’t have shared the meal though. She was always able to happily devour an entire portion on her own and still have room for profiteroles to finish. Again, he went to say something and then reconsidered. Silvie had already made the decision on their food choices. He should let her have this gastronomic reverie.
‘You look tired,’ Silvie remarked.