A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,33

mum with the vested interest.’

‘You can’t think like that. It’s yours now,’ Rach reminded. ‘Your body. Your kidney. Your life.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t get a used car and have the old owner telling you how to drive it, do you?’

‘I guess not.’ Keeley didn’t know how she felt about being compared to a second-hand vehicle.

‘And why would she be disappointed? You’re amazing.’

Keeley smiled again. It was nice of Rach to say so, but she kept thinking that her real shot at amazing had been pre-accident with her eye on the home design prize career. Now, with her job at Roland’s estate agency, it all felt a little bit second best. But maybe that’s what you had to be happy with after a transplant. She was lucky to be here at all and no one knew how long this degree of normal was actually going to last. Her forever was likely going to be a lot shorter than the average twenty-six-year-old.

‘Anyway,’ Rach said again, snapping more pictures through the fence as they moved along it, taking in different aspects of the view. ‘What about her? You might not think much of Silvie Durand when you meet her. And her daughter might have been a horrible person.’

‘I’m not sure anyone who has signed up to be an organ donor could be a horrible person.’

‘O-K,’ Rach said, seemingly thwarted on that line of conversation. ‘Well… she might… not like… burned toast. I mean, total heathen if she didn’t like that. Or, she might not… do any charity work like you do with the hospice.’

Straightaway Keeley thought about Erica, her lovely friend who was so special to her, getting weaker every day. She drew her phone from the pocket of her coat and began to take photos. ‘Most people don’t have time for charity work. It isn’t that they don’t want to.’

‘Well,’ Rach said, ‘all I’m saying is, without sounding too ungrateful about the trip… you are awesome and don’t let this swaggy French woman with her free Eurostar tickets and our presidential-style suite make you feel inadequate. Because you’re not.’

Somehow, amid this pep talk, Keeley couldn’t help but feel more inadequate than ever. She focused her phone camera on the view, zooming in to get a closer look at L’Arc de Triomphe. She had to make sure that she enjoyed the experiences for Erica too and shared as much as she could with her. She should do a video so Erica could hopefully feel a little like she was there too.

‘God,’ Rach breathed. ‘Don’t look now but I think that guy is going to propose.’ She put one hand to her chest and the other on Keeley’s shoulder, turning her to the scene.

Keeley watched, expectant, fully invested already as the young man wearing dark jeans and a padded jacket dropped to his knee next to his female companion. Rach let out a squeal… and then they both sighed heavily in unison.

‘Bloody hell!’ Rach said with a grunt.

‘Oh,’ Keeley said, in disappointment.

‘Who does up their shoelace at the top of the Eiffel Tower? Who, I ask you?!’

‘Come on,’ Keeley said, putting her arm through Rach’s and leading her towards the inside. ‘We have sandwiches and cakes to get to.’

Fourteen

L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris

The afternoon tea spread was glorious. Four tiers of food ranging from rectangular-cut sandwiches – egg mayonnaise, salmon and cucumber, a soft cheese with chives, thick ham with a bright yellow chutney – to scones with pots of fresh cream and strawberry jam, then cakes (chocolate eclairs, tarte citron, Paris-Brest and macarons). Keeley could see that Rach was ready to dig in. Her friend had furled and unfurled her napkin several times and had carefully turned the display a full three-sixty twice, her fingers grazing the edge of the scones as if trying to ‘accidentally’ loosen a crumb or six… Keeley looked at her watch again. It was ten past three. It was official. Silvie was late.

‘She’s probably stuck in traffic,’ Rach said, doing her best-friend mindreading again.

‘Yes,’ Keeley said. She lifted herself off the chair a little and flattened down her taupe-coloured woollen skirt. She had quickly changed out of her jeans before they came down to the dining room, feeling as if she wanted to be a touch smarter for the meeting, even after everything she and Rach had discussed over that Parisian view from the top of the tower. Making an effort didn’t have to mean her everyday was ordinary, just that she regarded this meeting as important. It