‘I’ve been reading your blog.’
‘Why? You’re in Paris. You’ve got the Louvre, the Moulin Rouge...’
‘It’s impressive, Mia.’
Little pause. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He pulled his computer onto his lap and opened the pages he’d bookmarked.
‘I’m especially taken with your essays. I’ve never read anything like these before.’
‘They’re just half-formed ideas...meandering thoughts...’ There was shyness in her voice.
‘But there’s a thread that ties everything together. They’re not random.’
He’d been mulling over his Mia ‘addiction’ when he’d remembered that she had a website. Two clicks later he’d found himself in her professional world. Pacey articles, deft observations, sharp humour and boundless humanity. Her blog space was devoted to work of a different slant. The writing was almost experimental. Lyrical, captivating...personal. One item had caught and held his attention.
‘I really liked your latest post: Empty Rooms.’
‘Oh.’ A moment unfurled slowly. ‘What can I say? I found your house inspiring...’
He’d read the piece over and over again, felt moved by it. ‘I love the phrase “dust aches between floors”. I don’t know anything about poetry, but your writing is poetic; beautiful.’
‘I’m blushing.’
‘I wish I could see that.’
‘I’m glad you can’t! Beetroot doesn’t suit me. How’s Paris?’
Changing the subject. Maybe she was as spooked by the suddenness of their togetherness as he was. He glanced through the window and saw a piece of sun sinking between the rooftops, a section of the Eiffel Tower stretching skywards. ‘I haven’t really seen it. I’ve been in meetings all day and now I’m at the hotel—in my room.’ His eyes slid to the empty pillow beside him. ‘I should have brought you with me. We could have found something to do...’
‘Like what?’ Her tone was teasing.
How easy it was to slip into the froth of casual flirting. It was their safe place; their comfort blanket. ‘We could have walked romantically by the Seine.’
She laughed. ‘How do you walk “romantically”? You can walk quickly, or slowly, but I’m struggling to picture romantic walking.’
He chuckled. ‘Well, I’d put my arm around your shoulders, and you’d put your arm around my waist, and then we’d walk very slowly, and of course we’d have to keep stopping...’
‘To...?’
He grinned. ‘To feed the ducks!’
‘I’ve been to Paris and I don’t remember ducks on the Seine.’
‘They’re part-time ducks.’
‘I see.’ She was chuckling. ‘So, if there weren’t any ducks, would we still keep stopping?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the law.’
He imagined her frowning, smiling that squashed little smile that went with it.
‘Which law?’
‘The one that says that lovers have to kiss every ten metres.’ Silence. ‘Mia?’
‘There’s no such law. I just checked online. I always check facts—it’s a writer thing.’
He turfed the laptop off his legs and settled back against the plush headboard. ‘Okay, so I might have been making it up, but if I was walking along the Seine with you I’d kiss you every ten metres...maybe every five metres.’
‘It’d take us a long time to get anywhere.’
‘I wouldn’t care. Would you?’
‘No...no, I wouldn’t...’
Her voice trailed off in a whisper.
Maybe talking about kissing had been a bad idea. It was stirring the wrong pot, especially since they hadn’t really talked about what happened; how they were feeling. The day after their extended lunch date, he’d had to fly to Hamburg, but he’d made sure to retrieve her bicycle and fix the tyre before he left. He’d wanted to show her that he was there for her, that whatever it was they’d embarked upon wasn’t a meaningless thing. He’d told himself that they’d talk later but until now their conversations had been snatched. He’d been on the move, busy with meetings...or maybe that was just an excuse.
The truth was that he was out of his depth. Perhaps she felt the same. Maybe they both needed something real to hold onto and he knew it was down to him to offer up a piece of himself, as it had been in the restaurant. A simple truth to wipe away the half-truths, to make her understand that he wasn’t playing games. He stared at the darkening Parisian skyline, at the lights glowing from distant windows. ‘I miss you, Mia...’
He held his breath, heard the tiny catch in hers.
‘I’m missing you too...’
He could feel her smile; he felt warmed by the tiny flame of honesty he’d kindled between them. ‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He smiled. ‘The skies are set to be clear. It’s going to be a perfect night for stargazing and... Indonesian food! Do you like nasi goreng?’
‘It’s one of my favourites!’
‘That’s handy—it’s one of the few things I make quite well.’
He felt a lightening of spirit. Perhaps this was the way forward—through his actions. He could only deal out little truths until Bram was strong again, but he could show Mia how much he cared through the things he did. His actions would have to do the talking until he could explain everything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SKY OVER Van Baelerstraat was cobalt blue. Cloudless. It was a wide street, with grand red-brick buildings, so different from the tall narrow houses squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder along the canals. On this street there were lanes for cars, lanes for bicycles, tram tracks and pavements, a feeling of expansiveness. It was why Mia had chosen to walk to Koffiemeester’s instead of cycling. She’d wanted to stretch her eyes to a wider view, fall into the rhythm of her own footsteps, acclimatise to the weightlessness she was feeling.
I miss you, Mia.
Something in his tone had derailed her for a moment, then flooded her with happiness. His words had reassured her that what had happened between them wasn’t a casual thing. It had living roots, an onward momentum. And he’d be back tonight...disarming her with his smile, his eyes. She’d feel those strong arms around her, his lips on hers. She tingled, smiling to herself about ‘romantic walking’.
