The Happy Endings Book Club (19 page)

Alain took off and began to zip through traffic at a pace. Tilda squeezed her eyes shut for the first minute or two, praying to various gods, despite being not at all religious. But before long, curiosity and sheer exhilaration got the better of her. She opened her eyes, and without moving too much—she didn’t want to fall off—took in the sights around her.

They were flying along the Seine. The wind was in her hair. Or it would’ve been if it weren’t for the helmet. He zoomed around Place de la Concorde and onto the Champs-Élysées. Tilda had gone from being petrified to having the time of her life. She loved the wide streets, the luxury stores, the cafes and restaurants and the beautifully dressed women who strutted past them all. The whole avenue was ablaze with Christmas lights, dripping from the trees.

One final turn down Avenue George V and before long Tilda was peeling herself off the bike and removing her helmet.

Shit, helmet hair. Forgot about that.

Alain took the helmet off her and led her into the hotel. Tilda followed behind, desperately trying to fluff some life back into her hair.

The lobby of the George V was jaw dropping. Tilda felt like she’d died and gone to heaven.

“I come here for inspiration,” said Alain. “Every week twelve thousand flowers are brought here from Amsterdam.”

“It’s unbelievable, Alain.”

“Over the holiday season they don’t use as many flowers, so they add the extra decorative things like lights and candles.”

“Are they just in the lobby?”

“There are nearly two hundred displays all over the hotel. But the main public areas have the major displays.” Alain waved his hand around. “Every three weeks, Jeff Leatham and his team develop a floral theme for the hotel. We can see this one is influenced by Christmas.”

Tilda looked around. Not only were there a number of spectacular floral arrangements, but there were also a few huge sculptures and installations made out of lights. Alain led her over to the window where she could see more lit trees in a courtyard.

“This is possibly the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Tilda sighed.

Alain looked at her. “Let’s have a drink.”

He grabbed her hand and led her through the foyer. Tilda didn’t argue … with him, but internally she went to war with herself.

What the hell was she doing? He was nice, and extremely hot, but she wasn’t interested. At all. He was much younger than her. Her money was on mid to late thirties. And as much as her friends joked about the whole cougar thing, it didn’t appeal to her.

But mainly … there was Patrick.

When she’d climbed onto Alain’s motorbike, her first thought had been, “I bet Patrick would like this.”

She’d flown down the Champs-Élysées and thought, “What would this be like for Patrick?”

She’d walked into the George V and wished he was with her. Not this sexy Frenchman. That wasn’t true. Alain was very knowledgeable about the hotel and flowers, so he could come too. But Tilda would be with Patrick.

She wanted to be.

Instead, it was Alain who led her into the bar and pulled up a stool and opened a cocktail menu. He leaned over and she pretended to read it with him, but mostly she just wanted him to get out of her personal space.

“How about a Quick Farewell?” he said.

“Sounds good to me.” And it did.

“Or a Bye Bye Baby Goodbye?”

“That’s perfect. I want that one.”

“Okay, you have that and I will get a Loving You All Night.”

Alain ordered the cocktails and then twisted his stool around and perused the room. “It’s beautiful here, no?”

“No. I mean yes.” She relaxed a little. How could she not enjoy being here? She soaked in the surroundings. The wood paneling, the red velvet chairs and candle chandelier. It was a beautiful room.

“Oh my god,” hissed Alain.

Tilda drew back. What had she done? Suddenly Alain’s hand clutched at her knee.

“Oh my god!”

Alain looked like he was going to hyperventilate. Was he having some sort of attack? Tilda followed his gaze to a table in the corner, where two men and a woman sat. And then she saw that one of the men was Jeff Leatham.

“Is it him?” she whispered.

“Yeeeeeeees,” said Alain through clenched teeth.

And it was right at that moment that the penny dropped. Alain was gay. How she’d missed it was beyond her. Although, there had been nothing to indicate that he was gay before this moment. There was nothing to indicate that he was straight, either. She’d jumped to a conclusion about his sexuality simply because he’d been kind to her. His offer to bring her here, to share this with her, was because he figured she’d appreciate the beauty of the place. It was more a moment from
When Two Florists Meet
than anything romantic.

She was simultaneously a little let down and completely relieved. She grabbed Alain’s hand and gave it a squeeze as the party of three stood and walked out of the bar.

“He’s taller than I expected,” Tilda whispered.

Alain clutched her hand until they’d disappeared. And then, the two of them turned to each other and began to laugh.

“No one but you would understand,” he said.

“He’s like a rock star to our kind.”

“We flower people,” he whispered.

“Foliage freaks,” Tilda teased.

They roared with laughter, aware that they’d just shared something special. The drinks arrived and they toasted each other.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Alain.”

“I knew you would appreciate it.”

“Here’s to appreciating it.”

And they drank to that, and then to numerous other things as well.

“So, tell me about your love-life.” Alain leaned right over to her as though things were going to get interesting.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have one.”

“None?” He clearly thought she was lying. “You are so lovely.”

Tilda was taken aback. “I haven’t felt lovely for a long time. I’ve felt … old.”

“We say in French,
si la
jeunesse
est la plus
belle
des
fleurs
, la
vieillesse
est le plus
savoureux
des
fruits
.”

“Something about fruit?”

“If youth is the most beautiful of flowers, old age is the tastiest fruit. You are not old, Tilda, but when you are, you will be … a mango!”

Tilda could barely control her laughter. “I’m so glad I met you, Alain.”

“Let me think, do I know any single straight men?” Alain pretended to put on his thinking cap.

“That’s not necessary. While I don’t officially have a boyfriend … I did meet someone recently.”

“I knew it. He’s handsome, no?”

“Yes, very. His name is Patrick.”

“Patrick. I like this name. Tell me about
Patrick.
” He gave Patrick’s name a French flair.

Tilda found she wanted to talk about him. “He’s tall. Very tall. And kind of scruffy, but in a very sexy way. I don’t mean his clothes. They’re always immaculate. But he often has a three-day growth, and his hair has this messy wave in it.”

It was only at this point that Tilda remembered Patrick was also blind. It amazed her to think that she had this image of him, and was describing it, but that the blindness wasn’t part of that. Was it possible, for her to be with him and for the blindness to not be an issue? She didn’t know, but she wanted to find out.

“He sounds perfect.”

“He’s amazing, but there would be challenges as well,” Tilda said.

“There are with every relationship.”

“Patrick is blind.”

“In his eyes?”

“Yes.”

“In his heart?”

“Not at all.”

Alain gave a shrug, like it was no problem. “Then he’ll still see you.”

“You know, he does. He absolutely does.”

“Does he have a dog?”

“No, he uses a cane.”

“Then it’s all good.” Alain smiled cheekily. “I know I’m French, but I fucking hate dogs.”

*

The ride back to the hotel was even nicer. It was dark, so Paris was lit up like fairyland. Alain took a detour past the Eiffel Tower and it was just magic. Tilda was way more relaxed on the bike, and certainly happy to hold Alain tight. They were friends now.

They gave each other a huge hug outside Hotel Antoinette and he promised to come and visit her in London. And then, off he zipped into the night.

Tilda heard her phone ringing. She shuffled around her bag, but by the time she found her phone it had stopped. Three missed calls. One from Eva, one from Paige. And one from Patrick. She quickly called him back and he answered on the first ring.

“Tilda!”

“Hi, Patrick—I missed your call.”

“What a coincidence. I missed you.”

Tilda laughed. “I missed your call … and I missed you too.”

“You have? That’s good news. I didn’t want to be sad stalker Patrick.”

“Never.”

“So how’s Paris?”

Tilda looked up at the city around her. “Glorious. I can see Notre-Dame from where I’m standing.”

“Describe it for me.”

So Tilda did. And she walked the streets of Paris for the next two hours, taking Patrick on a tour.

*

The shop had been hectic all day, with last-minute Christmas arrangements. Tilda had enjoyed every minute of it. She felt like her designs were more interesting than anything she’d done in years. Certainly her customers were pleased. The only thing that marred her day was a call from Eva in Vienna, giving her some news about Paige, but she was yet to speak to her friend, whose phone was off.

Tilda closed for lunch and did all the deliveries that Debra would normally do. She texted Debra:
Happy Christmas Eve, my love. All good here. Enjoy wherever you are.
She also used the opportunity to call Selma. It was an emergency number, but Selma had assured her that she didn’t mind her using it. The phone rang and rang, but then just as Tilda was about to hang up, Selma answered, sounding out of breath.

“Sorry to bother you, Selma. It’s Tilda—”

More panting. “Yes, dear. Everything all right?”

“I’m not sure if this is an emergency, but I need some advice.”

Tilda could hear a muffled voice in the background and what sounded like a slap.

“Is this a bad time to call, Selma?”

“Not at all. I just finished with my personal trainer. Zumba! Nearly kills me.”

“Oh … I can call back.”

“Hell, no. I’m about to have a massage. Now’s good.”

Tilda decided to be quick. “I was in Paris and my nose came back.”

Selma didn’t sound at all surprised. “Paris will do that to you.”

“Then I was reading your book on the Eurostar and noticed that my foot is visible again. The hand and ear are still a little fuzzy, but the rest of me is as clear as day.”

“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

“Does it mean I’ll be cured?”

“It’s up to you.” There was a strange noise, and then Selma continued. “Come and see me in the new year. We’ll keep working on it. But it sounds like you’re well on your way.”

“Thank you, Selma. And merry Christmas.”

“I’m Jewish. But thanks anyway, dear.”

And with that, Selma hung up. Tilda glanced at her phone. She had the most glorious feeling of butterflies in her tummy. She had to get back to the shop, finish up the last of the Christmas orders, deliver them, and then she could close shop and meet Patrick. She’d have to explain to him that she couldn’t sing, but it was hardly a deal-breaker. Instead of feeling stressed, she felt grateful that life was so good.

*

“Patrick!”

Patrick’s face lit up when he heard Tilda’s voice. She ran up to him, and without thinking, gave him a kiss.

“Merry Christmas.”

“It’s merry now,” Patrick said. “Ready for some caroling?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Tilda said.

They walked through the backstreets of Muswell Hill together.

“What’s that you’re carrying?”

“It’s my viola.”

“Oh great, I’ll hear you play.” Then the moment of truth. “I’m not much of a singer, Patrick.”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

Tilda shook her head. He could be so silly, but she liked it. “Perhaps, but we’re going caroling tonight, not cooking.”

“I was going to ask you back to my place for dinner afterward.”

“Okay, I’d like that.”

“As long as you don’t make fun of my cooking skills.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “And I’ll try to not make fun of your singing.”

“I could just hum.”

“Or dance. Whatever makes you happy, Tilda.”

As it turned out, the caroling group was a large group of people from the neighborhood where Patrick’s grandmother lived. There were older people, parents and their kids, a few young couples. Everyone seemed to know Patrick and enthusiastically embraced Tilda into the group. It had been a local tradition for years to carol on the doorsteps of the elderly neighbors.

“Patrick!” a woman called across the crowd.

Patrick turned toward the voice. “That’s my sister, Misha.”

Misha moved through the crowd toward them. She was tall and attractive, like Patrick, and leading an elderly woman who was also blind and using a cane.

“You didn’t tell me I’d be meeting your family,” Tilda hissed.

“You’re not. Only Misha and my grandmother.” Then Patrick called out, “Gran, you’ve got to meet a friend of mine.”

Misha led her grandmother right up to Patrick. “Where’s my boy?” the older woman said.

Patrick reached out and gave his grandmother a hug. Then he took her hand and one of Tilda’s and placed them together. “Gran, this is Tilda.”

“The girl with the flower shop?”

Tilda was surprised Patrick had told his grandmother about her. “Yes, and I loved your orchids.”

“Then you’ll have to come and see where I keep them.” She gave Tilda a hug. “Call me Peg.”

“And I’m Misha.” Patrick’s sister shook her hand enthusiastically. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The group set up camp at the end of the quiet street. A few of the neighbors had made pots of gluhwein and everyone drank up. A number of people had brought instruments along.

They started with “Good King Wenceslas”. Patrick had a great voice, and Tilda loved watching him play the viola. He didn’t use sheet music, but then none of the musicians did. They just seemed to know how to jam together.