Page 36 of The Fall-Out

It was going to have to stop, I told myself. This weekend would be safe – Zara and our other friends would be there. Nothing could happen between us, even if Patch wanted it to. Did I want it to? Not at the expense of hurting Zara and destroying our friendship, that was for sure. And as for what Patch wanted – it was impossible to imagine him wanting to put his relationship with Zara in jeopardy for me of all people.

What I felt for him was just a crush. A stupid teenage thing based on nothing but a few minutes in a bathroom and another few at a bar, and magnified through the twin lenses of secrecy and distance. Now I had the opportunity not only to see Zara, but also to put the whole thing into perspective and knock it on the head once and for all.

So why did that prospect make me feel bereft?

My gloomy musings were banished from my mind the second Patch arrived at the apartment we’d rented in Montmartre. It was tiny – the room that had been destined for Andy had only a single bed, pressed tightly against one wall – but the ceilings were high and the walls painted a sunny yellow. On the walk there, I’d already found myself falling in love with the city: the graceful tree-lined boulevards, the wrought-iron pavement tables where people chatted over glasses of red wine, the first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower on the horizon.

It was enchanting – but even Paris paled in comparison with Patch. As soon as I heard the rattle of the door and his footsteps on the wooden floor, it felt like the whole atmosphere of the place changed, as if the heating had been turned up a notch or music had started playing or some exotic scent had filled the air.

But it was only him. Calling out a greeting, apologising for being late, hugging and kissing us all (including Matt – I loved how unrestrained Patch was in his displays of affection), depositing a supermarket carrier bag bulging with wine and cheese on the kitchen table.

I hung back, longing for his embrace but also wary, conscious of Rowan’s watchful eyes and my own emotions, kept so precariously in check.

‘Naomi.’ He hugged me and I allowed my cheek to rest for a second against the sleeve of his woollen coat, feeling the fabric scratch my skin and the hardness of his bicep beneath it. ‘How are you, sweetheart? First time in Paris?’

‘I think I came here on a school trip ages ago, but I can barely remember it. It’s beautiful.’

‘We should sightsee properly tomorrow,’ Abbie said. ‘Go to the Louvre, see Jim Morrison’s grave?—’

‘Take lots of photos to send to Andy,’ Kate went on.

‘Get Zara to show us the good shops,’ added Rowan. ‘I’m sure it’s all changed since I lived here.’

‘What’s the plan tonight, anyway?’ Matt asked. ‘Does she know you’re here?’

Patch nodded, smiling easily. ‘She’s booked a table at a bistro near her flat. I had to ring them and tell them there’d be seven of us, not two, and it was a surprise. Which was kind of tricky, given my non-existent French. Anyway, we’re meeting there at eight; I’ll go back to her place afterwards.’

Abbie glanced at her watch. ‘That gives us two hours. I’m dying for a shower – why don’t we get ready, then head out and explore a bit and have a drink somewhere?’

So I hurried to the bathroom I shared with Rowan, determined to make myself look as beautiful as I possibly could, but painfully conscious that it would be nowhere near as beautiful as Zara looked without even breaking a sweat.

By ten that evening, we were all seated at a long, paper-covered table in the restaurant, surrounded by the remains of steak-frites, mussel shells, baskets of bread and almost-empty bottles of red wine. Zara had reacted with amazed delight to our surprise. The food had been delicious. Crème brûlée and brandies had been ordered. Patch was safely on the opposite side of the table to me, down the other end next to Zara, and I was allowing myself to enjoy his company at a distance, the intensity of my feelings mellowed by wine and the company of my friends.

We were all pleasantly tipsy – except for Zara. As soon as we sat down, she’d ordered a kir royale and then another, then drunk wine at what seemed like twice the pace of the rest of us, barely touching her food. Paris seemed to have changed her – or maybe not so much changed her as intensified her, distilled the essence that made her Zara. She’d lost weight; her legs in her black leather trousers were model-thin and the bones of her wrists clearly visible where the draped sleeves of her silk blouse ended. Her hair was cut more sharply than ever, her eyeliner more heavily applied, her lips stained now with red wine as well as her dark lipstick.

There was something about her – there always had been – that made you just want to gaze and gaze at her. She wasn’t conventionally pretty like Rowan, but she had something – glamour, magnetism, charisma; I didn’t know the word for it and I didn’t want to know, because whatever it was, it was part of what must make her irresistible to Patch. And that night, I could hardly bear to look at her, partly because of how her beauty made me feel – small, nondescript, shabby – and partly because looking at her meant looking at Patch, and every time I did that he would look back at me, as if he somehow knew, and I’d feel a twist of pain deep inside me that even the wine and laughter couldn’t muffle.

‘I’m going out for a fag.’ Now I had to look, because Zara was standing up, swaying slightly in her high-heeled boots and steadying herself on the table before making her way to the door.

She passed me on her way and I felt her hand brush my shoulder.

‘Come out with me, Naomi.’

I didn’t smoke – I never had. But it was a summons I couldn’t ignore. Abandoning my untouched dessert, I got up, shrugging my arms into my coat, and followed her outside. Apparently impervious to the cold, she was leaning against the stone wall of the restaurant, one ankle crossed over the other, her cigarette lighter illuminating the sharp planes and angles of her face.

‘It’s so amazing to see you,’ I said. ‘Are you having a good time?’

‘The best.’ Smiling, she blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘I can’t believe you all came here just to visit me. And see Paris, of course.’

‘Yeah, it’s all about Paris really,’ I joked. ‘You just happened to be here.’

She laughed. ‘The truth comes out. Tell me, are you seeing much of Patch in London?’

Her normally clear voice was a bit slurry and I realised she was even drunker than I’d thought.

‘Not really. I mean, he’s up in Scotland most of the time, and when he comes down he gets together with the guys, but I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.’

Apart from those text messages. My phone was in my bag, back in the restaurant, but I felt as if it might be sending out a hidden signal, telling Zara the truth about what was stored in its memory.

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