Page 25 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
‘Anyone else you want to visit first?’ She meant the question as a joke, but a part of her hoped he might say yes. She wasn’t yet ready to call time on their brief encounter. ‘Isadora Duncan? Balzac?’
‘Ballsack?’
Chloe spluttered with laughter. ‘Tsk. Or Marcel Proust? Another great writer.’
‘I’ve heard of him. What did he write?’
‘Remembrance of Things Past. I haven’t read it; I just know he’s buried here because it’s on my route home.’
‘Your commute certainly beats the Sheffield ring road.’
‘Yes, but it’s never taken mequitethis long before.’
‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he said. ‘That meal in a restaurant, maybe. It can’t be later than eight thirty, nine o’clock? And they eat late here?’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Okay, I guess Iwouldlook a bit dodgy with a girl chained to my wrist. If we can get ourselves freed first, then?’
‘I’m not sure vomit-splattered trainers and matching bag meet Parisian dress standards,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘And howdowe get this off?’ She peered down at the padlock, a super-sturdy gold-coloured thing with a tiny keyhole.
‘Search me.’
She pictured them trying to explain their situation to a gendarme, if they even found one.
He grinned. ‘What’s French forNot bondage gone wrong, just a stag do?’
‘I’m sure they’ll give a Gallic shrug and cut us free,’ she said, ‘and it’ll confirm their view that the English are all kinky.’
They set off, Joel lighting their path with the torch.
‘Proust’s over there,’ she said, pointing vaguely. ‘He too was gay. And denied it. Lived a lie.’ She looked sideways at Joel.
‘I’m done with the tomb visits,’ he said, either oblivious to her implication or purposely and annoyingly ignoring it. ‘To be honest, I’m starting to feel depressed by all these graves. It’s like they’re reminding me how short our time on Earth is and judging me for not making the most of it.’
‘Oscar’s wholeliving life, not just existingthing?’
‘Yup.’
They went quiet. She looked over at him again. His shoulders were hunched and his gaze was fixed on the cobbles in front of him. Even in the darkness she could see the furrows in his brow.
He was brooding. She mentally applauded their dead audience for forcing him to think before plunging into a fake life.
‘What’s your favourite movie?’ he said abruptly, taking her by surprise.
‘What? Why?’ No way had he been thinking about movies.
‘It’s just … let’s talk about something that won’t depress us.’
She laughed. ‘Okay. Do I have to be honest, or do I need to impress you?’
‘I’m already impressed, so you can tell me the truth.’
‘Love Actually, then. I know, I know,’ she said, as he pulled a face. ‘But it’s so feel-good. Except for the part where Alan Rickman buys the office slag a necklace and makes Emma Thompson cry. Ihatethat part.’
‘But he resists in the end,’ said Joel.
‘True. Would you have?’
