Page 2 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
While Chloe’s mother’s reaction to last year’s disaster had mostly been embarrassment, and deep, frequently voiced annoyance at the inconvenience of it all, Aunt Daisy had swooped in and offered her heartbroken goddaughter a job in Paris. And, as if by magic, she’d also found her a tiny fifth-floor apartment in the 11thArrondissement, just across the cemetery from the flower shop. Its owner, a regular client of Aunt Daisy’s, was heading to the US for a while, and had been looking to sublet to someone who would also care for the cat.Le chat. Patapouf.
‘Voilà,’ announced Aunt Daisy, tying an orange ribbon around her exuberant creation. The colour palette was eye-watering, but somehow she’d made it work. Beautifully.
‘Pour vous, ma cherie,’ she said, handing over the bouquet. ‘I remember how it feels to have your heart broken.’ Her own eyes glinted with sudden tears, and she turned away. ‘Me too. But tomorrow is a new day. Forgive me,je plongeinto cliché.’ She faced Chloe again. ‘Off you go, my pet.Au revoir, see youlundi.’
Choked, Chloe could only nod. She wondered who’d broken Aunt Daisy’s heart. She’d known nothing about that until now.
She sniffed. ‘Thank you. You’re so kind.’ She gave her a watery smile. ‘Trèsgentil.’
‘Be off with you.Allez!’
Chloe hooked her little backpack over her shoulder and, clutching the bouquet, headed out the door. Aunt Daisy followed, and set about taking in the rest of the flowers.
‘Je t’aime, Tante Daisy!’ called Chloe, turning briefly as she headed across the road. Aunt Daisy blew her a kiss.
The heady scent of the flowers formed a fragrant cloud around Chloe, as if trying to displace the bubble of miseryin which she’d been suspended today. The warm sun on her back lifted her mood a little more. It was a balmy September evening, and although sunset wasn’t until around seven thirty, the cemetery would be closing at six. That usually gave her just enough time to walk from one side to the other on her way home, but today she could take it more slowly.
As she passed through the gates, most visitors were coming in the opposite direction. Nobody wanted to get locked in here overnight. She checked her phone: five fifteen.
She’s on her way. The girl with the sad eyes and dark hair in a messy ponytail. Plain blue shirt, jumper tied round her waist, jeans, trainers, and a bunch of sunflowers. You’ll need to slow her down by a few minutes. Got that?
A breeze blew loose strands of hair across Chloe’s face, and she paused, reaching behind her head to pull out the elastic band that had slid down her ponytail. Aunt Daisy was forever niggling her about using the shop’s elastic bands to tie up her hair. Not very Parisian. Chloe should probably be absorbing French chic, as well as words. But since last year she hadn’t had the energy to care about her hair, her clothes … any of it. As long as she looked reasonably neat – it was enough. She didn’t want toattract. For the time being, she preferred to remain invisible.
Chloe redid her ponytail and carried on. She had an inkling Aunt Daisy was about to ramp up her campaign to inject some joy back into Chloe’s life. That she’d soon apply increasing pressure to get out more, make new friends. She’d started to drop the odd comment about how lovely Chloe would look in that dress, or how her long, dark curls would suit hercommeça. How a touch ofrouge à lèvreswould brighten her smile, a littlemaquillagewould open up herbeaux yeux.
Her spirits rose some more as she entered the green space of the cemetery. She adored this place. It was like a giant, wild garden; a natural haven in the centre of the city. All this life among the death. Row upon row of trees lined the cobbled pathways, forming canopies above the tombs and mausoleums, and wild flowers, mosses and lichens ran rampant over the older graves. Chloe had studied horticulture at uni and loved to identify the plants that thrived here.
And then there were the cats. She’d got to know some of them, had given them names. Not particularly creative ones, more for identification purposes: One Ear, Big Ginge, White Paws, Stump Tail.
Chloe knew they were technically pests, a threat to the birds that were increasing in number now those cats were being controlled (with limited success, it would seem), but to her they were part of the cemetery’s heart. Furballs of life in a place of death.
‘Bonsoir!’ called the cemetery security guy, who Chloe knew by sight.
She waved.No, please don’t come over.Not in the mood. Not even close to being in the mood.
But over he came. ‘Mademoiselle Anglaise! ‘Ow ’as your Sunday been doing?Bon?’
She swallowed a smile. The damn French and their accent. How were you supposed to maintain a frosty persona when they sounded like that?
‘Très bien, merci.’
He was about her age – late twenties – North African, probably. Big, like a bear, with striking hazel eyes and a lovely smile that lit up his face. She saw him three, maybe four evenings a week, as he manned the gates at closing time and scouted his patch for disorientated visitors. They’d got talking on one occasion (talking as in understanding perhaps half of what the other had said), when he’d been on duty near Jim Morrison’s grave. It was the only one that was guarded, against tourists with spray cans, drugs, bottles of gin … condoms.
‘Ew!’ she’d said, when he pointed one of those out with a grimace.
‘What is ze Engleesh for peoples who are ver’ strange?’ he’d said.
‘Weirdos.’
‘Beaucoup de weirdos ici.’ He’d waved a hand towards the detritus scattered around the site.
‘You havefleurs– zey are beautiful,’ he said now, turning those amber eyes on her bouquet. ‘From yourpetit ami?’
For a moment she thought he meant Aunt Daisy, who was indeed petite. But then she remembered –petit amiwas French for boyfriend.
‘Non. I work inle floriste,over there,’ she said, pointing. ‘Perk of the job.’
‘What is zis “perque”?’
