‘What was it then?’
‘I – I…’ He drops his gaze to the floor. ‘I felt instinctively I could very easily fall for someone like you. And then you asked if what you wrote wasn’t literary enough and glared at me so forcefully, I felt it was best to keep my trap shut for my own safety.’
‘Post-divorce me is a terrifying thing.’ He could easily fall for someonelikeme? Still, while it’s vague, I feel a small thrill at his confession. When I met him outside that very first day, I felt a pull to him until an alert went off in my mind, warning me to be on guard because I couldn’t suffer another upset like the one before; and men, who could trust a word they said? It was heartbreak driving the engine. Noah isn’t like that. Is he?
‘After that encounter, I had to know what you wrote. I bumped into Manon the next day at Marché Biologique Raspail and she mentioned you were the romance writer Anais De la Croix. Truthfully, I was confused. How could you be so funny on the page and so irate in real life?’
‘Here we go again.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Tell me more.’
‘I don’t dare.’
I laugh. Poor Noah. I did lash out and put him in the same category as Francois-Xavier, which was unfair and unwarranted. ‘When I met you that first time and you berated me about the mess of the broken sign, I knew you were main-character material. I wrote you as my hero many times, but sadly you suffered tragic ends. Once you were even wrapped in Christmas lights and rolled into the Seine.’ Main-character material? Why am I suddenly talking so openly with him? There’s something about Noah that makes me want to share. To be truthful.
‘Wow. I hope I was dead before I hit the water.’
I shake my head. ‘Non.You were not.’
‘Brutal. And now… am I still suffering horrifying ends?’
‘I’m up to Chapter Twelve and you’ve made it this far, but there’s a big conflict coming and, between us, I’m concerned for you.’
‘I hope I make it.’
‘For your sake, me too.’
‘Shall we go to another Christmas market? I feel like we need to check them all out,’ he asks. ‘I could use avin chaud, and you can tell me what hero Noah is up against.’
The market is a hive of activity with stall owners serving long queues of people. Children tug on parents’ sleeves and point tothe puppet show. A live band plays jaunty music. The scent of garlic is heavy in the frigid air.
‘Ooh, escargot,’ I say, pointing to a pan of delicate little garlicky snails.
Noah screws up his nose.
‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Have you actually tried them?’ Escargots are a delicacy in France and, if you can separate the fact they’re snails, you’ll enjoy a buttery garlicky taste explosion.
‘Non,and I will not.’ Serious-faced Noah is back, standing ramrod straight as if ready for flight, like I’m going to force-feed him snails or something.
‘You’re missing out, Noah. Really.’
He shudders. ‘I’ll take your word for it, but isn’t Christmas at the Paris markets all about the potatoes?’
I laugh and lace an arm through his as we wander slowly around. ‘Oui, markets like these were originally a German tradition, which then spread to Paris. Now we get the best of both worlds, German and French food.’
At a stall with a smaller line, Noah orders a plate ofTartiflette, which is similar to a potato bake but elevated by the use of reblochon cheese and salty crispy lardons. From the stall next door I orderChoucroute, an Alsatian dish, and am given a plate heaped with sausages, meat, sauerkraut and boiled potatoes.
We find a table. ‘Vin chaud?’ Noah asks with a smile.
He soon returns with two aromatic glasses of mulled wine.
‘Sit here,’ I say and pat the bench seat next to me, ‘so we can share our food.’
We eat in companionable silence, delighting in the rich dishes, as part of me wishes Christmas lasted all year.
‘Try this,’ Noah says, lifting a fork with cheesy potato goodness to my mouth. ‘Good, isn’t it?’
He’s a whisper away from me, and it’s all I can do tothinkas the man feeds me and takes great care doing it, as though his only concern is my enjoyment. What is this? I’m not used to a man who is so kind and considerate. Eventually, I manage, ‘Oui, it’s delicious. Try mine.’ I don’t go so far as to feed the man from my fork because my pulse is racing, and it feels so intimate. My thoughts turn to mush as his leg brushes against mine. I’d forgotten what this felt like, being fuzzy with the hopes of what might be.
I close my eyes, willing myself to get back on track. Make a joke about snails again; something, anything. Noah surveys me as if the mild panic I feel is evident on my face.
