We present an extract from Last Chance in Paris, the new novel by Lynda Marron.
When her husband suggests a romantic break, Claire feels obliged to say yes but immediately regrets it. After all that they've been through, how can one weekend in Paris save their marriage? Claire and Ronan aren't the only people on a make-or-break visit to the City of Love. There is a big-shot movie producer from Hollywood, full of regret for a life ill lived; a student from Boston, torn between love and duty; a Ukrainian refugee struggling to protect her little sister; and an old woman from Dijon, hoping to be braver than she has ever had to be before. When their lives briefly intertwine, something extraordinary happens...
In the Air
Only an idiot would travel without a book. Only a fool, thought Claire, would prioritise clean knickers and kitten heels ahead of reading material in The Great 10kg Baggage Challenge. And yet, here she was, flipping from the front to the back of the flight safety card. It didn't even have words, only line drawings of people calmly flinging themselves out of planes.
A woman standing in the aisle tugged theatrically on an oxygen mask, its disconnected tubing dangling loose at her hip.
'If you are travelling with a child, secure your own mask first,’ she said. ‘Breathe normally.’
Watching from 6A, the window seat, Claire wondered how many parents obeyed that rule. When it came to it, when the plane was falling out of the sky, when alarms were ringing and hearts exploding, how many parents put on their own mask first? And did putting on their own mask first make them a better parent or a worse one?
‘In the event of an emergency, assume the brace position.’
The flight attendant was old school: sensible court shoes, lacquered chignon, make-up guaranteed to survive a sea landing. Her name was Imelda, according to the name tag on her Kenmare green lapel. Imelda was not, Claire thought, a woman who would welcome philosophical questions from her audience.
‘Crew, arm doors and cross check.’
Claire turned away. Leaning her forehead against the aeroplane window, she stared into a film of light mist. A persistent boing boing sounded. Her stomach was drawn downwards as Aer Lingus flight EI822 Cork to Paris, with an unnerving shudder, powered up and up, and broke through to a lucid blue sky. With her lips pressed closed, Claire inhaled
through her nose for a count of four, held the breath for a count of seven, then let it all out in a whoosh. As far as she could tell, the exercise did nothing at all to quell the jittery feelings rising inside her. She tried again.
It wasn’t, to be honest, that Claire wasn’t excited about a weekend in Paris. It was just that she hadn’t really wanted to go anywhere. For weeks, she’d been ducking even the thought of their fifth wedding anniversary. She’d hoped for an escape route – the funeral of a distantly related centenarian would have been ideal – and then she felt guilty and ungrateful, and all the time she felt undeniably sad.
* * *
‘We deserve this,’ Ronan had said, the previous Sunday, when he handed her the printed-out tickets. ‘We haven’t had a break since . . .’ He looked down at his cornflakes and carried on, ‘for ages.’
Claire ignored his hesitation.
‘But these are for next Friday. I mean, that’s mad.’
‘Claire, we need this.’
She was so tired. That was the only thought in her head, but she couldn’t say it out loud, not again. He would run out of patience one of these times. Honesty, as a policy, got boring.
She bit her bottom lip and looked up to the ceiling, as if that old trick ever made tears flow backwards. He was probably right: they did need something, some sort of jolt to get them back on track. It would be more dangerous not to do it.
She nodded, raised a watery smile and kissed his cheek.
‘Thank you.’
‘I tried to get flights to Casablanca, but it was impossible.’
Thank God for that, she thought. They’d spent their honeymoon in Morocco.
‘You were good to try,’ she said, holding in her relief.
‘Anyway, you always said you wanted to see Paris in September.’
She let her breath out in a laugh. ‘I think I said springtime.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m sure Paris will be lovely in September, too.’
‘Worth a try anyway?’ He raised an eyebrow.
She smiled and nodded. ‘If you insist.’
Claire had pushed her anxiety into its box and made a deliberate decision to enjoy the weekend. She thought it was possible, if she put her heart into it, that they could hit the reset button in Paris. She would, if she could, make it work – make it good – for Ronan’s sake.
The next day, Monday, she made a deal with Sam, the most easy-going of her colleagues at the City Library. He agreed to swap holidays with her – ‘pas de problemo, sweetheart’ – just as long as she promised to have loads of sex and bring him back an Hermès scarf. She bought him lunch and promised a fridge magnet.
On Tuesday, she stood on the arm of the sofa and pulled down her old green Michelin guide to Paris. She re-read the whole thing and attached sticky tabs to the sections headed ‘Montmartre’, ‘The Quays’, ‘The Luxembourg Quarter’ and ‘The Orsay Museum’.
At lunchtime on Wednesday, she sprinted to Marks and Spencer. She walked around the lingerie department for ten minutes carrying a black balcony bra and matching knickers but swapped them at the last minute for a pinkish-nude, cotton-rich duo that promised comfort all day long. Wednesday night, she sat up late reading Anaïs Nin’s Henry and June.
At lunchtime on Thursday, she sprinted to Marks and Spencer and bought the black balcony bra, the matching knickers, a skimpy pink nightdress and a five-pack of boxers for Ronan.
* * *
Ronan nudged her elbow.
‘Hey, do you want a coffee?’
Claire focused on the approaching blonde chignon, which was, presumably, followed closely by Imelda’s face and a trolley. Make it good, she told herself, again.
‘We could go mad and have champagne?’
Ronan’s eyes shone.
‘An excellent notion, madame. Start as we mean to go on. Would that pair well with an Aer Lingus cheese toastie, do you think?’ He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and cheerfully ordered two toasties and two mini bottles of champagne.
‘Celebrating?’ enquired Imelda as she passed them two paper cups.
‘Yes,’ said Ronan brightly.
‘Ah no,’ said Claire at the exact same moment.
Imelda held Claire’s eye for a full second, gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Well sure, enjoy it anyway,’ she said, pulling her trolley away with her.
‘Cheers!’ said Claire too brightly. She raised her cup. ‘Happy Anniversary.’
‘Cheers, love,’ answered Ronan.
Last Chance in Paris by Lynda Marron is published by Eriu, and available in all bookshops now.
