In the Interlude

Chapter 28 - Saturday Night Fever

The sun glistened on the Seine as Tom and Aïcha walked side by side along the Rive Gauche quays, south of the River. Keeping a reasonable distance between their shoulders, he was itching to touch her hand, to hold it with a tight, firm grip.

He wanted to break all the stupid rules he had set himself but he knew that was not reasonable. Although the chances of them being spotted together were very slim, he was determined not to have his affairs and relationships ever again plastered all over the internet. The last time had left an indelible mark on his reputation as a serious actor. All that everyone wanted to talk about was him and her; the rumours and the gossip lasting even longer than the relationship itself.

So instead, he put his hands firmly in his pockets, pulled his cap further down his head and looked around taking in the scenery.

It was early June and summer was already making promises outside.

Locals and tourists alike took to le Pont des Arts bridge adding to the weight of a thousand love padlocks, others sat under the shades of the trees enjoying a cigarette, a conversation or both. Groups of two, three or more sat by the river drinking beer or rosé, playing the guitar or simply watching the bateaux-mouche passing by, the relentless noise of cars fading in the background.

Tom welcomed this side of Paris. It allowed him to blend in the crowds and bask in its endless energy. 

Enjoying the lazy stroll, Aïcha listened to Tom telling her about some of his earlier memories in Paris from when he was still a nineteen-year-old Cambridge student, head full of dreams. She could picture a younger version of him, long and awkwardly lanky trying to find his place in the world, with reddish curls and a big smile only rivalled by a bigger appetite for life.

She smiled at the thought, her heart tightening in her chest. It was a long time since she had felt this peaceful. And she knew it wasn't just Paris that was having this effect on her.

Little by little, les Bouquinistes, the famous Parisian booksellers of used books and old magazines, posters and postcards, came into view in their open green boxes. Tom hurried his pace, animatedly explaining his excitement, "... it's the adventure and thrill of the hunt, the smell of old paper and leather, the joy of discovering stories that touched other people's lives before." He was like a little boy in a sweet shop, unable to help himself from touching every book he laid his eyes on.

"You are preaching to the choir. There is nothing like the feeling of being completely surrounded by books. I can easily lose a day in a bookstore."

"In this case, you'll love my place. There are books everywhere."

Aïcha stopped leafing through the book in her hand and looked at Tom, trying to read him instead. You will love my place, he said, his words ringing in her ears over and over. He was deeply engrossed in an old book of sorts, oblivious to the turmoil he just ignited with these five simple words.

She wondered if he meant that, or if it was just something he said. Was he really thinking of inviting me to his place in London? Do I wanna go to his place in London? And what about all the reasons why this sounds like a bad idea? But is it a bad idea? Slow down. He did not invite you. No need to put the bloody cart before the horse.

Snapping back to reality, she heard Tom discussing with the Bouquiniste and couldn't help but smile. There was nothing sexier than his accent. It confirmed that French was very much indeed the language of love. Approaching, she heard him give out the name of his hotel.

"Did you find something you like?"

"Yes, an earlier edition from the twenties in mint condition of Shakespeare's Much ado about nothing. I arranged for it to be dropped directly at the hotel."