Dark Heart Rising (3 page)

‘I am spending the day with my grandmother … I’m sorry.’

‘Oh. Just some breakfast?’

He sounded so plaintive. I shut my eyes.

‘I don’t know … my grandmother—’

‘Of course, I asked her first,’ he said. ‘She seemed only too delighted.’

I puffed out my cheeks not sure whether to be annoyed or not.

‘OK,’ I said at last. ‘Breakfast would be nice. But I need to get ready…’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I will make my way to your hotel and wait in the lobby.’

I pulled on my tights, a short grey skirt and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and began lacing up my boots, still trying to push away the horrible homesickness I was feeling. Soren was sweet, but I really didn’t feel like making conversation with a virtual stranger this morning. I wanted to lie around in my room and stare at the ceiling.

But, eventually, I made my way down to the lobby and found Soren, engrossed in a newspaper, sitting in one of the posh Chesterfield armchairs facing reception.

He lowered his paper at the sound of my heavy boots, regarding me carefully.

‘Good morning,’ he said. I had forgotten how dark his eyes were. His black hair was pushed off his face, and he wore a checked scarf and a battered leather jacket.

‘Morning.’ I was relieved to hear my voice back to its normal pitch. Not exactly full of the joys of spring, but not as depressed as I was feeling inside.

I buttoned up my denim jacket as Soren stood, and I realised that he was much taller than I remembered. He loomed over me.

‘Jane.’ He smiled. ‘A little English rose.’

I half snorted. ‘You make me sound like a delicate flower,’ I said, looking down at my boots self-consciously. ‘Which I’m not.’

Looking up again, I caught the amusement on Soren’s face. His mouth twitched before opening into a wide, handsome grin.

‘Well I know that now,’ he said deferentially, ‘if I didn’t before.’

‘Good.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Now, where are we going for breakfast?’

‘So, Jane.’ Soren tore a hunk off his croissant and spread a liberal amount of jam on to it. ‘What is waiting for you at home? You are continuing your studies?’ He put the croissant into his mouth, chewing while watching me.

‘I’m starting college in a few weeks. I am taking A-levels in English Lit, History and Art.’ I blew on my hot coffee. ‘But other than that, nothing much is waiting for me at home.’

I must have sounded a little too despondent because Soren’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. He threw his napkin neatly on his plate.

‘Do I detect a sad story?’ he said, looking serious. ‘A tale of a broken heart?’

He said it without pity, as though he was just a little bit interested, nothing more, and this made me more inclined to answer him truthfully.

‘Something like that,’ I began. ‘But it doesn’t matter any more.’

‘No?’ Soren seemed confused. ‘Perhaps you should tell your face this?’

He waited as I stared at him for a second before understanding, and shook my head with a small smile.

‘Guess I’m not very good at hiding my feelings,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Please. Don’t apologise.’ Soren leaned back in his seat. ‘If there is a subject I know very well, it is love.’ His eyes drifted absent-mindedly around him, as though recalling some sweet, sad memory of his own. ‘I too, am suffering in this way.’

For some reason, hearing this made me properly relax. Soren was only interested in being my friend. Friends I could deal with. Friends I needed.

I leaned forward, eager to concentrate on someone else’s troubles for a change. ‘Who was she?’ I said as gently as I could. ‘Is she French?’

‘
Non
.’ A wry smile crossed his face. ‘She is from far away. And now she is even further away, metaphorically speaking. She is in love with someone else.’

‘Oh.’ I struggled for the right words.

‘We have known each other since children,’ went on Soren. ‘I have cared for her for a long time … and I thought – I assumed – that we would always be together.’ He paused to take in a breath, and for a moment I thought I saw his eyes grow misty, but in a flash he had pulled himself together, adding only, ‘I was wrong.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Not long ago. Not long enough,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to keep myself busy with my studies. I even rented a studio. I hoped to spend all day, every day in there, shutting out the world, shutting her out …’

‘But you didn’t,’ I said.

‘No.’ Soren studied my face, before clearing his throat. ‘I was all ready to do that … But then I saw you.’

So I’d been wrong about the friends thing. hid irritation.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. You looked so at peace with your own company. So calm. I was drawn to you …’ He frowned. ‘I mean … I don’t wish to be unflattering … but in a platonic way. I felt as though we could be friends.’

I smiled again. ‘Well we can be. I need a friend,’ I said, firmly. ‘I certainly don’t need a boyfriend.’

‘Because your heart is still with him,’ said Soren. ‘Even though he betrayed you.’

I jerked slightly, taken aback by the accuracy of this statement.

‘How do you know he betrayed me?’ I said suspiciously.

Soren’s eyes widened. ‘Because all lovers betray each other. It is one of the few certainties in life.’ He stared hard at me, before dropping his eyes and reaching for his wallet from his coat.

‘Enough of this melancholy,’ he then said lightly. ‘I have taken the liberty of agreeing with your grandmother that we shall spend the day together … I would like to show you my studio.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, worrying that I had hardly spent enough time with Granny as it was.

‘Come on.’ Soren took my arm and gave it a little shake. ‘We both need to have some fun for a change. Forget about the broken hearts.’ He smiled impishly at me. ‘Agreed?’

I opened my mouth but found no good defence. Luca wasn’t coming back to me. I’d lost him for ever. There was nothing either of us could do this time.

I took a deep breath. ‘Agreed,’ I told Soren, linking my arm through his.

‘You see this one?’

Soren pointed to a canvas, an unfinished painting done in oils. I made out wavy hair, and a soft face in profile. Soren moved and stood beside me.

‘This one I am having trouble completing,’ he said, reaching out and pressing his fingertip into the canvas. Drawing his hand away, I saw a spot of rich blue. He sighed, and picked up a paint-spattered cloth from a nearby table and carefully wiped off the paint. ‘I just lose enthusiasm.’ He shook his head.

‘It’s good,’ I said, for want of something to say. I had no idea whether it was good or not, it was jagged and messy. Kind of like that guy Jackson Pollock’s art, but with people rather than paint splatters. I made a good show of looking with interest at the canvas.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Don’t pretend you like it.’ He sniffed. ‘You are not supposed to like it.’

‘Hmm.’ I stepped back and my eyes travelled around the room. There were several other canvases the same: messy and … angry.

‘Maybe this is therapeutic,’ I said awkwardly, ‘this kind of art.’

‘You think?’ Soren’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am just an angry young man with no talent at all!’

His tone startled me. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ I went on nervously. ‘Of course you’re talented.’ I moved away from him and towards a painting that caught my eye. This one had a pure black background and an imposing woman in a tight red dress. She had long hair pulled back in a single ponytail, draped over her shoulder. I frowned as I moved closer. She was beautiful, a little dangerous-looking. But something about her mouth was familiar. In fact a flutter went through my heart as I studied her face.

‘Who is this?’ I asked, more sharply than I wanted to. ‘This woman?’

Soren didn’t answer.

‘Soren?’ I turned, but he was staring out of the window. A large art deco window which looked down on a quiet Parisian mews. Eventually he looked back at me.

‘Just someone I used to know,’ he said calmly. ‘Nobody important.’

‘Oh …’ I glanced back at the painting. The woman’s eyes seemed to be staring right back at me. I shuddered.

‘I have always wanted this,’ Soren said quietly. ‘To study here, at the Sorbonne. And now that I am here, I realise I am not talented at all. I paint girls I used to know …’ He chewed his lip. ‘All in an effort not to paint the one girl I love.’

Soren seemed to shrink then, become more vulnerable. It was corny but I felt his pain. I too was trying to think of anything, anyone else but the boy I loved. It wasn’t working out too well for me either.

‘Hey,’ I said, giving him the brightest smile I could muster, ‘I thought I was the Debbie Downer round here. Weren’t you supposed to be cheering me up?’

Though his eyes were still sad, Soren’s lips twitched.

‘Misery likes company,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

‘Soren.’ I sighed. ‘Let’s make a pact. Here and now.’

He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘No more broken hearts.’ I gestured at his paintings. ‘You’ve been in a bad place. No wonder your paintings are … reflecting that. It will pass. Feelings pass.’ I stared hard at him, hoping to convince myself of this as much as him. ‘We can move on.’

Soren looked blank; except for the furrowed brow, his eyes were trained, unblinking on me. Then he started to relax and I saw the tension evaporate.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘This is your last day, and I have acted like the’ – he stopped, searching for the rest of the sentence – ‘like an asshole.’ He smiled. ‘Let me take you to my favourite bar … It is near here, on the Left Bank. It is charming. Very traditional – no tourists.’

I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘And we won’t talk about sad stuff?’

‘Absolutely not. No sad stuff.’ Soren looked me up and down. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough in that little jacket?’ he said. ‘Here, borrow mine.’ He unzipped his leather jacket and held it out to me.

‘I think I could live in Paris.’ I looked around at the cosy interior of the tiny restaurant, hidden down an alley near the left bank. The place was full of old men, huddled over beer and wine, and the walls, painted rich reds and pinks, were covered in old posters of Parisian icons, tube stations – or Metro stations. Jazz played quietly in the background and a white-apronned waitress flitted skilfully between tables, taking orders and carrying tray-loads of food with just one hand. I sighed, properly contented, and wriggled out of my denim jacket.

‘You like it?’ Soren grinned. ‘This is my favourite place. I came across it, quite by accident, when I first arrived. ‘It is a little secret. It is the kind of place you can sit for hours on your own with just a glass of wine and some saucisson.’

At the mention of saucisson I realised I was starving again.

‘I’ll have the lamb cutlets,’ I said. ‘And a glass of mint tea.’

Soren grimaced. ‘I forgot, you English. You can’t go anywhere without your tea.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I will have a beer, I think. I am not hungry.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘But you eat. Please. It will make me happy.’

‘Really?’ I frowned.

‘You need a good meal. You are thin.’ He sat back regarding me as I took a piece of bread.

‘I’m not thin,’ I said, reaching for the butter. ‘But I’m starving.’

Soren beckoned to the waitress and ordered, then turned to the mirror at his side and smoothed his hair back off his face.

He was vain. Not that I blamed him, with a face like that. I waited, amused, until he’d finished his inspection and turned his attention back to me.

‘So, Jane. I’m thinking,’ he said, clasping his hands together. ‘On your last day here in Paris, we must celebrate.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘A glass of champagne … just one.’

I picked up the wine list. ‘Eighteen Euros?’ I wedged it back between the breadbasket and the salt mill. ‘It’s too much.’

‘No, no, no.’ Soren shook his head in a melodramatic, slow fashion. ‘Don’t worry about the money. It is my gift to you.’

‘Really,’ I protested. ‘The tea is enough—’

‘Ridiculous.’ He slapped a palm on the table. ‘Just one glass of champagne. Don’t you think you deserve a treat, after—’

‘Soren,’ I warned, ‘we said no sad stuff.’

‘Exactly.’ He smiled triumphantly as the waitress bought over my tea. As she put it down in front of me, Soren waved a hand dismissively at it. ‘This. This is sad.’

I flared my nostrils, staring at the tiny pot. ‘Well … maybe you have a point. OK.’ I set my shoulders. ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne. Thank you.’

‘Thank
you
.’ He caught the waitress’s eye. ‘Two glasses of the Dom Perignon,’ he said delightedly.

I glanced at the big clock above the doorway to the restaurant. Half past four. I touched my forehead, feeling hot and a little woozy. In front of me, Soren’s eyes were sleepy, too. A lock of his black hair fell on to his face and he looked in a dreamlike state. The place had emptied out; deserted tables with napkins and half-finished glasses of red wine left behind. The waitress moved about with her tray, picking up the debris. As she passed our table she gave me a small secretive smile and disappeared back into the kitchen.