A Place for Us by Harriet Evans Read Free Book Online

floor seemed to be rising up, his eyes unbearably heavy. Something was pressing down on his head, and as he sank down he saw her face, shaken out of its calm, her mouth open in a small O, before everything, slowly, went black.

Cat
    A LWAYS LATE. A LWAYS needing to be somewhere else. Cat hurried out of the Marché, past the endless cyclamen in gaudy reds, the knotty geraniums with their fading flowers, the bushes with zesty, citrus-colored berries. Working at the flower market you were always aware of the changing seasons: every year she dreaded the arrival of winter, standing outside all day and slowly freezing to death. But in the first week of September it was still summer; the tourists were still jamming the tiny streets of the Île de la Cité, moving so slowly they might be zombies, heads down, eyes fixed on their phones.
    Cat strode across the slim pedestrian bridge at the foot of Notre-Dame, weaving her way in and out of the crowds. The usual troupe of jazz musicians on the bridge was playing a wistful, lilting version of “There’s a Small Hotel.” She slowed down for a split second. It was one of Gran’s favorite songs. She’d sing it in the evenings, wandering round the kitchen, mug of tea in hand. Gran was always singing.
    “Hello, English girl!” one of the musicians called as she hurried past them. Cat rolled her eyes. All these years here and English girl ,when her French was probably better than theirs. But in Paris you were Parisian, you were French, not that you went around yelling about it, that would be so very, very outré , but there were certain things, a particular finesse, an attitude to life . . . Cat consoled herself with the knowledge that she passed for French these days. She was slim, French-girl slim, not through effort: she just didn’t eat very much. Her dark gray eyes were partly hidden by her treacly brown-black mane of hair. She was wearing the only expensive thing she owned, a pair of glossy red Lanvin ballet flats, which Olivier had bought her, back when things were still good between them.She had tried to sell them on eBay a few months ago; she’d finally got so desperate she had to have the money, and it was ridiculous to have shoes worth £300 when she couldn’t afford a sandwich at lunch. But there was an olive oil stain on one shoe, a remnant of a Luke-based accident, and the buyer had rejected them when Cat, eternally honest, had pointed this out. She was glad, for they were beautiful: a glossy coral red, they made her happy in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Like all fashionistas, even lapsed ones, Cat despised the handbag culture, the stamping of labels on everything: Look, my sunglasses say GUCCI in huge letters, therefore I must have money. But looking down at these beautiful red shoes always made her smile, even if it was a particularly bad day and the smile merely a tiny one. It surprised—and cheered—her, to discover this capacity for pleasure still existed within her. She thought it must have been entirely stamped out.
    Cat strode quickly along the main street of the Île Saint-Louis, her rangy frame weaving nimbly around the shuffling crowds gaping in at the windows of the boulangerie , the fromagerie . She could see them queuing up for Berthillon, the old-fashioned glacier with its gleaming marble tabletops. Cat loved Berthillon, she knew it was hopelessly touristy to do so, but sometimes when she was in particular need of a treat, when the fog settled over the two little islands and the bleakness of her situation seemed particularly acute, she would wish more than anything that she could just run over the bridge at lunchtime and order a tiny cup of molten black chocolate, served with yellow cream in a smooth little silver jug. But finances didn’t stretch to that, hadn’t for over a year now since Olivier’s money stopped altogether.
    She popped into the convenience shop around the corner from the apartment, to buy vermouth. It was eye-wateringly