Page 80 of Counting Down To You

It’s totally ridiculous. We can’t go to Paris for dinner. Then again…This is a reminder from Robyn, not to take things for granted. To do things while you still can.

I can’t quite believe it, but somehow, I’m nodding. “Okay. Let’s go to Paris.”

—

We make it to Paris by 6 p.m., and jump straight into a taxi to the Eiffel Tower. I only have a small overnight bag, packed in slightly manic haste, and Leo booked a hotel on his phone as we traveled, with no question this time as to whether we would get one room or two. He was a bit quiet on the plane, staring out of the window in thoughtful silence, but when I asked him about it, he said he was just tired. To be fair, we didn’t get much sleep last night. And now we’re in fucking Paris, of all places.

I check my phone as we drive and see two messages. The first is from Lucie.

I can’t believe your boyfriend took you to PARIS. I’m sobbing with jealousy right now.

The second is from Stuart.

Ali, this is Burgers. How are we looking for New Year? I’ve got the route planned, so let me know when you want to go through it ahead of time.

Which reminds me, I haven’t actually asked Leo about taking New Year’s Day off, have I? I think we’ll get the numbers okay—I’ve got leaflets at reception and have added it to the list of possible activities in the rooms. The guests I’ve spoken to already seem interested, and there are new arrivals today. The summer months are where he’ll take most of the income, but it would be nice if I could help him tick on over winter. And now I’m thinking of his suggestion. That I stay on after I wrap up at the hotel, keep helping him with the hikes. It’s a silly idea. Right? I can’t just up and leave London without proper planning. Not for the long term.

“What you thinking?” Leo asks, and I realize I’m still turning my phone over, staring into space.

I glance at him. “Stuart—Burgers—wants me to help with the New Year’s hike. Sort of as a backup guide. I don’t know if I’ll be needed at the hotel, though?”

“Do you want to do the hike?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then you should definitely do it. We can work the shifts out easy enough.”

I smile. “That easy, huh?”

He smiles back at me. “Maybe I’m hoping that if you find something you love doing, you might stick around a bit longer.”

My heart does a sort of painful jump in my chest. Leo would be happy, if you stayed. And here he is, practically admitting that outright. It shouldn’t be a reason to contemplate it. There are bigger, more important things to consider. Like money. And my flat. And being far away from my mum, after she’s already been abandoned by one child. But the problem is, when I think about staying, about the fact that Leo might want me to stay, like he might want something more than a casual fling, my heart fills with something like…hope.

I look out of the window as we drive farther into the city. I catch glimpses of Christmas lights, Christmas displays in shop windows, a square with an enormous tree, decorated in white lights, surrounded by streetlamps. I already wish I could be here for longer, to walk the streets and eat crêpes under the lights.

And there it is. The Eiffel Tower, lit up in gold against the clear night sky. I crane my neck to look up at it, unable to believe that I’m really here. It’s so tall. Which sounds ridiculous. Obviously I knew it was tall, but seeing it in person is something else. It’s a different kind of beauty to the mountains, but it has that same effect on me, making me feel small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It’s weirdly comforting.

We thank the taxi driver and get out of the car into the cold. As Leo already bought tickets online—insisting on paying for both of us—we skip the ticket queue and head through security. Even though it’s evening it’s still buzzing, chatter swelling around us, queues stretching out in front of us. There is a Christmas market in the shadow of the tower—one to visit later, maybe?—and down on the River Seine, I can see gold lights reflected in the water. I keep returning to one main thought, though, as I look up: it’s really bloody high.

“Still want to take the stairs?” Leo asks, as if he’s reading my mind.

I glance up again. You can’t see the top from where we’re standing, but I can feel its presence somehow. The lift would be a hell of a lot easier. But Robyn’s challenge had said climb, specifically.

I square my shoulders. “Yes. Let’s do the stairs.”

Leo rubs a hand over his chest absentmindedly as he nods. It’s where his scar is, I realize. Does it still hurt him? He said he’d tell me later, but at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up again.

It takes us around forty-five minutes to reach the second floor, and that’s with stopping for regular breaks. Leo has got to be fitter than me, what with all the skiing he does, but he is out of breath too, which makes me feel better about the whole thing. Because Jesus, it’s a tough climb. Even taking it slowly, I can barely breathe, and I have no idea how we were overtaken by several people.

Leo takes my gloved hand, pulls me past what appears to be a macaron bar and to the outside space. Huge iron beams rise above us, with iron latticework beneath our feet. I swear I can smell the faint metallic tang, combined with the scent of coffee, lingering on the air. Moonlight peeks in through gaps in the metalwork and the edge of a cold wind catches the hair sticking out below my bobble hat.

We move out onto one of the viewing platforms, right on the edge of the tower. And there, beneath us, is Paris. The River Seine curves through the city, lights reflecting off the still water. The city sparkles at our feet, and the tower glows golden at our back. I can still make out some of the detail of the streets from here and I think I can see the Arc de Triomphe, lit up against the dark. I can hear laughter spilling around us, and the distant sound of car horns below. I put my hands on the railings, leaning out as far as I can go. A whole city, spread before me. I turn to Leo to find him watching me. The smile he gives me makes me understand what it means for a heart to skip a beat.

“To the top?” I ask.

“To the top,” he agrees.

We pass a Michelin-starred restaurant on the way to the lift. How much must it cost, to eat in the Eiffel Tower itself? Leo is quiet again as we queue for the lift—the only way to get right to the top—and I wonder again what he’s thinking.