"Which way?" Hari asks when they get to the Pont Alexandre III.
It's hard to know where to look, let alone where to go from here. Look up, far above their heads, at the two great golden Pegasus raring to fly off their pedestals? Look straight ahead at the oh-so French cast-iron candelabras punctuating the arch of the bridge all the way to the North bank, and to the soft lines of the Grand Palais's glass roof? Look left, to the Eiffel tower lording over it all? Look right, to the lights of the Louvre? Or why not turn back altogether, for a last look at the perfect geometry of the gold and slate dome of the Invalides?
"Go right," Frank says, "this is as close as you want to get to the Eiffel tower day or night, believe me."
Gemma remembers having great fun there, many years ago, going up on the lift and tumbling back down the stairs with her father and Isabella. Isa must have been about 12 and was convinced that Gemma would be terrified but she wasn't. She wasn't at all, not even a little bit scared, not even all the way up on the third platform. Unlike her father or Isa Gemma doesn't remember being particularly enthused by anything she saw below her either, but she will never forget the sheer thrill of standing quite so high above everything.
Still, Isa had held her hand all the way and Daddy had bought them each a giant ice cream afterwards, as a reward for their bravery.
"Let's head for the Pont des Arts," Frank says, and Vikas and Hari strike on ahead. Agnes bid good night to the four of them a few minutes ago, at the Latour Maubourg metro, to go and stay with Step Mum Number 1 and Markus. Step Mum Number 2 moved back to Prague two years ago and Step Mum Number 3 is still in active service, in Copenhagen.
"If we walk on we'll be able to see Notre Dame!" Hari says, who has never been to Paris, has spent the entire Eurostar journey memorising tripadvisor, and has been taking selfies non-stop since they disembarked.
And food photos. Oh God, the food! It will take more than walking to the Pont des Arts and back to work off the calories but it must have been worth it. Frank, bless him, helped Gemma with her very French, very delicious fries. And the two of them did, as agreed, raise a glass of the most fragrant Burgundy to Jane Fairfax, who has not been seen since Saturday.
Hari and Vikas stop to take yet more photos. It's his first time in Paris too and he's almost as obsessed as Hari is with his phone's camera. It's going to be a busy night for those Instagram servers.
"Now remind me why you left this beautiful town, Frank?"
"London calling: Paris is too small, you can walk from one end of it to the other and back in an afternoon."
"How blasé of you: imagine these two seeing Paris for the first time!"
"Hey, I'm not that blasé, and Paris isn't bad the rest of the times either. God, are they taking more photos?"
"Of course, Frank, they have different phones and they have to take some on each and then compare and send them across to one another."
"Is that half the fun?"
"Don't ask me. To tell you the truth these two make me feel about a hundred years old."
"Same."
"They're cute together though."
"Are they?"
"How can you not think so?"
"It's just that based on Jane's report I didn't have you down as the whole Paris, City of Love type, that's all."
"Just because I'm not looking for a long-term relationship for myself doesn't mean I can't cheer others on. I love bringing people together and look at them! They do look good together. And happy."
"Hmm, OK."
"He's a nice guy, he gets her. There's something special about him," Gemma says, looking at them leaning into each other over their phone screens.
"Pretty special guy, for sure," Frank nods, but he still looks more amused than convinced.
Frank almost always looks amused, Gemma realises. This must be a wonderful way to be. She herself is delighted. Whatever happens in terms of warehousing and fulfilment solutions tomorrow, in terms of Hari and Vikas this trip is a clear win. No way is Hari going to give silly gawky Martin another thought after spending this evening, here, with Vikas.
The hotel Frank helped them book, and where Vikas is staying too, is the epitome of Parisian charm. The rooms are tiny but high ceilinged, with cast iron beds and tall windows, and noisy with all the wonderful noises of Paris.
It's near one end of Rue Saint Dominique, a long narrow slice of authentically upmarket France. Small boutiques, at the bottom of Hausmann buildings, of course, each offer a unique assortment of shoes, or deli meats, or men's cashmeres, or baguettes and pains au chocolats, or adorable children's clothes, or telephones, or beautifully arranged fruit and vegetables, or provencal household linens, or spectacles, or fancy cheeses, or apartments, or ladies shirts with elaborate bows. Where else in the world is such a compendium of goods ever to be purchased on one single lazy stroll?
The sun set on the Seine a while ago, as they tucked into pan-seared foie gras with Sauterne-infused caramelised Mirabelle compote, on brioche toast. The night is now dark as they attempt to walk it off down the quays of the left bank.
"What a shame about Notre Dame," Gemma says as what should have been its two square towers appear in the distance, covered in scaffolding and corrugated iron.
"No no, it's better that way," Frank says.
"What? How can you say, that, it's a tragedy!"
"I know but think, what would Jane say? We can't be having a romantic night-time stroll along the Seine looking at pretty buildings now, can we? People would talk. We should only be looking at ugly things."
"That might be a struggle between here and Notre Dame. Even charred-down Notre Dame..."
"Not at all: you disappoint me, Gemma. This is just a matter of adopting a combative mental attitude, come on! Stiff upper lip and all that..."
He takes her elbow and tilts them both Northwards to gaze across onto the Right bank:
"Take the Tuileries: what is the point of a formal French garden? So flat, so square. What's romantic about that? Nothing. Plus, I hear the box trees are all being eaten to death by some bug. Now English gardens, yes, those are romantic, wild, but this…"
"True, but the building is nice."
"What, the Louvre? That old thing? It's only that they've lit it up nicely, trust me, up close it's very boring."
"Is it now?"
"Absolutely. Plus you don't want to think of the ghastly things that have taken place there. Political intrigue, poisonings, seductions of course – a viper's nest, nothing romantic about that. And it used to house the Ministere des Finances – the bean counters, basically. Now don't tell me that's romantic?"
Gemma smiles and notices that, though they have started walking again, he has kept her elbow looped into his.
"The Musee d'Orsay looks nice," she suggests as they pass it on the right.
"That? That's an old train station with more old things inside. I'd take Waterloo station over this any time. I'm sure you'd agree, sensible woman like you."
"They beg to differ," she says as Hari and Vikas stop for yet more photos.
Gemma and Frank both stop and give them space at the exact same time, and it seems to Gemma that Frank pulls her a little closer into him. She doesn't mind. Her shoes tonight may be the epitome of Parisian chic, but they weren't made for walking, and definitely not for walking the cobblestones of the Left Bank. Hence she is truly and sincerely grateful for any structural support Frank has to offer.
Hari and Vikas start walking again and they follow.
"Some small-minded people could argue, of course, that walking at night with a smart, beautiful woman on your arm is in itself romantic, but we both know that romance has nothing to do with it. If I don't help you to the Pont des Arts those ridiculous heels of yours may well snap one of your ankles, and then how will you get to the warehouse tomorrow?"
"I'll have you know that I'm extremely steady on my feet, Frank. Women my size have to be, I've walked on much higher heels."
"Well, Gemma, that's simply not a risk I'm willing to take. They are beautiful shoes by the way. Paris is honoured to have them."
"Why, thank you, Paris."
"Not as striking as Jane Fairfax's footwear, of course..."
They both smile, though in Gemma's case it is tinged with renewed and very genuine envy at Jane, for being able to look good in flats.
"Now would you look at this!" Frank says, dropping her arm as they step onto the Pont des Arts. "This isn't the most romantic bridge in the world, it's an ironmonger's shop! And it's heaving with tourists."
Sure enough, every single square of the safety mesh on either side of the bridge bears so many padlocks that the entire balustrade is a solid wall of them. Here and there a heavy-duty bike chain sticks out, covered in blue or red plastic. Not very romantic, that is true. But Vikas and Hari are happy enough to stand in line behind dozens of tourists before they too get to take selfies with the scaffolding that once was Notre Dame, and then queue again for the Eiffel Tower shot on the other side of the bridge. If this is what it's like on a Wednesday night…
"Let me take one," Gemma offers, for something to do.
"Thanks, boss," Hari says, and she and Vikas strike a pose.
"Want one of you, boss?" Vikas asks Frank. He shakes his head.
"You?" Hari asks Gemma.
"No, thank you, Hari, just the memories for me. Shall we turn back? It's getting late."
"Naa," Frank says, "It's their first and last night in Paris: let's cross over to the Right bank, take a peek at the Pyramid, walk Rivoli to the Hotel de Ville and then we'll get you an Uber back."
"Oh can we, please?" Hari begs.
"Can your shoes take it?" Frank asks Gemma.
"Of course! What a good idea, I've never seen the Pyramid."
Vikas and Hari are already most of the way off the bridge.
"Don't worry it is utterly unromantic," Frank says as they follow.
x
"Come to think of it, Gemma," he says as he re-establishes dominion over her arm, much to her feet's relief, "it's a shame we didn't take a selfie too. To send to Jane. Think, it would have made her day."
"Poor Jane Fairfax. She must have found Agnes and I so dull, I bet she's utterly delighted to be off this assignment."
"Shame on her if she did," Frank says, smiling and pulling Gemma a little closer again, "there is nothing dull about you."
"Be careful, Frank, this may almost be construed as romantic."
"I did promise to behave inappropriately and I am nothing if not a man of my word, Gemma."
"Great, that bodes well for the deal then!"
He turns and stares at her. This is, well… it's a good job that Hari is so engrossed with Vikas and with Paris, else she would definitely talk.
But what would Gemma say for herself? Nothing, of course, for the time being. Ever since their meetings moved from the gym's cafe to Queen Bee's offices, the tone of Gemma's interactions with Frank has been predicated on their mutual unavailability. In a Regency drama one of them would be engaged, her, most likely, rendering her instantly irresistible to the opposite sex. But this modern version is better because there is a foretold end to the engagement, so one may dream a little, of what may happen afterwards.
Gemma is not one to take a happy ending for granted – not for herself anyway. For Vikas and Hari it's much easier: just look at them! But even in her case, one way or the other Frank will be off Queen Bee's case within a few more weeks. Of course should the deal fall through, which is vanishingly unlikely at this stage, then there may be bad blood on one side or the other. That is very hard to imagine, right now, but not theoretically impossible.
But if things do pan out, and why wouldn't they, then a month hence she and Frank would be free to promenade together wherever they liked. Where would that be, and what would it feel like?
"Well here we are, don't say I didn't warn you, nothing to write home about," Frank says as they emerge from under the arches of the Louvre palace onto an immense paved courtyard. Gemma's heart skips a beat.
Where else in the world? The Louvre itself is magnificent, bathed in the soft glow of hundreds of cast iron streetlamps. They line its grand arcade for hundreds of yards on three sides. Above the arcade the first floor is suitably austere: long regular rows of rectangular windows, each with its triangular pediment, proclaiming the building's importance to the government of France, to the many wars it once waged – to its finances even, according to Frank. But perhaps most beautiful, most uniquely Parisian are the lines of steep slate roofs on top of the few larger buildings that punctuate the arcade with perfect, boastful symmetry.
The glass pyramid itself floats on a shallow fountain in the middle of the courtyard, at once both completely out of place and completely fitting. Vikas and Hari, are, of course, already snapping away.
"We'd be much better off in London if you ask me," Frank says, briefly pulling Gemma into his side again.
"Shush, Frank, this is amazing."
"If you say so."
"I do."
"Don't you want to walk around? This glass thingy's supposed to be about perspective and stuff."
"No, why would we ever move? This is perfect."
And if Vikas and Hari want to get out of sight behind the Pyramid for more photos, or behind one of the arcade's sandstone pillars, and if they want to take advantage of the situation to sneak a first kiss together, then far be it from Gemma to stop them. Where else in the world?
"You know, Frank, until I called you last weekend we were actually going to take the RER to Bretigny sur Orges tonight, and stay at the Ibis hotel there," Gemma says with an incredulous giggle.
Frank bursts into such loud, head-thrown-back laughter, it's almost as if someone's twiddled the dimmer switch on the lights all around the courtyard, so that for a few seconds the whole of the Louvre gets brighter.
"Oh, Gemma, you are indeed precious," he says, giving her elbow another squeeze, "I can see why Dylan calls you Gem."
He's right, only Dylan calls her Gem. Agnes and Adrienne started to after they met him, but no one else does. To think of Dylan here, tonight, is extremely strange and altogether much less comfortable than her not very comfortable shoes. But unlike with the shoes, right now she can choose to abandon thoughts of Dylan:
"I'm glad you didn't let us stay in Bretigny," she says.
"Thank God Jane Fairfax made you call me so I could stop this madness in time. Just the one selfie, perhaps?"
"Oh OK, if you insist," Gemma says, and unhooks her arm to look inside Alma for her phone.
"Actually, wait, I have a better idea," Frank says, and starts walking towards Vikas and Hari, who have just reappeared, having completed a circumvolution of the Pyramid.
"An even better idea than here?"
"Way better. Trust me."
"I think I will: you've done very well so far."
"Oh good. I'm glad you're enjoying our completely prosaic night-time tour of old finance ministry buildings."
"Most informative, thank you."
"Where to now?" Hari asks with eager eyes.
"Out through there, turn right, it'll be a bit dull for 500 yards or so, and then the Hotel de Ville's pretty nice. That's the town hall, Gemma, where people pay their council tax."
"I see."
"And get married," he adds once Vikas and Hari have struck on ahead.
"Oh, not the place for me at all then."
"Indeed not. Terrible institution, marriage, most unromantic."
They've hooked arms again, but for the first time tonight Gemma feels that she could be in a town other than Paris. This end of the Rue de Rivoli is nothing special, and Frank soon apologises
"All the pretty arcades are way down the other end, by the Tuileries, I thought this end would be less romantic."
"Great call," she says as they pass Zara.
He smiles and gives her elbow a tug. With her other elbow cradling the handle of her faithful blue Alma, Gemma does feel like a Gem indeed.
"Not as nice as Mayfair in the Spring, of course," Frank says, exaggerating his barely perceptible French accent on of course.
"The Connaught has charm. And it has a tree in front of it, in the middle of one of those shallow fountains like that around the Pyramid, much smaller but…"
"…but you think the Connaught in the Spring has a charm that is sadly lacking around here, and I completely agree. It does seem a charming little place, though I confess I've never been inside."
"Oh, it's very, very nice inside."
"Then you must show me when we get back to London."
"Of course, I'd be happy to," Gemma says.
With the notable exceptions of a Burberry's mac, a multi-gym membership, and Alma, the Louis Vuitton hand/workbag she bought when she cashed her first banking bonus, Gemma does not consider herself extravagant. But she does love spending £18, and a good hour with Jane Austen, on a pot of tea in the Alma-matching teal blue heaven that is the Connaught bar. The Lapsong is out of this world. It comes with biscuits so small and delicious even Gemma deems it a sin not to eat one.
"… and yet sometimes it's hard to believe it'll ever happen," Frank says with uncharacteristic melancholy, "you and I, strolling arm in arm around Mayfair, can you picture it?"
She's trying to, staring at the pavement when Frank says, back to his usual tone:
"And now this old building. I think they also deal with parking tickets."
The Hotel de Ville is like all the tall bits of the Louvre, the ones with the interesting roofs, but with hardly any of the straight austere bits in between. The pitched slate roof is punctuated by so many chimneys and standards that the whole building somehow looks simultaneously imposing, and ready for vertical take-off.
"A bit perfect, a bit Disneyland if you ask me," Frank says while she stands, transfixed.
Vikas and Hari are, naturally, snapping away.
"And people actually get work done inside this building?"
"Yep, someone's got to sign those marriage licenses, you know, chase those council tax arrears."
"They do… I think I could stand here all night."
"Hmm no, I'm afraid we've got a warehouse visit in the morning. Do you think they're done?" Frank asks, dropping her arm again as Vikas and Hari return beaming and screen-swiping from their latest photo shoot.
"I guess. Oh but didn't you want a picture here? I can take it if you like."
"This isn't the spot."
"It isn't?"
"No there's a better one near where we'll go to get you a cab. You guys ready?" he calls to Vikas and Hari, who nod that they are.
They cross the courtyard back towards the river and end up in front of the brasserie that forms the corner of the next block.
"There's a cab rank further down," Frank says, pointing Vikas and Hari around the corner. Then, as he and Gemma follow them and finish turning right towards the river he stops and says:
"Now! Look up!"
"What?"
As she turns to look up at him there's a click and some sort of flash and lips come to touch hers. It is all over in, well, a flash. And Frank's done all this without letting go of her arm.
"Aaand wait wait wait!" he says, stopping and fiddling with his phone, "Just let me switch it to black and white, aaand: voila!" he says, proudly showing her his screen. "Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville, 21st century edition. Not a bad selfie, what do you think? Jane will like it, right? Or do you think she won't get it?"
Gemma is a little too stunned to think, but not too stunned to see what he's done. It's like that photo by the old French guy, that terribly romantic one taken soon after the war with the young couple kissing in front of a café, where the man's leaning down and has a big scarf and gorgeous hair, just like Frank, and the woman is shorter, just like… and people in the background are wearing black berets and yes, it must be the Hotel de Ville in the background. The kissers are both wearing nice, tailored jackets, just like Frank and Gemma tonight, and the original looks like a lucky shot of top bestest kiss in the world, ever, but actually the people kissing were just actors the photographer paid to stage it.
"I see what you've done here, Frank, clever."
"If you're only going to take one selfie…"
"But I do believe in the original both kissers were in on the trick."
"You are of course right. Here I am, taking liberties and being grossly inappropriate again, as promised. I should have sought consent." He pretends to clear his throat: "Gemma: would you like to stage more recreations of Le Baiser de L'Hotel de Ville with me? I'm happy to keep taking that shot over and over again until you're happy with it."
Gemma smiles, though she still is cross with him:
"I think this one will do just fine, thanks."
Damn him but it's true, that picture does look good.
"Ah, here's your cab," Frank says, flagging one down, and before she knows it she's sitting next to Vikas and Hari at the back of a black sedan, with Frank waving them away then, presumably, making his way to the friends he is staying with.
The cab ride hardly takes ten minutes. Which is just as well since Hari and Vikas are suddenly tongue-tied in Gemma's company. This is probably a good sign, a sign that what they've been telling each other is not for other ears. Sweet. Her phone buzzes, but she doesn't check it in case it's Frank sending her his selfie. And if it's Dylan finally replying to her many WhatsApps, well the man deserves to be kept waiting too.
They disembark in front of their hotel and she bids Vikas and Hari good night. But Gemma is not ready to turn in just yet. She walks back out and checks her phone. Sure enough, the buzz earlier was Frank sending the selfie across. She is still cross with him over it. It was only a tiny peck, not really a kiss at all, but that is exactly what annoys her. This kiss lacked commitment and why bother kissing someone, and in the middle of jolly Paris too, if you're not going to…
What?
Gemma has followed her achy feet back to the vast square of the Invalides. Dome to the right, bridge and golden Pegasus to the left.
Why bother kissing someone if you're not going to take their breath away, make time stop and defy gravity, as the gold-winged horses are about to?
Gemma pulls out her phone and takes a selfie. One of just her, with one of the winged horses in the background. It takes a bit of fiddling around to get the angle right, but she manages and stares at her screen. It's not nearly as "good" a shot as Frank's, but she likes it better, and before she knows it she's sent it to Dylan.
She walks back. It's late, well one hour later than it is back home and Frank is right, they've got important work to do in the morning. She tries to focus on that but it does bother her that Dylan doesn't acknowledge her photo. Surely he's still up. What is he up to? She walks a little slower, but she's getting cold. It is noticeably colder out without Frank by her side.
"Hope the PnL's OK," she texts Dylan. Maybe he's just had a bad couple of days on the market.
She walks back into reception and collects her key and takes herself to bed, but she's still overfed and under-exercised and not one bit sleepy. She opens her laptop and tries to work out what Patience has done to the Obuasi numbers this time.
A Bee in her Bonnet is copyright Mel Liffragh, 2021