A look of relief washed over him. “Okay, well, you have your key, right? I’ll see you when you get back. Call or text me if you change your mind, I swear I can rally.”
We headed off in opposite directions, him back to our hotel and me down the narrow cobbled streets of fourth arrondissement until I reached the Pont Neuf, which arched ornamentally over the lazy, flowing Seine below. Black iron lampposts twinkled in the water’s still reflection, and I spotted a quaint corner brasserie with a smattering of a few patrons iconically seated around the café’s exterior under a wide-hanging awning. I signaled with a finger in the air that I was looking for a table for one, and the ma?tre d’ called, “Installez-vous,” and gestured to a few open tables, allowing me to choose one of my liking.
When a young waiter approached, I quickly debated whether or not to try my hand at the limited amount of French I tried to cram into my brain on the plane on the way over. I focused mainly on the most necessary things I’d need: thank you, please, where is the bathroom?, and can I have a glass of wine? You know, the essentials!
The waiter flipped over my water glass and handed me a set of silverware from a tray he was holding. “Bon soir, mademoiselle. Vous avez choisi?”
My heart started to race, and I so badly wanted to default to English. But I tried to remind myself that it was polite to at least try, so I stammered out, “Oh, uh, yeah. Um . . . je voo-dray une verr de van, see voo play?”
The waiter barely missed a beat but responded in English. “Ah, oui. Red or white?”
“Oh, yes, right . . . um . . . rooj, see voo play. Mare see!”
I knew I’d butchered it, but at least I’d tried. And maybe after trying a few small, uncomfortable, out-of-character things, taking a step out on the ledge would not always be such a difficult task. I pulled the Marley Is Dead script pages out of my bag, slid my AirPods into my ears, and armed with the glass of red wine I’d proudly ordered myself, I dove in deep into some prep work, practically losing all sense of time until the waiter asked me if I would like a third glass of Beaujolais.
I glanced down at my watch, incredulous that it had been almost three hours since I’d left Gabe, and shot him a quick text letting him know I was on my way back. I signaled for the check as I scooped my things into my bag and rushed off in the direction of our B and B.
Chapter Thirty-Two
At close to 8:45 p.m., I burst into the room in a frenzy. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I lost track of time.” I rushed right past Gabe and into the bathroom. “Give me like ten minutes tops to change and freshen up, and I’ll be ready to go,” I said, dumping my makeup bag upside down and rummaging around for my concealer.
“Av—” he started.
“I was walking around and listening to some music from the show, then I sat down for a glass of wine and just got swept up in the city and the smells and—”
“Avery—” he called again, trying to interrupt my rant.
“Yeah?” I popped my head out of the bathroom and spotted Gabe sitting at a small bistro-style table. Beside him was a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne sticking out of the top, and an assortment of cheeses, meats, and fresh rolls and pastries set out on a tray. “Oh, um . . . what’s all this?” I asked, and made my way back into the bedroom and sat down on the corner of the bed.
“I don’t know about you, but after today, I could use a break from fancy French cuisine. I went to the market down the street and got us some of our favorites. I thought we could have a simple little picnic and just stay in.” Gabe stood up and pushed the window open to reveal colorful Parisian rooftops and balconies stretching out as far as the eye could see. “We have this view, some snacks, and each other. What could be better?” He grabbed for my hands and sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. Getting snappy with you over the soufflé. Maybe it’s the jet lag or all of the sightseeing, but I was just losing steam and patience and . . . it wasn’t you.”
“It’s okay. I get it. I know I’ve been a little distracted, but I think that given all of the variables, we’ve been faring pretty well so far.” I smiled and leaned into him with a playful nudge.
“Okay, good, I’m glad you aren’t ready to throw me in the Seine just yet. Because I have a surprise. So, another reason for our impromptu picnic is that our dinner reservation wasn’t until nine p.m., and with how leisurely French waitservice is, we could’ve been there until midnight, and we have an early wake-up tomorrow.”
“We do? I thought we didn’t have to meet the tour bus for Versailles until eleven a.m.”
“Well, that’s the surprise. I canceled Versailles for tomorrow, and instead booked us two train tickets on the Eurostar to spend the night in London, and we’ll fly home from there instead. And one better, I bought us tickets for a Charles Dickens walking tour that takes us through the parts of the city where he grew up and based his novels.”
I was speechless. The gesture was thoughtful but also a sacrifice on his part. “But you’ve always wanted to go to Versailles. It’s been on your bucket list for as long as I’ve known you.”
“I pulled you away from everything you have going on in New York. The least I can do is provide you with more research and insights you can use for audition inspiration when you get back home.”
I pushed my hands through his dark wavy hair and pulled his face close to mine. “This is amazing . . . and you are amazing,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose.
He smiled, pleased with how this surprise had gone over, and sat back against the cream-colored tufted headboard. “How about you go take a nice hot shower. We can pick on this food once you are in a fluffy robe, all squeaky clean, and then we can get to bed early.”
“Well, maybe not too early.” I motioned toward the shower. “Care to join me, monsieur?”
I’ve never seen Gabe move so fast. He swept me off my feet, carrying me into the bathroom, and said in an overly affected French accent, “Oui, oui, ma chérie,” and closed the door behind us.
We stepped out of Saint Pancras station into the morning rush of Central London, a departure from the quiet and meandering streets of Le Marais we’d left at sunup. Gabe hailed us a black cab to 48 Doughty Street, Charles Dickens’s London home where we were supposed to meet up with the walking tour.
When we arrived, a small smattering of tourists was already waiting outside the house for the guide to get there. After a few minutes, an older man with a thick gray mustache, wearing a classic tweed three-piece suit, and twirling a wooden walking stick came up to meet the group.
“Where’d they find this guy? Central casting?” Gabe whispered to me.
The man cleared his throat and announced, in a surprisingly booming voice for a person of his slight stature, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, for those who are not here on time, because they will be left behind.” He chortled （yes, actually chortled!） and clicked his cane against the pavement.
“Come, come,” he said, and moved a bit farther down the street so as to not block the pathway inside. “In a few moments, we will enter Dickens’s house, where he lived from 1837 to 1839. It is the only one of Dickens’s homes left standing and is where he wrote the classics Nicholas Nickleby and Oliver Twist. I’ll be your guide on this literary journey today. My name is Reginald, you may call me Reginald.” He laughed at himself again. “Except you,” he said, pointing his cane in my direction, “you can call me whatever you like, just don’t call me late for dinner!” He erupted into another fit of giggles and turned to address the rest of the group again.