Magic Sometimes Happens Part 30

'Hey, Polly, how are you today?' I whispered. Pat, wake up, I thought. Your daughter is about to realise I'm not her mother and then she'll have a fit.

But Polly didn't have a fit. She lay beside me, brown eyes open wide, still playing with my hair. 'Poll, what shall we do today?' I asked.

'Go see a puppy?' she suggested.

'Yes, why don't we? There are lots and lots of dogs in Paris so I'm sure we'll find some puppies. There are lots of play parks too, where you can have some fun. Do you like ice cream, Polly?'

'Chocolate sprinkles?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Who said chocolate sprinkles?' asked a drowsy voice.

'We're getting ice cream,' Polly told her brother.

'You are so not getting ice cream for your breakfast!' Joe was suddenly wide awake. 'Dad, get up!' he cried and hit his father with a hard French pillow. 'Polly says she's getting ice cream!'

'Joseph, will you quiet down now?' growled Pat. 'What does a person have to do to get some sleep round here?'

'You say that every morning and it's getting old.' Joe bashed Pat again. 'Dad, tell Poll she can't get ice cream for her breakfast.'

'Polly, go into the bathroom,' Pat said crossly, getting out of bed. 'Rosie, Polly hasn't wet on you, I hope?'

'No, she's fine.'

'I should have brought some diapers.'

'No,' Polly said. 'No diapers.'

'No diapers, Dad,' repeated Joe. 'Mom says Polly is a big girl now.'

After breakfast rolls and pains au chocolat, croissants and delicious coffee for the grown-ups, fruit juice for the children we went out to see what we could find.

I'd planned a route. We'd head towards the Centre Pompidou where the kids could have a run around and chase the pigeons and look at all the tubes outside that quite amazing building and maybe even go inside, depending on the queues.

Then we'd go to the Louvre where they could see the Pyramid and run around again. We'd sit in a cafe and eat crpes. Then we'd get on a Batobus and idle down the river to see the Eiffel Tower.

We'd gradually work our way back home to our hotel along the river walks. Then we would dawdle through the le de la Cite, along the Rue de Rivoli and through the busy streets of the Marais. Yes, we would walk back through the Marais, and it was going to be fine.

Pat soon decided he liked Paris.

Paris liked him back. It seemed to draw him out, relax him, make him smile more than he ever had in London or in Minneapolis. But Paris is so beautiful I'd challenge anyone to see it on a lovely summer day and not be happy here.

I was determined to be happy.

As Pat relaxed, the kids did, too. I'd wondered if they'd want their mother, if they might get upset, if this whole expedition might be a big disaster. But they seemed more curious than their father, too intrigued by everything they saw to miss their mother.

Polly often wanted to be carried. So she sat on her father's shoulders while Pat and I held hands with Joe and jumped him over bollards, on and off low walls, jump, jump, jump, jump. Children have such lovely hands. Joe's were beautiful, still jelly-boned and small and soft and dimpled. I could not imagine them becoming a grown man's strong, hard hands. When he grew tired of being jumped, he skipped and pirouetted on ahead.

'Stay on the sidewalk!' Pat called after him. 'Don't cross any roads, you hear me?'

'Yeah, I hear you. There's a store that's named for you, Dad.'

'Where?'

'Over there Pt-isserie!' Joe started laughing, doubling up and practically choking, making Polly laugh as well. I wished I could be six years old again, when life had been so simple, so easy, so uncomplicated, not the mess my whole life was today.

We did all the stuff I'd planned. We went on the Batobus. We took the lift up to the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower. We stopped for crpes, for juice, for coffee. It was warm and sunny and we had a lovely day.

At six o'clock, we started heading back to our hotel. Soon we were in the heart of the Marais. We were walking down a narrow street full of shops which sold the most delicious shoes and handbags, but I wasn't interested in shoes and bags today. We were pa.s.sing jewellery shops and busy cafes and I told myself it was all right, it was okay. This was the way to deal with it, face everything head on and sort it out once and for all. Paris and the Marais couldn't be off limits all my life and anyway, in fifteen minutes we'd be home. It was a mere ten minutes to the Place de la Republique, soon it would be five, then four, then three, then- 'Dad, I'm thirsty.' Joe tugged at his father's belt. 'Dad, I want a drink.'

'You just had a drink,' said Pat.

'I need to get some juice.' Joe rubbed his eyes. 'Dad, I'm tired. My feet ache and I'm hot. My backpack's way too heavy. Dad-'

'Yeah, okay.' Pat put his daughter down. 'You made your point. Let's go find somewhere in the shade then you can both get juice. Rosie, would you like to get a latte?'

No, I thought, we need to keep on walking.

But then I glanced at Joe, who looked done up. We'd walked the poor child off his feet today. 'Yes,' I said and told myself it would be fine, that it would not take long to have a drink. 'A latte would be great.'

It's not hard to find a cafe in the Marais. There must be a hundred. So Pat wouldn't choose the only one ...

Joe was grumbling in earnest now, telling us he had to get a drink or he would die. He sat down on the pavement. 'Okay, Joe,' said Pat. 'You win. Rosie, let's go over there.' He pointed to the only cafe in the whole of Paris I couldn't wouldn't patronise.

'N-no,' I said, 'not that one, it's-'

'It's what?'

'It's not suitable for children, Pat. Look, those men are smoking.'

'The windows are all open and the smoke's blowing away. The place looks good to me, it's in the shade. Rosie, you okay?'

'Yes, of course. I'm fine. I just don't think that cafe's right for Joe and Polly.' I was trembling, wondering if I'd faint. Why had I done this stupid, stupid thing? I had to get out of the Marais now. 'Pat, I t-tell you what,' I gabbled as my teeth rattled like castanets, 'I'll get Joe some juice from that epicerie. There's a chiller cabinet inside.'

'Okay,' he said. 'But Rosie, are you sure you're fine? You're very pale. You look like something spooked you.'

'I'm all right. Joe, there's a grocery store across the road. I'll get you a juice this minute. Polly, do you want one too?'

PATRICK.

I didn't get why Rosie was so spooked.

I asked again. She wouldn't tell me. She got juice for Joe and Polly. Then she took Joe's backpack, grabbed his hand and hurried on. When we came to our hotel she seemed okay again. So I quit asking what was wrong.

As soon as we were home, we put the kids to bed. They were too stuffed with crpes, brioches and ice cream to want any more to eat today, and all they needed was to go to sleep.

A few hours later, I went to get a takeout. I pointed to the stuff I wanted, pushed a bunch of euros at the guy and hoped I'd got it right.

We ate with all the windows open, watching traffic streaming past us far below. Those French guys, they're a bunch of maniacs. They drive like they're all racing to the hospital delivering a body part for a lifesaving surgery. I never saw a traffic cop in all my time in Paris.

The most romantic thing I ever did?

I watched the traffic on the Boulevard de Magenta. Yeah, I know pathetic. But in this soft, warm twilight, even watching traffic seemed impossibly and wonderfully romantic, even with two kids lying there grunting in their sleep while we adults ate takeout pizza, garlic bread and coleslaw from a greasy cardboard tray.

It must have been because I was in Paris. It must have been because I was with Rosie, because she looked so beautiful tonight. As the light began to fade, her skin took on a kind of golden glow, her wild, black hair looked like it had a life all of its own and curled around her face because it had a mind to do so, and her big grey eyes shone like a pair of precious stones.

It must have been because I was in love.

'Thank you for a great day out,' I said.

'You enjoyed yourself?'

'You bet I did. The kids did, too.'

'They're lovely children, Pat. You're very lucky.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'I envy you and Lexie.'

'You don't need to envy Lex and me,' I told her softly. 'One day, you'll have children of your own, I promise you.'

'More coleslaw, Pat?'

Sunday was a busy, busy day.

We climbed Montmartre and rode the little boxcar up to the Sacre-Coeur, a church which had a look of our cathedral back home in Saint Paul.

We got lunch in a cafe where the kids ate stuff I knew for certain they wouldn't eat in Minneapolis. Artichokes and spinach and salami and smoked salmon and a special grilled cheese sandwich which the French call croque-monsieur all went down the same way.

'Poll, is spinach yuck or yum?' demanded Joe as his little sister chewed on a wad of it.

Polly thought about it for a moment. 'Yum,' she said and grinned as bright green drool ran down her chin.

Joe forked up more greenery. 'Spinach is what Popeye eats,' he said. 'It makes you very strong. I guess if I eat spinach every day, when I'm grown I'll be a superhero. Anybody messes with me, I'll be good and ready to punch him on the jaw. I'll grab him by the beard and swing him round and throw him off a cliff.'

'You don't punch people on the jaw,' I told him.

'When you're a man, you might decide to grow a big black beard of your own,' suggested Rosie. 'Then you'll look like a pirate.'

'I shall never grow a beard,' said Joe disgustedly. 'Superman and Batman don't have beards.'

'You'll have stubble, anyway.' Rosie smiled and stroked him momentarily on his soft baby cheeks.

He glanced up from his spinach and gazed at her with adoration in his big brown eyes. Those eyes were bright. Those cheeks were red. A pulse was beating in his neck, bedang, bedang, bedang.

Poor little Joe, I thought, he was in love.

I knew exactly how he felt.

We watched street magicians taking bets and cash from tourist suckers. Then we rode the open tourist bus and saw some more of Paris, the tree-lined boulevards, the Champs elysees, and I could see why Rosie loved it here. By afternoon on Sunday, I loved it here myself.

'We've worn these children out,' said Rosie.

'Yeah, but it was good.' I swung Polly up on to my shoulders, took Joe's hand. 'One more game of tag?' I asked him when we reached the fountain by the Centre Pompidou.

'Yeah, I guess,' he said.

'Joe, are you all right?' asked Rosie.

'I'm just thirsty.'

Rosie offered him her water bottle. I watched him while he drank most of it down. 'How do you feel now?' I asked.

'Okay, Dad,' he said and then he shot off like a rocket. So Rosie had to chase and grab him by the collar of his T-s.h.i.+rt, otherwise he would have got himself mashed on the road.

We boarded Eurostar to bring us back to London. Joe was tired and fussing. But Polly was still full of life. It must have been the spinach. She annoyed her brother by tickling him and poking him and in the end he slapped her arm and she began to cry.

'You do not slap little girls you hear me, Joe? You do not slap anybody, right?'

'But she drives me crazy, Dad!'

'Come on, Joe, snuggle up with me,' said Rosie.

So he did. He slept all through the journey and when we arrived in London it was hard to wake him up. I guess he should have had more spinach?

ROSIE.

We got back to my flat at half past eight that evening.

'Why don't you all come in and have some supper?' I asked Pat. 'Then you can get a cab and take these children home to Lexie?'

'Yeah, okay, sounds like a plan,' he said.

Then he got his laptop out and started scrolling through his emails and the three of us became invisible. Polly toddled round the sitting room, her thumb wedged in the corner of her mouth, touching, patting everything and talking to herself. Joe flopped on the sofa and went straight to sleep again.

I felt his forehead. It was warm, not hot. But his skin was clammy, he was restless, and I had a feeling that something wasn't right.

'Joe isn't well,' I told his father.

'Do you mean he's sick?' Pat glanced up from his laptop, fingers poised above the keyboard, mind a million miles away. 'Or is he just tired?'

'He might be running a slight fever.' I stroked Joe's sticky hair back from his temples. 'He has a rash as well.'

'Rosie, kids are always getting rashes. Polly had one a few months back, turned out it was just a wool reaction. Tylenol or whatever you call it over here in the UK that will soon fix Joe. I'll get a bottle from the all-night drugstore on my way to Lexie's place.'

'But Pat, I think-'