Read an extract from The Beginning of Always by Samantha Sotto Yambao
Escape to Paris in the romantic speculative novel about past lives and second chances, from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Water Moon
Elise
Names, on a night like this, were not important. What mattered was that everyone gathered on the boat’s deck believed the same thing. Ornate Venetian masks, sparkling with crystals and embellished with sprays of feathers, sequins, and lace, hid their faces, but every person Elise Grier walked past seemed painfully familiar. She weaved through the glittering masquerade ball floating over the Seine, stopping herself more than once from waving, nodding, or smiling at a person she thought she knew. She had never met any of the party’s other guests until that night, but she recognized the look peering out from their masks. She had glimpsed it when she had touched up her lipstick in her foyer mirror. Everyone catching the shimmer from the disco ball strung above the boat’s deck placed their faith in the same lie, that somehow when the clock struck twelve and the New Year came around, they would be shiny and new too.
The wispy black feathers fanning out from her swan mask fluttered in the wind. Elise untied the mask and pulled it from her face. Her cheeks prickled from the cold. Though Paris was enjoying a mild winter, there was still enough of a chill in the edge of the air to make her consider putting the mask back on. But while its long, hooked beak warmed the tip of her nose, it hindered her from accomplishing the evening’s more urgent business. It was nearly midnight and if she was going to get properly drunk before then, she needed to hurry.
Champagne flutes glittered over an illuminated Lucite bar. Elise plucked a glass from the counter and left her mask in its place. Soft blue light glowed through the abandoned swan’s hollow eyes, transforming it into a stranger’s face. Elise stroked its feathered cheek. She would have no need for champagne if shedding her skin and slipping into someone else’s were just as easy. She tossed her head back and drained a glass of stars. They twinkled over her tongue, mimicking the breeze tickling her nape. Anticipation was effervescent. An infinite permutation of possibilities frothed in the air and buzzed in her ears. The hum muffled the Modern English song the DJ played, which, Elise thought, was a pity. The 80s playlist was the best thing about the costumed New Year’s Eve party. The obstacle course of baroque ball gowns was the worst. She had lost count of how many panniers she had bumped into on the way to the bar.
Elise helped herself to more champagne, staining the lip of her glass with the brightest red lipstick she owned. Applying cheer from a tube was easier than trying to find it inside her. She raised her glass above the shoulders jostling on the dance floor and forged down the deck, pausing only when the sleeve of her oversized black leather jacket snagged on a wayward pearl. A pale pink one fell to the floor and promptly got lost in a whirl of satin, lace, and brocade. Elise mumbled an apology no one asked for or heard, and squeezed between a red-haired woman in a peacock mask and a slim man cinched in a silver and taupe jacquard waistcoat.
The crowd thinned the closer she got to the stern. Elise hurried to an empty spot by the railing and stepped on to it, hooking her heels over the middle bar. She leaned forward, searching for a pocket of air that didn’t contain the heavy scent of perfume or the alcohol on someone else’s breath. A breeze snaked over the Seine and tousled her platinum blond pixie cut. She drank the crisp air. A liquid rainbow scattered over the Seine, dripping from the light show being painted over the year’s last sky. Elise watched lambent reflections melt into one another – buildings, bridges, and ships - merging the present and the past. Light flashed in the corner of her eye. She twisted around and teetered above the water, a tremble away from falling off the deck. A gloved hand, peeking out from a billowing black sleeve, caught her by the waist.
“Careful,” said a voice that reminded Elise of her first sip of vin chaud. Each syllable was spiked with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves, just like the hot spiced winter wine she had chanced upon at a Christmas market in Lyon. But warmer. Elise shifted in its direction, her heels wobbling over the rail.
A man who stood at least half a head taller than the other guests on board steadied her. A white mask, adorned only by its perfect symmetry, kept his lips hidden, but the lilt in his voice gave away his grin. His accent might have been Scottish once, but it now bore the marks of his travels, the way a beautifully battered suitcase was irreversibly transformed by every scratch and dent. A Nikon DSLR camera dangled from his neck and brushed against his black lace jabot. “Unless of course, you intend to start the year with a dip in the Seine.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need saving.” Elise wriggled free from the long fingers wrapped around her corseted waist. She anchored her eyes on the water, waiting for the man to leave. Though his voice felt like summer against her cold cheeks, the only conversation she could bear to have was with the glass in her hand.
He aimed his camera upwards, capturing the garden of light blooming over them. Flowers that were larger, brighter, and more colorful than the ones that blossomed before them, put the stars to shame. The man climbed up the railing next to Elise and extended his hand to her.
Elise stiffened. “What are you doing?”
Deep-set eyes, the exact shade of a midwinter sky, smiled at her from behind his white mask. “Introducing myself. I’m-”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be the ultimate New Year’s Eve cliché.”
He retracted his hand. “Cliché?”
“Two strangers who meet on the deck of a boat drifting along the Seine on New Year’s Eve and kiss when the clock strikes twelve.”
The smile slipped from the man’s eyes, revealing a shadow that had an equal chance of being cast by the fairy lights strung along the boat’s deck or an old sadness. Elise averted her gaze. A handsome man was an easy thing to look at, enjoy for a moment, and forget. A heartbreaking one required more caution. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
“And presumptuous.”
“I apologize. I wish I could say that I was drunk. Tonight’s just a really bad-”
“I wouldn’t kiss someone I just met. I’d wait at least until 12:05.” He chuckled.
Elise groaned in her head. “I take it back. I’m not sorry.”
He smirked. “Forgive me. I couldn’t resist. Unlike you, I can claim to be well on my way to being bladdered. It’s the only way that I know how to make these parties somewhat tolerable.”
“Then why did you bother to come?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He eyed the drink she was clutching too tightly. “You don’t seem too happy to be here either.”
Elise ignored him with a long sip. The champagne was flatter now, just like the air. The New Year was minutes away, but its promise had faded. Elise climbed over the railing and sat down, dangling her feet over the Seine. She stared into the water, wondering how much it would hurt if she fell. She tossed her empty glass overboard. It landed with a small splash and sank, erased utterly by the waves and the dark. “Listen, I’m really not in the mood for company.”
“Understood.” The man hopped off the railing and onto the deck. “But in case you do happen to topple over, just holler. I’ll be by the bar. I’m a decent swimmer. My name’s-”
“Good night.”
He nodded with a small smile. “Happy New Year,” he said, his eyes narrowing as though he was picking up a slippery pea with chopsticks somewhere deep inside his head.
“Is something wrong?” Elise asked.
He bit his lower lip, hesitating. “I swear this isn’t a pick up line, but it just occurred to me that you look terribly familiar. Have we met?”
“That’s difficult to say, considering that I have no idea what you look like,” Elise said.
A laugh escaped his mask, rich, sweet, and full-bodied like dark ale. “Let’s fix that, shall we?” He lifted the edge of his mask.
“Let’s not.” Elise caught the smirk digging into his smooth, chiseled cheek. “I’d rather you keep your mask on.”
“As you wish.” He returned the mask with a sigh. “However, if we must end the year as strangers, would you at least dance with me? I’ve had two and a half tango lessons. My third one got cut short when I accidentally dropped my instructor and she sprained her ankle. But I promise I won’t let you fall. What do you say? One song? Any more than that and I’m afraid that you might fall hopelessly in love with my dancing skills and ask me to marry you. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.”
His eyes told Elise that he was grinning. She was glad she couldn’t see his smile. She did not want to give herself an excuse to accept his invitation. “I don’t think Tears for Fears would approve of people dancing the tango to Mad World.”
“Then it’s fortunate that we don’t need their approval.”
“But you need mine. I’m really not in the mood for company, much less dancing. I’m sure you will have no problem finding plenty of women at this party who will be more than willing to dance the tango, the waltz, or even the funky chicken with you.”
He let out a small laugh. “I have never met a woman so determined not to meet me. You really have nothing to worry about, you know, considering that you aren’t even really here.”
Elise cocked a brow. “Is that right?”
“Your clothes gave away your secret.” He gestured to the oversized leather jacket she was wearing over her wine-red period ball gown. “This is a Venetian Masquerade Ball in the eighteenth century. You are an anachronism, very possibly a time traveler. Any moment now, you will erase any recollection I have of this moment, disappear in a flash of light, and return to the distant future.”
“Let me guess. You’re a Doctor Who fan.”
“Certified Whovian. You?”
On any other night, Elise would have jumped at the chance to talk about Daleks, Cybermen, and Weeping Angels. But tonight, what the man really offered her was not conversation, but a choice. She could make a memory of this night with him or she could refuse to. Chances were, the memory would be more than pleasant. He was exactly the sort of man you bumped into by the fountain in Musée Rodin’s garden right after it rained. He would smile at her and she would smile at him. Maybe they would see The Kiss sculpturetogether. Maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, later that afternoon, they would sit at a leather banquette at a café, perhaps Le Petit Château d'Eau near Place de la République, and talk long after they had finished their coffee. And then they would kiss. Tentatively at first, and then more deeply, until all she remembered of that day was the scent of dark chocolate on his skin, the sweetness of his mouth, and the way he spoke her name. Elise knew this because she had met such a man three and a half years ago and he had asked her to be his wife.
“If I tell you my name, will you leave me alone?” she said.
“I’ll consider it. You’re the only person I’ve found on this boat that I can imagine spending the rest of the year with.”
Elise checked her watch. “A year which has about two minutes left.”
“And they could be the best two minutes of the year yet. I’d rather hold on to that possibility than trade it for your name. We are, after all, much more than what our parents chose to write on our birth certificate, wouldn’t you agree? You would still be you if I called you, ‘Bob.’ Or ‘Humperdinck,’ if you prefer. Either name works for me. What will it be?”
Elise kept her eyes on her watch. Its thin silver hands ferried the entire world forward, but left her behind. She balanced on the boat’s railing, stranded in the same second she had lived in for nearly a year. She was the second’s sole occupant and had a freehand in furnishing it with pre-assembled guilt and painting its walls with a custom shade of regret. It was almost comfortable.
“So Bob, tell me one truth,” the man said.
Elise blinked, remembering that he was still there. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me a truth about yourself and I’ll tell you one in exchange. Being honest is a great way to end the year, don’t you think? We’re two strangers that will never meet again after this evening. If we can’t be honest with each other, who can we be honest with?”
Elise stared hard at the eyes smiling at her from behind the white mask. Her life had felt like a charade and with three glasses of champagne swimming inside her, an invitation to tell the truth was an opportunity to exhale. She loosened her grip on the railing. “I’ll do better. I’ll give you three.”
“Brilliant.” The man climbed onto the railing and sat next to her.
“I like cold pepperoni pizza, inventing a word is at the top of my bucket list, and I was supposed to get married tonight. How’s that?”
“I…I’m sorry. Would you like to talk about it?”
“You asked for the truth, not an explanation. You can leave now.”
“I will.”
“Good. Happy New Year and have a nice life.”
“As soon as I hold up my end of our bargain. Our transaction isn’t complete. I haven’t told you my truths yet.”
Elise rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
“I like to steal things.” He snapped Elise’s photo. “Faces. Moments. Secrets.”
Elise looked at her reflection in the Nikon’s lens and wondered which among the thoughts running through her it had captured. She envied the woman that now lived inside the camera; her mind was still.
“I also have a horrible addiction to silly socks.” He tugged the bottom of his pant leg, showing off dark blue socks dotted with yellow grinning cats.
Elise almost smiled and remembered why she couldn’t.
“I don’t like fast food,” he said. “No. That’s a lie. I hate it with every cell in my body.”
“Why?” The word slipped out of Elise faster than she could clamp her lips over it. Curiosity, like a bottle of Alphonse Mellot Sancerre Rouge Génération XIX, was her weakness. Both were bold, hinted of mulberries and eastern spices, and seductive.
“The pleasure of eating,” he said, “is in the clinking of plates and forks, the tinkling of glasses, and the mingling of flavors over your tongue. A burger you devour in ten seconds misses the point of food entirely. And for my last truth-”
“You’ve already given me three.”
“I’m feeling generous. It must be all the champagne. You get this one for free. Cliché or not, I would very much like to kiss you now, Bob.”
A chorus rose from the front of the boat. “Dix. Neuf. Huit. Sept. Six…”
“Five....” After four years in France, Elise almost spoke like a local, but returned to English for her most private thoughts. She closed her eyes. A haze of champagne rose behind her lids. “Four. Three,” she counted, laying each number like a brick between herself and the past. Each pushed her closer to a stranger and a kiss that could possibly make her forget all that she needed to leave behind. She inflated her lungs with a breath, weighing the price of this momentary escape. Deciding whether to start the year being broken or as a fool called for some thought.
The man leaned towards Elise, lifting the bottom of his mask. His lips parted slightly, uttering a whisper. “Two…”
A serrated metal roar drowned out his voice. The boat shook, hurling him from the railing. If he screamed, Elise did not hear him. She was too busy falling into the Seine. Her mind raced faster than she fell. It was, Elise decided, a fitting way to end her year. Water could not possibly hurt as much as tears. In a way, it was going to be a relief.
Her back slammed into the river, knocking the air and calm out of her. Her leather jacket weighed her arms down. Layers of tulle, ruffles, and brocade tangled around her legs. She clawed at the side of the boat. Her hands, gloved in black silk, slipped off the wet steel. Water surged into her nose and throat, setting her lungs on fire. Pain burned her thoughts away, but left two to keep her company as she drowned: She wanted to live and needed, just as fiercely, that a nameless masked stranger live too.