Page 42 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,’ I said.

‘No,’ he replied, but he didn’t move. He looked overwhelmed. Almost shocked. As if he was in pain. For a moment, I thought he was going to cry.

I was mortified. What had come over me? There was a pounding noise in my ears, the rush that too much wine gives you, the rush that makes you lose all sense.

Then he put his hand up to stroke my hair. Everything tingled, inside and out. I shut my eyes, revelling in the feeling, craving more, ignoring the warning at the back of my mind that told me this was a step too far. No one would know. We were just two people looking for distraction from our troubles. Solace.

This time, he kissed me. All I could think was how differently he kissed from Olivier. Firmer, stronger, hungrier. I put my hands in his hair. I pushed up against him, feeling his hardness, and I knew he would give me the feeling I’d dreamed of for so long. I was already halfway there, melting inside. He was kissing my neck. I could barely stand. I heard him moan, and I felt powerful in that moment. I felt as if I was made of molten gold.

Then suddenly he stopped. He put his hands to his head and walked out of the room. I stood there, my heart still racing, the blood pounding around my body. The music had stopped and, suddenly, there was a chill in the air. The wine that had tasted so sweet had a bitter aftertaste. I started to feel a little sick. Not because of what I had drunk. But because of what I had done.

21

Juliet and Olivier walked, each of them with their hands in their pockets, braced against the damp as a pale mist rolled along the canal and enveloped them. Unspoken words hung heavy between them, but somehow Juliet felt as if the companionship they had once shared was still there. The complicity of former lovers, forged in intimacy. Curiosity and dread and anticipation curdled in her stomach. Was it pure vanity that had driven her to seek him out? The urge to be told he hadn’t stopped thinking about her?

One thing was certain: whatever it was that had drawn her to him in the first place was still there. Every time she glanced sideways at him, she felt the same jolt, the same longing. Whether he felt the same was hard to tell, but he could easily have rebuffed her.

He pointed to a small café on a corner, and they ducked inside, revelling in the warmth and the rich scent of roasting coffee. They took a pair of seats at a zinc counter, and she watched him as he ordered two espressos. He placed his elbows on the counter, steepled his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles, gazing at her with a directness that she remembered as if it was yesterday. Did she have mannerisms he remembered too? She tucked her hair behind her ears, aware this was her default reaction when she felt nervous.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what took you so long to come back?’

‘I’ve just separated from my husband,’ Juliet explained. ‘My children are abroad. I work for myself. So I decided to spend some time in Paris to … rediscover myself.’

She gave a self-deprecating smile, realising how self-indulgent it sounded, but he didn’t seem to find it pretentious.

‘I’m sorry. About your husband.’

‘It’s OK. It’s fine. We agreed it was for the best. There’s no ill feeling. We’re still very good friends.’

He lifted one eyebrow very slightly. ‘You are lucky.’

‘I know.’ Juliet smiled. She touched his arm. ‘And I’m writing a book, while I’m here. I’ve given myself thirty days to write as much as I can.’

‘It’s taken you this long?’ His smile was teasing.

‘No. I’ve written lots of other books. I’m a ghostwriter.’

He frowned. ‘A ghostwriter?’

‘I don’t know how to say it in French.’ Juliet realised she should have worked that out earlier. ‘I’m paid to write books for other people. Celebrities, usually.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded his understanding.

‘But this book is my story.’

He held her gaze. Oh God, she thought, remembering the little notebook he had given her. How often she had thought of his encouragement.

‘And what is your story, Juliet?’

Was there an edge to his voice? She felt her chest tighten.

He leaned forward. ‘I was devastated,’ he said. ‘I was waiting at the cinema for you. And you never arrived. And I never saw you again. Nathalie did not know what had happened. I went to the house, but they wouldn’t say where you had gone. I wanted to call the police, but my parents didn’t want me to. I think they were worried there might be trouble, and they didn’t want me involved.’ He put his hands up to his head, running them through his hair. She wanted to do the same.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said, ‘if I’m ready to tell you what happened yet.’

‘Really? After thirty years? How long do you need?’

‘I’m still trying to figure things out.’ Suddenly, she sensed danger. Telling the truth, even after all this time, would have implications for other people. She had to be careful. She had been impulsive, finding him, before she’d got everything straight in her head first. Like many stories that revolve around love – unrequited love, betrayal, infidelity – it wasn’t always easy to see who was right and who was wrong. The blame could shift depending on the perspective. Or the narrator. Sometimes, everyone was in the wrong. For love could make you a little bit mad. And no one knew that better than the French. Here they understood a crime passionnel – a crime of passion.

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