Page 44 of Thirty Days in Paris

Ouch, thought Juliet. That was a pretty clear statement. He was not interested.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Juliet. ‘That what I did made it so hard for you. I thought you would forget me by the new year. I thought you would find someone like that.’ She clicked her fingers.

He looked down at the table. Then back up at her. She could see there was pain in his eyes. How much had been caused by her, and how much by his wife, she couldn’t be sure, but sorrow, and guilt, held the words back in her throat. What more could she say, except sorry?

Then he blinked, and smiled, and the pain dissipated, replaced by the gentle sparkle she remembered so well, the soft grey of his gaze that had always made her feel warm when it settled on her.

‘So, what else are you doing with your thirty days in Paris? You’re not just writing in your attic?’

‘I’m going to do all the things I didn’t get to do when I was here. All the sights. The art. All the shopping, because I feel like being frivolous. And food. I’m basically going to eat Paris.’ She laughed.

He nodded his approval. ‘You know, I have a confession.’

‘What?’

‘I have never been to the Eiffel Tower.’

‘You haven’t?’

‘Are you shocked?’

She thought about it. ‘Well, I haven’t been to the Tower of London. So maybe it’s not so strange. But I think you should. I mean, the Eiffel Tower? It’s iconic.’ She paused. ‘We should go.’

Her tone was light, but there was meaning underneath what she said. A challenge. An invitation. How would it land with him?

He sat back in his chair, gazing at her thoughtfully. She folded her hands, finding her racing pulse with her thumb.

‘You know the best way to see Paris?’ he asked.

‘On rollerblades?’

He laughed. ‘My rollerblading days are behind me. No – on a bike.’

‘I know. I took a bike this morning, to the market. I was so proud of myself.’

‘Notre-Dame, Tour Eiffel, Champs-Élysées.’ He listed the sights. ‘We can do it all in one afternoon.’

‘Are you offering to be my guide?’

She was flirting. Was she pushing too hard?

‘Sure. Why not?’ He pulled out his phone, flipped through his calendar.

‘You don’t have to work at the shop?’

‘The staff love it when I’m not there. They’re always telling me to take a day off. But I never have a reason.’

‘Oh.’ She bit her lip to stop herself from smiling too widely. She liked being a reason.

‘How about tomorrow?’ He grinned. ‘How do you say it? Strike while the iron is hot.’

22

The Ingénue

I woke the next morning with the taste of Sauternes and bitter guilt on my tongue. I kept my eyes shut, hoping to fall back into unconsciousness so I didn’t have to face the memory of the night before, my stomach curdling with rich food and remorse.

If I had thought Olivier standing me up felt bad, nothing was worse than knowing what I felt now was entirely my fault. I tried to burrow deep under the covers, but the guilt followed, needling at me. My watch had stopped, so I couldn’t tell what the time was. I could see it was light outside, but grey November never gave much away: it could have been dawn or dusk. I strained my ears to try to hear the children. Nothing yet.

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