Page 71 of Thirty Days in Paris

Juliet sat back in her chair with a whoop of delight. This was thrilling. Of course, it was a long way from a done deal, but she knew in her gut that Molly would be the perfect person to guide Nathalie’s book to success if she got behind it. And she was certain they could come up with a cracking proposal.

Her phone beeped and she picked it up.

It was a wonderful evening. Thank you for introducing me to Melody Gardot. I’ll always think of you when I listen. All my very best wishes to you, Juliet. Paul x

She felt relieved. It was a kind and gentlemanly response, perfectly pitched. It didn’t make her feel bad for turning him down, which some men wouldn’t have been able to resist.

She was just texting Nathalie – Call me when you can – when the doorbell rang. Melissa, maybe, or perhaps the landlord. She went to answer it.

There he was. In jeans, and a charcoal-grey pea jacket, his hair windswept. Holding the brown envelope. They looked at each other, almost as if for the first time. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept.

‘It was the postcard,’ he said. ‘That broke me.’

‘Olivier …’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said, looking anguished. ‘Why didn’t you call me when it happened?’

She nodded towards the inside of the apartment. ‘You’d better come in.’

He followed her inside. He began to speak, not drawing breath, holding the manuscript to his chest.

‘I am so angry. I could not speak for three days.’

‘Oh.’ She felt a little fearful. There was a tension in him she’d never seen. A nervous energy. ‘I tried my best to explain. I know it seems awful, what I did—’

‘I’m not angry with you. I am angry with that man, and that woman, for what they did to you. I’m angry that everything was taken away from us. I was so in love with you, Juliet, and I thought you hated me. That I’d done something to make you run away. I thought Nathalie knew the truth and was hiding it from me to save my feelings.’

‘Nathalie didn’t know. I’ve only just told her about what happened.’ She looked at the envelope in his hand. ‘I was so ashamed. I thought neither of you would want to see me again.’

‘I did need some time. To think about it.’ Olivier flopped down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. ‘When I think about Jean Louis …’ He bunched his fists up.

‘I spoke to him.’

‘You did? What did he say?’

She shook her head. ‘There wasn’t much to say. It was so long ago. And it’s all too late now anyway …’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Of course not.’ He spoke with the fierce intensity she had loved in him when he was young. He jumped up and picked up her hand. This was not how she’d imagined it. Her standing there in her sweaty running kit, still red-faced, the sharp tug of lust, needling at her, sweet and urgent. ‘You’re here until the end of the month. We should make the most of it. You must do all the things you missed. All those things we planned. You didn’t even begin to see Paris.’

‘No …’

He was holding her hand as if he was never going to let it go. Staring at her. Was he going to kiss her? She braced herself, ready for the joy of it.

And then he dropped her hand with a sigh and looked at his watch. ‘I’m really sorry. I have to go to work,’ he said. ‘I’m already very late.’

She nodded, embarrassed, thanking God she hadn’t made the first move and made a fool of herself. Of course he didn’t still fancy her. He was angry about the past, but it didn’t mean she meant anything to him now. They were two different people entirely. He had moved on from their liaison. He hadn’t spent the intervening years fantasising about her the way she had about him. Sometimes she had dreamed about him, waking up with her cheeks wet with tears, and she’d had to tell a concerned Stuart that she’d had a nightmare.

‘Have dinner with me tonight,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Robert and Louise. Rue Vieille du Temple. Not Rue du Temple.’ He grinned. ‘You can remember that? You won’t make a mistake?’

She rolled her eyes at his teasing. ‘I can remember.’

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