Page 73 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘I like your writing,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

‘That means a lot,’ she said.

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their côte. It was on a chunky wooden board, and he sliced it carefully. For a moment, Juliet was taken back to that first lunch in Paris, when Jean Louis had taken them for poulet rôti. She batted away the thought. Jean Louis had no place in her memory anymore.

As they began to eat, Olivier poured them each a glass from a bottle of Gigondas. It was deep and rich, the perfect wine to melt away any lingering awkwardness between them. When they had finished, Olivier pushed his plate to one side, rested his head in one hand and gazed at her. He sighed.

‘And now, I have to kill Jean Louis Beaubois. C’est dommage. But it’s a question of honour.’

Juliet burst out laughing. She had forgotten how droll Olivier was. His dry, self-deprecating humour. And even if he was teasing, she loved the fact he was defending her.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I don’t want you to go to prison now I’ve found you.’

‘There are conjugal visits.’

She blushed. ‘He’s not worth going to prison for. There must be a better revenge.’

‘Yes. I know exactly what it could be.’

She looked at him, at the smile playing on his lips, his dancing eyes. She felt like the candle between them, as if she was melting into a pool of hot wax.

‘Is that a good idea?’ She spoke lightly, but she was very aware that they were both vulnerable, that they shouldn’t be rushing into something just because they had history.

‘You have what, three weeks left in Paris?’

‘A bit less than that.’ She felt panic. Time was going too fast.

‘We might as well spend some time together. And it’s not like we don’t know each other.’

In some ways, the fact they were former lovers made it even worse. Would he compare her to her lithe, supple twenty-year-old self? Would he be shocked by the extra padding, the loss of tone?

‘Hey. It’s OK. I understand if you don’t want to. But maybe we both need a little fun? We like the same things. We can go to the theatre, some jazz, a reading, maybe? And dinner. I miss going out to dinner with someone.’

Oh God. He was stroking the inside of her wrist. She could barely breathe. She didn’t care about theatre or jazz or readings. She shut her eyes. She felt dizzy with lust and Gigondas and the drift of his cologne. He stopped stroking her and she opened her eyes, craving his touch. He was staring at her.

‘On y va?’ Shall we go?

Juliet leaned back and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Where?’

‘Chez moi?’

She swallowed her heart down. She could only manage a nod. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She couldn’t believe how she felt. The little diamond-tipped arrows of lust shooting through her, as piercingly sweet as when she was twenty.

Suddenly, the bill was paid, and she was on Olivier’s arm, stumbling out into the street. She stepped forward to be nearer him, and then he did take her in his arms, for no one could see them here. And their kiss was a lifetime of longing and wondering; of daydreams and fantasies and tear-soaked pillows; of memories and hurt and reminiscence. She leaned against him and now his hand was on the back of her neck, massaging each vertebra until she nearly cried out with the pleasure of his fingers on her skin.

‘Walk?’ he asked. ‘Or Métro?’

‘How far?’

‘Quinze minutes.’

She preferred to walk, although it was cold. She wanted the air, the moon, the smell of the streets, the sound of people and music. She wanted to be seen. She wanted, too, to know where she was going.

‘My apartment is in Oberkampf,’ he told her. ‘It was not so cool when I bought it, but I wanted somewhere big enough for the kids. Now it is very … happening.’

Juliet guessed he had suffered the usual divorced dad compromise. It was usually the fathers who ended up in a too-small flat somewhere, squashed up and miserable, with the kids having to share a spare room. Emma had sounded like the kind of woman who would make sure she came out of any negotiations on top.

They walked their way out of the Marais east towards the 11th and onto the Rue Oberkampf. It was still buzzing at this time of night, filled with music and laughter and light spilling from a heady mix of basement dives, artisan restaurants and bijoux cocktail bars. It was party central, and the crowd were young and hip and full of energy. It should have made her feel old, but she felt like a goddess on Olivier’s arm as they wove through the streets, lacing her fingers in his and holding them so tightly, desperate to communicate how she felt, how much this meant.

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