The Paris Affair

by Pip Drysdale

  We move up the street a little and then turn sharp left into a doorway. The lights are gentle, romantic. The floors are unpolished floorboards. There are paintings on every wall and the positioning of small lights makes them jump from the walls as though animated. I focus on one of the paintings. Now I understand why Camilla still has a firm grip on my hand. She wants to make sure I don’t do a runner.

  My face grows warm and everything starts spinning a bit – like I’m one of those miniature ballet dancers in a music box – as I look from painting to painting.

  I recognise the gold, the red and the comics. But the girl is different now. She’s blonde. And she looks a lot like me.

  I look to Camilla. My eyes say, ‘Thank you but I’m scared,’ and I’m shaking my head as if to say, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ she says and squeezes my hand, then skips off to the drinks table.

  And so I do the only thing I can think of, I move over to the wall and start inspecting one of the paintings up close. It’s me, it’s definitely me.

  I’m a dark-clothed, mysterious figure that seems to almost melt into her surroundings.

  I think of that night over a year ago now, the one where I wandered into Le Voltage unannounced to take a picture and he was there.

  Is he here?

  But all I see are people milling around a small table set up with champagne, Camilla among them, and others talking to each other, saying things like ‘his juvenile works’ and answering statements with ‘Quite’.

  ‘So I have gifts,’ comes Camilla’s voice as she arrives next to me. I turn to grab my glass of champagne. And that’s when I see him.

  On the far side of the room.

  He looks just like he always did and is wearing a pair of light blue jeans ripped at the leg and a long-sleeved white shirt. I imagine his biceps under it. That tattoo: ka-pow.

  And I’m just standing there, staring at him. Camilla frowns and turns to follow my gaze.

  And that’s when he sees us too.

  * * *

  My heart is banging so hard against my rib cage it’s reverberating in my ears as he moves towards us in what seems like slow motion.

  ‘I’m going to give you a sec,’ Camilla whispers in my ear, and then she’s off, to the other side of the room. And I’m left, breathless and not sure what to do with my hands. I clasp my champagne glass.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, his eyes still on mine as he approaches.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply. It’s all I can manage as he moves forward to kiss me on one cheek and then the other. He smells like he always did: like peppermint shampoo and the air after it rains. ‘I’m so fucking glad you came. I was worried you wouldn’t.’

  I feel my forehead move into a frown as realisation hits: Camilla organised this with him. I look over to her and she’s watching us, grinning.

  ‘So,’ I say, looking at the painting closest to us. ‘New model?’

  He grins. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, it’s a shit likeness anyway,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, and you’re wearing your clothes.’

  ‘So a strong fail on all counts,’ I say, sipping my champagne.

  And I want to say so many things, though I’m not sure what they are. I want to be witty and brilliant and all the things all at once. But for me, when there are things I can’t say, or I won’t say, it’s almost like they clog my throat. And then I can’t say anything at all. And so I just stand there, staring at the painting, waiting for him to say something first.

  ‘I should probably go and talk to some people,’ he says, watching me.

  And I smile and nod and wait for him to go, like I don’t care either way, when really my marrow is aching. This is why I never would have come here if I’d known. This exact feeling.

  ‘But I’ll be done in twenty minutes,’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Can you stick around?’

  Chapitre quarante-quatre

  Reader, I stuck around. And now I’m waking up slowly, his arms around me, memories from last night flickering through my mind. The gallery. His paintings. I turn to look at him: he’s still asleep. I reach for my phone beside the bed. There are two missed calls from Mum. I slowly wriggle out of his grasp and into the cold morning air, pulling my dressing gown around me as I close the door and head through to the kitchen with my phone.

  It’s still dark outside as I dial.

  She picks up on the first ring. She sniffs. She’s crying.

  Shit.

  ‘He’s gone, Harper. Marc’s gone.’ Her voice so small, just like a child. I’ve heard this voice so many times.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say, my voice flat.

  She starts sobbing again. ‘I thought it was going to work this time.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I can come and see you tomorrow?’ I suggest. Tomorrow is Sunday.

  ‘That would be so great,’ she replies. And I imagine her there in the same house I grew up in, wearing the same sort of clothes, removing all traces of Marc from her eyeline.

  ‘Okay, see you then.’

  We hang up. And I look back to my closed bedroom door and I know what I have to do. Because, ladies and gentlemen, some patterns never change. Not hers, and not mine either. I tiptoe towards the door so I don’t wake Camilla, reach for the cool handle and twist. And then I move inside. He’s lying on his side. I slip out of my dressing gown, drape it over a chair and get into bed.

  He rolls over to hug me. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Mum was calling,’ I say, threading my fingers through his and squeezing, then moving towards his face and kissing him on the forehead. ‘She can’t wait to meet you.’

  He pulls back just slightly and looks at me. ‘Huh?’

  He frowns. His muscles tense up. I make sure I maintain eye contact even though something twists inside me as I see his irises contract.

  ‘She asked us for lunch. It’s not until twelve though, so lots of time.’ Then I lean across and kiss him on the neck and hold him tight. Too tight. Crazy-girl tight.

  ‘Wait,’ he says, blinking as if to get his thoughts right, his forehead a deep frown. ‘Why does your mom want to meet me?’

  I swallow. This is more painful than I expected. ‘Why would she not want to meet you?’ I ask.

  Fear flashes in his eyes. I might miss it if I didn’t know what I was looking for. He pulls away from me just a fraction more and the air beneath the duvet gets cold. His adrenaline is surging now, he’s thinking, How the fuck do I get out of here without upsetting her? A meeting. I’ll say I have a meeting.

  I swallow loudly and try to control my breath.

  ‘Harper?’ he says.

  A sadness flows through me as I wait for the inevitable. ‘Yeah?’

  He breathes out loudly.

  ‘Are you fucking with me?’

  My throat closes up.

  ‘No,’ I say. My heart is beating faster now. And his eyes are narrowing. He tilts his head slightly. Then he reaches behind his head for his pillow and hits me with it. ‘You are, you fucker.’

  He sits up, feet over his side of the bed as he reaches for his phone and starts scrolling through it and my heart is banging so hard against my ribs.

  ‘Oh look, my mom wants to meet you too.’ He grins, turning back to me and showing me the screen. ‘You’re a psycho, you know that?’ he says, standing up and pulling on his grey underwear then reaching for my dressing gown.

  It’s too small for him, but he puts it on anyway and heads for the door.

  And my throat is tight. This isn’t how it was meant to go.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ I ask, my voice cracking.

  ‘No such luck. I’m making coffee.’ And then he goes and I’m left staring at the doorway.

  And I can hear him in the kitchen, hear cupboards being opened and closed. Hear the kettle flicking on. But it’s as I hear the fridge door close that I know exactly how this story ends.

  It ends in tragedy.

  Love stor
ies always ends in tragedy eventually; in death, disillusionment or divorce. There is no fourth choice.

  I know that.

  But maybe hearts are just made to be broken.

  Because as I sit here, on the bed we slept in last night, listening to him opening drawers in the other room, I know with total certainty that, despite it all, I’m going to do it anyway. It doesn’t matter that it’s illogical and it can only end it tears. It doesn’t matter that it goes against everything I know to be true. Maybe biology has finally blinded me, maybe I have PTSD from Thomas so I’m not thinking straight, maybe society has sucked me back into their way of seeing things, or maybe it’s just that everything beautiful in life is temporary. I don’t know. All I know for sure is when people ask how we met, I’ll revel in saying, ‘Well, it was Paris in the autumn. I was sleeping with a serial killer and he was married to someone else.’ Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll say none of that. Maybe I’ll just smile and say, ‘Well, it began like any anti-love story. With Chapitre Un.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my publisher, Fiona Henderson, for your ongoing belief in me, your invaluable creative input and for always going the extra mile. To Dan Ruffino for your support from day one. To my editors, Deonie Fiford and Michelle Swainson, for your attention to detail and thoroughness – I always know my books are in great hands. To Mark Evans and Katherine Ring for your fantastic proofing skills. And to Anthea Bariamis for checking the French phrases in this book and all your work creating the audiobook.

  Thank you too, to Elissa Baillie, Gareth Woods-Jack and the entire team sales team at Simon & Schuster Australia for always championing me and getting my books into the hands of booksellers. To Kirstin Corcoran for your next-level marketing prowess. And to Anabel Pandiella for all you have done to promote my books, for being the most amazing tour buddy, and for making sure I don’t overdose on vegetable juice.

  To my wonderful agent, Mollie Glick – thank you for being in my corner! You have no idea how much I appreciate you. And to the books to film team at CAA: thank you for taking my stories out into the world of film and TV!

  To the international publishers who have delivered my work to a whole new audience – thank you. And to the reviewers who have stood behind me, the booksellers who have pressed my books into the hands of new readers and the bookstagrammers who have supported me online, thank you so much – I couldn’t do this without you.

  Which brings me to my readers – thank you for all of it. For reading my books, for sending me messages about them and for the on-going love you show my super-flawed characters. Thank you for being on this journey with me.

  To Judy Lam, who won the auction for a character name in this book due to her generous donation to Australian fire fighters through Authors For Fireys at the beginning of 2020; I hope you love the character of Judy as much as Harper does!

  To my friends in finance, for your patience, humour and the guidance you showed me while I was trying to get my head around various financial systems; sorry for the multitude of questions! Thank you for all of your help and for making it fun.

  To the narrators of all the true crime podcasts I have listened to over the years and to the film makers who have put together the many true crime documentaries I have binge watched – I may have lost vast amounts of sleep as a result of your work, but I could never have written this book without you. But especially to Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark of the My Favorite Murder podcast – as you can probably tell from this book, I’m a huge fan and so is Harper. We both credit you with the fact that we’re still alive and kicking.

  To my friends and family, of course. Always. In every way.

  And finally, to my characters. I learn a lot more from them than they do from me.

  More from the Author

  The Strangers We Know

  The Sunday Girl

  About the author

  Pip Drysdale is a writer, musician and actor who grew up in Africa and Australia. At 20 she moved to New York to study acting, worked in indie films and off-off Broadway theatre, started writing songs and made four records. After graduating with a BA in English, Pip moved to London and she played shows across Europe. In 2015 she started writing books. Her debut novel, The Sunday Girl, was a bestseller and has been published in the United States, Italy, Poland, the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The Strangers We Know was also a bestseller and is being developed for television. The Paris Affair is her third book.

  To find out more about Pip, head to:

  pipdrysdale.com

  Facebook.com/pipdrysdale

  Instagram @pipdrysdale

  www.SimonandSchuster.com.au/Authors/Pip-Drysdale

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  THE PARIS AFFAIR

  First published in Australia in 2021 by

  Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited

  Suite 19A, Level 1, Building C, 450 Miller Street, Cammeray, NSW 2062

  Sydney New York London Toronto New Delhi

  Visit our website at www.simonandschuster.com.au

  © Pip Drysdale 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9781760854324

  ISBN: 9781760854348 (ebook)

  Cover design: Christabella Designs

  Cover images: lambada/Getty Images; Ilya Akinsin/Shutterstock

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapitre Un

  Chapitre Deux

  Chapitre Trois

  Chapitre Quatre

  Chapitre Cinq

  Chapitre Six

  Chapitre Sept

  Chapitre Huit

  Chapitre Neuf

  Chapitre Dix

  Chapitre Onze

  Chapitre Douze

  Chapitre Treize

  Chapitre Quatorze

  Chapitre Quinze

  Chapitre Seize

  Chapitre Dix-sept

  Chapitre Dix-huit

  Chapitre Dix-neuf

  Chapitre Vingt

  Chapitre Vingt et un

  Chapitre Vingt-deux

  Chapitre Vingt-trois

  Chapitre Vingt-quatre

  Chapitre Vingt-cinq

  Chapitre Vingt-six

  Chapitre Vingt-sept

  Chapitre Vingt-huit

  Chapitre Vingt-neuf

  Chapitre Trente

  Chapitre Trente et un

  Chapitre Trente-deux

  Chapitre Trente-trois

  Chapitre Trente-quatre

  Chapitre Trente-cinq

  Chapitre Trente-six

  Chapitre Trente-sept

  Chapitre Trente-huit

  Chapitre Trente-neuf

  Chapitre Quarante

  Chapitre Quarante et un

  Chapitre Quarante-deux

  Chapitre Quarante-trois

  Chapitre Quarante-quatre

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Copyright

 

 

 
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