The Paris Connection

by Lorraine Brown

  I took a deep breath and scrolled through his e-mails, scanning them for names I recognized. I was terrified about getting caught—was there any way he would know what I’d done? Did he have it alarmed or something, so that he’d get a message alerting him to the fact that somebody had hacked his e-mail account? It wouldn’t surprise me; he was very good with technology. I carried on scrolling, my hand shaking slightly as I rolled the dial on the mouse. There were loads of messages from Catherine, tons from work, a couple from his mum with wedding-related subject headers. I didn’t bother to open any of them, just whizzed through, looking for anything out of the ordinary. And then I stopped, leaving the cursor hovering ominously over a group of messages to and from somebody called Alison. Wedding Alison. I swallowed, but it felt difficult, as though my throat had sealed itself up. I clicked into them.

  The most recent had been sent the night before we’d flown to Venice.

  Alison Clarke

  Sat, Jun 29, 8:17 PM

  Si,

  I know you said not to text, so I thought I’d let you know I’ve got some news. Let’s talk at the wedding.

  A x

  I bit my lip and scrolled down. The previous message had been sent a few weeks before, on the night of my birthday dinner.

  Simon Woodburn

  Sat, Jun 8, 9:52 PM

  Dear Al,

  Thank you—again!—for everything. Can meet on Tuesday evening if that suits? I’ll tell Hannah I’m pulling a late one at the gym.

  S x

  Her initial e-mail was underneath it.

  Alison Clarke

  Fri, Jun 7, 11:31 AM

  Dear Si,

  Good to see you last night. Hope your hangover’s not as bad as mine!

  Listen, I think it’s best to keep our e-mail correspondence to a minimum for now, while we’re working out the logistics of everything. Might be safer to arrange a time to meet? Let me know how you’re fixed next week.

  Stay strong, Si, I believe we can find you a way out of this.

  A x

  I snapped the laptop shut, closed my eyes for a second or two and then opened it again, rereading the messages in case I’d missed something the first time. Fucking hell. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. I supposed that was the problem with snooping: there was a chance you’d find something that was even worse than the thing you’d imagined. At worst, I’d expected a couple of flirty messages. But they’d actually been meeting up. They’d got drunk together. And what hurt more than anything was that they’d conspired to dupe me by pretending he was going to the gym. We’d only been living together for six months, surely that was too soon for him to be looking elsewhere. Why wouldn’t he just end things? Leave me and move on. He didn’t share everything with me, I already knew that, but this was a whole other level of secrecy. I could still picture the moment it had dawned on me, what a shock it had been when I’d realized that our relationship wasn’t quite as straightforward as I’d thought it was going to be. It had been the weekend I’d met his family for the first time. We’d been together six months by then and were spending pretty much every day together, about to move into the flat. Catherine had whisked me up to her room to talk weddings.

  “So . . . ,” Catherine had said ominously. “Tell me everything.”

  She was even more well-spoken than Si, and more direct. I seemed to remember they’d been at different schools: he’d gone to a nearby boys’ school, but they’d “had” to educate Catherine privately, apparently.

  “Um . . . what about?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  She elbowed me in the ribs. “How’s it going with Si? It must be serious if he’s asked you to move in with him so soon. He’s not usually one for doing anything without months of meticulous planning.”

  I smiled. “I had noticed that.”

  “You’re very different from his ex,” she said, looking at me thoughtfully. “In a good way, obviously,” she added quickly.

  I tried not to let myself feel threatened by the idea of an ex-girlfriend who was nothing like me. The truth was, he’d barely mentioned her, or any of the other relationships he’d had. On the odd occasion I’d tried to start a conversation about it, Si had fobbed me off with some charming sentiment about not caring about the past now that he’d met me. And in some ways that suited me perfectly: he wasn’t interested in hearing about my past relationships, either, and since they were pretty much a disaster across the board, I wasn’t exactly eager to volunteer the information.

  “Has he told you much about what happened?” asked Catherine, opening a plastic folder entitled Wedding Ideas and flicking through it until she got to what looked like the invitations section.

  I shook my head. “He hasn’t really talked about her.”

  Catherine looked surprised. “Not at all?”

  “Not really.” And then curiosity got the better of me. “Why, what was she like?”

  Catherine looked at me earnestly. “What she did to him was horrendous. For Si especially, but it hit all of us hard, the entire family.”

  This was more interesting than I’d thought. What was this terrible, very dramatic thing that had happened to Si that he hadn’t told me about?

  “They were together for three years,” said Catherine in a hushed tone. “And he did everything for her, Hannah. Absolutely everything. He drove her around, he picked her up from here, there and everywhere. Took her on romantic city breaks every five minutes. He helped her buy a flat, he found her a new job. He basically organized her entire life for her.”

  “Right,” I said, thinking that the dynamic sounded very familiar. It sometimes felt as though Si was the parent in our relationship and I was the wanton child who needed pulling into line.

  “They were basically the golden couple of Berkhamsted,” said Catherine, on a roll now. “We’d known her for years. Her dad played golf with my dad. It was almost inevitable they’d end up together.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said, starting to feel uncomfortable. I could just picture the perfection of it.

  “So you can imagine the devastation all round when it turned out she’d been shagging Si’s best friend, Will. For months. And nobody had had a clue, least of all Si, of course.”

  “Blimey,” I said, shocked. I hadn’t expected that.

  “He was in bits,” said Catherine. “We were all really worried about him.”

  I was confused, though. Why on earth hadn’t he told me? He’d given me the impression that he’d breezed through life without a hitch and I would have much preferred to have known that things hadn’t run altogether smoothly for him, either.

  Catherine put her hand on my arm.

  “Anyway, that’s all in the past now, Hannah. I can see how much he adores you, it’s practically radiating out of him,” she said.

  I smiled politely at her, my mind ticking over. I wondered, suddenly, how wise it was to move in with someone I clearly knew very little about.

  “I’m serious, Hannah,” said Catherine, taking my hand. “I honestly can’t thank you enough for making my brother happy again. You’re just what he needs. You’re a tonic. A new lease on life. No wonder he’s grabbing it with both hands.”

  I smiled at her, attempting to radiate calm, but really feeling the beginnings of panic. My chest felt tight and sweat prickled at my hairline. I pushed up the sleeves of my jumper, wishing I’d worn something lighter. It was just that this was all a bit much to take in. I’d only known Catherine about half an hour and already I’d had more of an insight into Si’s history than I’d had from him since we’d met.

  “I think we’re going to get along brilliantly,” she said triumphantly, although I wasn’t sure what she’d based that assumption upon.

  “Hope so,” I said, sort of meaning it. I wasn’t sure what to think right at that moment, about this or anything else.

  “Now
,” said Catherine, spreading out the folder across both of our laps. “Have a look at these invitations, will you, and tell me whether you prefer the pink trim or the blue? My fiancé likes blue, but Mum’s keen on the pink.”

  I immediately felt under an unbelievable amount of pressure to conjure up a list of wanky adjectives about how amazing they both were, and what a bind it must be for her, having to choose.

  * * *

  • • •

  I logged out of Si’s account and sat with my hands underneath my thighs. I wanted desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt, but my mind wouldn’t settle and my stomach was flipping about all over the place. I got up and moved across to the window, leaning into the pane. It was even busier down on the quayside now, full of kids from a local school out on their lunch hour. I watched them, milling about in their cliques, smoking and shouting to each other.

  “Hey,” said Léo, appearing next to me, his hip bones resting against the glass. He was slightly shorter than Si, I noticed. The top of my head was level with the tip of his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I replied, trying to sound normal.

  The messages had been very vague. They didn’t smack of an affair exactly, but it was clear there was something going on, something they didn’t want me to know about. Surely if he was sleeping with her, he would have covered his tracks, would have had the sense to delete the evidence. Unless, of course, he thought me too stupid to suspect anything. He might have imagined that he’d done such a great job of persuading me that he loved me that it wouldn’t cross my mind to go searching through his things.

  I felt stung by the betrayal. He’d e-mailed her on the night of my birthday, then. When had he done it? Before the presents or after? Had it been when he’d disappeared off to get the cake? How could it be that one minute he was entertaining my friends, spoiling me with extravagant presents, being so attentive, so loving, the perfect partner, and the next he’d sloped off to message another woman? It didn’t make any sense. I shook my head, wanting to get rid of the images of that night, of how happy I’d been. Had it all been a lie? Wasn’t I enough for him after all?

  “So, I must go to meet some friends,” said Léo. “Would you like me to drive you back to the station?”

  I nodded wildly. “Sure.” I’d obviously got it wrong when I thought we’d be traveling together. What had been the point in giving me his number to hand out, then?

  “What will you do at the station?” he asked, looking at his watch. “It is not even 12:00.”

  “I’ll read for a bit,” I said, giving him the impression I’d like nothing more. “Channel my inner trainspotter, note down how many different types of train I can see. I don’t know.”

  “You certainly know how to have a good time, Hannah,” said Léo mock-seriously.

  I glanced round at Sylvie, who was putting things away in the kitchen. She flitted in and out of sight, stretching up to reach a cupboard and then bending down to the dishwasher.

  “I suppose you have had enough of Paris for one day,” he said, laying the palm of his hand on the glass.

  I laughed softly. “Funnily enough, Paris has turned out to be the least of my worries.”

  “Ah, so you love it after all!”

  “I wouldn’t say love, exactly.”

  “Enough to come and meet some more Parisians?”

  I rested my forehead on the glass to try to stop my mind from racing. It was full of lots of things, but mostly Si and his stupid fucking e-mails.

  “You mean come with you now?” I said.

  “It is okay. I understand. You think we are all arrogant and rude and you would rather spot trains.”

  “You know I was joking about the trains, right?”

  “Yes, Hannah, I know you were joking.”

  If I could clear my head, I might be able to work out what to do. Figure out how I was going to get through this wedding knowing what I now knew.

  “Let’s go, then,” I said, turning to look for my bag. “Before I change my mind.”

  Léo watched me. “There are always surprises when I am with you, Hannah.”

  “Oh, I’m full of them,” I said, thinking that clearly, I wasn’t the only one.

  14

  I looked wistfully at the restaurants lining the quay, each table packed with people on their lunch hour, the mouthwatering aromas of garlic and freshly baked bread and fragrant herbs wafting tantalizingly out of every doorway.

  The three of us plus a motorbike straddled the pavement for a while as we set off, which was most inconvenient for everyone walking in the opposite direction, until Sylvie took a call and strutted off ahead.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Léo, who was wheeling the bike along beside me with his bag slung over his shoulder again.

  “A place on the Quai de Valmy. It is a bar we visit all the time,” said Léo. “Like a second home for me. We will only stay a little while. I will not make us late, okay?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I believe you.”

  He stopped to dab his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt. The sun was shining again, glittering on the surface of the canals, its reflection disturbed only by the odd boat drifting quietly by. The cobbled quayside was scattered with groups of teenagers sitting cross-legged in circles and lovers curled into each other, one’s head in the other’s lap as they looked out across the water.

  “Do you still think about this wedding?” asked Léo.

  “Yeah,” I said, laughing lightly. “Because if I don’t make it on time and I manage to upset my future in-laws before I’ve even begun, they’ll never let me forget it.”

  Léo looked at me, frowning. “What do you mean by future in-laws?”

  The thought of saying it out loud made me feel self-conscious. After all, until now I hadn’t told a soul.

  “I found an engagement ring in Si’s bag,” I said, crossing my arms and then uncrossing them again.

  It had been our second day in Venice and we’d gone back to the hotel for a nap. I’d had the beginnings of a headache, a dull throb at the front of my skull, and I remembered Si had packed some paracetamol. I glanced across at him; he was sleeping, his eyelids flickering, his breath soft and rhythmic. Not wanting to disturb him, I knelt down on the floor, pulling his bag out from under the bed, unzipping it as quietly as I could, searching for the medical kit he’d told me he’d brought with him in case of emergencies. He was always very prepared, a holdover from his Boy Scout days, perhaps—according to Catherine, he’d been a very diligent one. I searched hesitantly through the contents of his bag, pulling aside the perfectly packed, neatly ironed selection of top-end high-street clothing. His was the polar opposite of my own suitcase, which was already in disarray, with dirty clothes mixing with clean, and everything requiring a second round of ironing. I felt around for a bottle of pills, my fist eventually closing over something small and square. I wiggled around in some sort of pocket, assuming it was the packet of tablets I needed. Instead I pulled out a little red velvet box.

  I squinted at it, pulling it close to me so that my nose was almost touching it, then holding it as far away from me as my arm would stretch. My first thought was that it might be an early Christmas present, a necklace he’d seen me looking at in one of the markets and had sneakily gone back to buy. There’d been that time he’d said he needed the loo and I’d waited for what felt like ages in the sun, sitting on the wall outside the Peggy Guggenheim museum. But then when I flipped open the lid, my mouth literally fell open. Inside was the most beautiful engagement ring I’d ever seen—an exquisite vintage square-cut diamond in an art deco mount. God, he knew me so well already, and after just a year together. The ring could not have been more perfect. Was he seriously going to ask me to marry him? I gazed at it for ages, my eyes straining in their sockets, my heart fluttering high in my chest, until I heard the rustle of bedsheets and panicked and snap
ped the box shut and flung it back almost exactly where I’d found it, smoothing out the clothes on top. When I looked up, Si was hanging off the edge of the bed, staring wide-eyed at me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice unusually high.

  “Looking for painkillers,” I said, wishing I was a better actor. “Sorry, I should have waited for you to wake up, but my head is pounding.”

  “Here,” said Si, rolling naked off the bed and nudging me gently aside, looking sideways at me. “Let me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Léo looked almost as shell-shocked as I’d been.

  “That is huge, Hannah.”

  I nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “What happened after you saw it in his bag?”

  “I was worried he’d notice something was up,” I said, “so I babbled away, banging on about food and boat trips and what I’d seen out the window earlier. And the whole time this funny, kind of uncomfortable feeling was rippling through me. Disbelief, I suppose.”

  “You could not believe that your boyfriend would want to marry somebody as preoccupied with dying as you are?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”

  “Yes,” he said, although the look on his face said the opposite. He probably thought I was going to tell him some soppy tale about the proposal itself. In his mind, it might have taken place on a gondola. At midnight, while we were gliding under one of those romantic little bridges.