Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “ ’Course not, silly.” She touched his cheek lightly, smiled seductively. “Shall we get to it then … making babies, I mean.”

  “Try and stop me—” he began, but paused when the intercom buzzed.

  The shrilling startled Alexandra, and nonplussed, she stared at Jack. Then she scrambled off the bed, took a woolen robe out of the closet, and struggled into it as she ran to the foyer. Lifting the intercom phone, she said, “Hello?”

  “FedEx delivery for Ms. Gordon.”

  “Thanks. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the fourteenth floor.”

  ————

  THE CARBON COPY of the original label on the front of the FedEx envelope was so faint she could barely make out the name and address of the sender. In fact, the only part she could read was Paris, France.

  She stood holding the envelope, a small furrow crinkling the bridge of her nose. And then her heart missed a beat.

  From the doorway of the bedroom Jack said, “Who’s it from? You look puzzled.”

  “I can’t make out the name. Best thing to do is open it, I suppose,” she replied, forcing a laugh.

  “That might be a good idea.” Jack’s voice was touched with acerbity.

  She glanced across at him swiftly, detecting at once a hint of impatience … as if it were her fault their lovemaking had been interrupted by the FedEx delivery. But wishing to keep things on an even keel, to placate him, she exclaimed, “Oh, it can wait!” Dropping the envelope on the small table in the foyer, she added, “Let’s go back to bed.”

  “Naw, the mood’s gone, ducks. I’m gonna take a quick shower, make a cuppa rosy lee, then start on dinner,” he answered her in a bogus Cockney accent.

  She stood staring at him, biting her lip.

  Observing the crestfallen expression in her eyes, Jack Wilton instantly regretted his attitude. He softened, pulled her toward him, embraced her. “I’m sorry, I was a bit snotty, Lexi. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?” His eyes held hers, a brow lifted quizzically. “Don’t you see, I was put out … and you know why. I was all ready to make babies.” He grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. “So …” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Let’s go and take a shower together.”

  “I guess I ought to open—”

  He cut her off. “It’ll wait.” Taking hold of her hand, he led her across to the bathroom and into the shower stall, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, held her close again as the water sluiced over their bodies.

  Alexandra leaned against him, closed her eyes, thinking of the envelope she had left on the table. She was beginning to worry about it, anxiety-ridden and tense inside. She could well imagine who it was from. It could be only one person, and the thought terrified her.

  ————

  BUT SHE WAS WRONG.

  A short while later, when she finally opened the envelope, it was not a letter inside as she had believed, but an invitation. Her relief was enormous.

  She sat on the sofa in her living room, staring at it, and a smile broke through, lighting up her face. Leaping to her feet, she ran across the room to the kitchen, where Jack was cooking, exclaiming, “Jack, it’s an invitation. To a party. In Paris.”

  Jack glanced up from the bowl of fresh tomatoes he was stirring, took a sip of his tea, and asked, “Who’s the party for, then?”

  “Anya. My wonderful Anya Sedgwick.”

  “The woman who owns the school you went to … what’s it called again? Ah, yes, the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what’s the occasion?”

  “Her birthday.” Leaning against the doorjamb, she began to read from the engraved invitation. “The pleasure of your company is requested at a celebration in honor of Anya Sedgwick on the occasion of her eighty-fifth birthday. On Saturday, June the second, 2001. At Ledoyen, Carré Champs-Elysées, Paris. Cocktails at eight o’clock. Supper at nine o’clock. Dancing from ten o’clock on. Hey, isn’t that great, Jack, it’s a supper dance. Oh, how wonderful.”

  “Sounds like it’s going to be a super bash. Can you take a friend, do you think?”

  Alexandra glanced at the invitation again. Her name had been written across the top in the most elegant calligraphy she had ever seen. But it was only her name. The words and guest were missing. “I don’t think I can. It has only my name on it. I’m sure it’s just for her family and former pupils.… ” Alexandra’s voice trailed off.

  He was silent for a moment, concentrating as he finely chopped an onion. When he at last looked up, he asked, “Are you going to go?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know. It all depends on work, I guess. I’ve only one small set to finish for Winter Weekend, and then that’s it. I’ll be out of work if something doesn’t pop up.”

  “I’m sure it will, Lexi,” he reassured her, glancing at her, smiling. “Now scoot, and let me finish the pasta pomidoro, and before you can say Jack Robinson I’ll have dinner for my lady.”

  She laughed, said “Okay,” and went back to the sofa, still holding the invitation in her hand. Sitting down, she stared at it for a moment longer, her mind on Anya Sedgwick, the woman who had been her teacher, mentor, and friend. She had not seen her for a year. It would be lovely to be in her company again, to celebrate this important milestone in her life … Paris in the spring. How truly glorious it would be …

  But Tom Conners was in Paris.

  When she thought of him she found it hard to breathe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEXANDRA AWAKENED WITH A START, AND AFTER A MOment she sat up, blinking, adjusting her eyes in the darkness. The room was quiet, bathed in silence, but for a moment she felt a presence, as if someone stood nearby, hovered close to the bed.

  She remained still, breathing deeply, pushing the feeling away, knowing this was all it was … just a feeling, the sensation that he was with her in the room because her dream had been so very real.

  But then, it always was whenever she dreamed it. Everything that happened had a validity to it, was vivid, lifelike; even now, as she rested against the pillows, she could smell him, smell his body, his hair, the cologne he used. Jicky by Guerlain. It seemed to her that even the taste of him lingered on her mouth, as if he had kissed her deeply.

  Except that he had not been here tonight … only in the dream, one so extraordinarily alive in her mind that after awakening she had believed he truly was in the bedroom. But, of course, she was alone.

  Suddenly knowing that sleep would be elusive, at least for the moment, Alexa sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, and slid her long legs out of bed. As she glided across the floor, she realized she was bathed in sweat, as she usually was after this oft-recurring dream.

  Wrapping herself in her pale blue woolen dressing gown, she hurried through the small front foyer and went into the kitchen, snapping on lights as she did.

  What she needed was a cup of tea. Chamomile tea. It would soothe her, encourage sleep. After filling the kettle with water and putting it on the gas ring, she sat down on the stool, contemplating the dream she had with such unusual regularity.

  The odd thing was, the dream was always exactly the same. Nothing ever changed. He was suddenly there with her, either coming through the door or standing by the bed looking down at her. And inevitably he slid into bed, made love to her, cradling her in his arms, telling her he missed her, wanted her, needed her. And always he reminded her that she was the love of his life. His one true love.

  And the dream was rooted in such uncanny reality, she was invariably shaken; even her body felt as if it had been invaded by a sensual and virile man. It was, she muttered under her breath as she filled the mug with boiling water. At least it was this afternoon. Jack Wilton made love to me when he arrived here today … in the gloaming he loved me well.

  Yes, a small voice said in her head, but in the dream you just had it was Tom Conners loving you. It’s never anybody else but Tom Conners in the dream, and that’s your basic problem.

  Sigh
ing to herself, Alexa turned on a lamp and sat down in the comfortable overstuffed chair near the fireplace, sipped the chamomile tea, and stared into the dying embers of the log fire.

  What was wrong with her? The question hovered over her like a black cloud.

  She had made love with Jack and enjoyed every moment of it, and there had been an unexpected and wonderful renewal of passion between them, a passion sadly absent for months. To excuse this, she had blamed tiredness, work, the pressure and stress of designing sets at top speed. But in all truthfulness, something else had been at play. Exactly what that was she wasn’t sure. She had pulled away from having sex with Jack, had avoided it. There had been a strange reluctance in her to be intimate with him, and she had mentally recoiled. But why? He was appealing, attractive, good-looking in a quiet way, and had a very endearing personality. He was even funny, made her laugh hilariously.

  So many images invaded her, bounced around in her head, and conflicting thoughts jostled for prominence in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, endeavoring to sort them out. Suddenly she sat up straighter and thought: My God, I agreed to marry Jack! I’m engaged to him!

  This was no joke as far as he was concerned. He was very serious. He had gone on talking over dinner about getting married, constantly touching his glass of red wine to hers, and they had laughed together, and flirted, and been in tune on all levels.

  While they hadn’t exactly settled on a wedding date, she had sort of acquiesced when he had talked about winter at the end of the year. “In New York. A proper wedding,” he had insisted. “With your family and mine, and all the trimmings. That’s what I want, Lexi.” And she had nodded in agreement.

  Once dinner was over, he had helped her stack the dishwasher, and then they had gone to bed. But he had left at five, kissing her cheek and whispering that he wanted to get an early start on a large canvas for his upcoming show.

  As for her, she dreamed about another man, and in the most intimate way possible at that. Was there something wrong with her? This wasn’t normal, was it?

  Despite the chamomile tea and its so-called soothing properties, she was suddenly wide awake. Glancing at the small brass carriage clock on the mantel, she saw that it was already ten past six in the morning.

  Ten past twelve in Paris.

  On an impulse, before she could change her mind and stop herself, she lifted the phone on the side table and dialed Tom’s office number, his direct line. Within a split second the number in Paris was ringing.

  And then he answered. “Allo.”

  She clutched the phone tighter. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. She heard an impatient sound from him, and then he spoke again.

  “Tom Conners ici.” Then again, this time in English, he said, “Hello? This is Tom Conners. Who is this?”

  Very carefully she replaced the receiver. Her hands were damp and shaking, and her heart was thudding unreasonably in her chest. What a fool she was to do this to herself. She took several deep breaths, leaned against the cushions in the chair, staring off into space.

  He was there. In his office. He was still in Paris. He was alive and well.

  And if she went to Paris, to Anya Sedgwick’s birthday party, she would do exactly what she had just done. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She would call him, and he would say let’s have a drink, because he was like that, and she would say yes, that’s great, and she would go and have a drink with him. And after that she would be genuinely lost. Floundering about once more. Yes, a lost soul.

  Because to her Tom Conners was devastatingly irresistible, a man so potent, so compelling, he lived with her in her thoughts, and in her heart and mind, if not all the time, for a good part of it.

  Even though they had stopped seeing each other three years earlier, and he had been the one to break it off, she knew that if she spoke to him he would want to see her.

  You’re such an idiot, she chastised herself. Anger flooded her. It was an anger at herself and her lingering emotional involvement with Tom Conners. And she knew it had been foolish to make that call, even though she hadn’t spoken to him. Just hearing that arresting, mellifluous voice of his had truly unnerved her.

  Alexa now forced herself to focus on Jack Wilton. He loved her, wanted to make her his wife, and she had actually accepted his proposal. All that aside, he was a truly decent human being, a good man, honorable, kind, loving, and generous to a fault sometimes. His success had not spoiled him, and he was very down-to-earth in that humorous English way of his, not taking either himself or life too seriously. “Only my work must be taken seriously,” he was forever telling her, and she understood exactly what he meant by that.

  She knew he adored her, admired her talent as a scenic designer, applauded her dedication and discipline. He encouraged her, comforted her when she needed comforting, and was always there for her. And the truth was he had stayed in the relationship and had been exceedingly patient with her even when she had been cool toward him physically these last few months.

  What’s more, her parents liked him. A good sign, since they’d always been very critical when it came to her boyfriends. Not picky about Tom Conners, because he’d charmed them without trying. But then again, they had never really known him, nor had they actually understood the extent of her involvement with him, because their relationship had evolved after she had left Anya’s school in Paris.

  Jack would make a wonderful husband, she decided. He loved her, and she loved him. In her own way.

  Alexandra pushed herself up out of the chair very purposefully, and, turning off the lamp, she went back to bed. Jack Wilton was going to be her husband, and that was that.

  Sadly, she would have to forgo Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party. For her own self-protection.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SEATED AT THE MAHOGANY TABLE IN THE ELEGANT DINING room of her parents’ apartment on East Seventy-ninth Street, Alexandra was savoring the tomato omelette her mother had just made, thinking how delicious it was. Hers inevitably turned into a runny mess despite having had her mother, the best chef in the world, to teach her over the years.

  “This is great, Mom,” she said after a moment, “and thanks for making time for me today. I know you like to have your Saturdays to yourself.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’m glad you’re here,” Diane Gordon answered, glancing up, smiling warmly. “I was just about to call you this morning, to see what you were doing, when the phone rang and there you were, wanting to have lunch.”

  Alexa returned her mother’s smile and asked, “When’s Dad getting back from the Coast?”

  “Tuesday, he said. But it could be Friday. You know what the network is like. You grew up with networks and their schedules, lived by them when you were a child.”

  “And how!” Alexa exclaimed. “I suppose Dad’s going to see Tim this weekend.”

  “Yes, they’re having dinner tonight. Dad’s taking him to Morton’s.”

  “Tim’ll love that, it’s his favorite place in L.A. I guess he’s going to stay out there after all. When I spoke to him last week he sounded very high on Los Angeles, and his new job at NeverLand Productions. He told me he was born to be a moviemaker.”

  Diane laughed. “Well, I suppose that’s true. Remember what he was like when he was a kid, always wanting to go with your father to the television studios, to be on the set. And let’s not forget that Grandfather Gordon was a very highly thought of stage director, and for many years. Show business is in Tim’s blood, more than likely.” Diane took a sip of water, then asked her daughter, “Do you want a glass of wine, darling?” a blond brow lifting questioningly.

  “No, thanks, Mom, not during the day. It makes me sleepy. Anyway, it’s fattening … all that sugar. I prefer to take my calories in bread.” As she spoke, she reached for a piece of the baguette that her mother had cut up earlier and placed in a silver bread basket. She spread it generously with butter and took a bite.

  “You don’t have to worry about your w
eight, you know, and you look marvelous, really well,” Diane remarked, eyeing her daughter. She couldn’t help thinking how young she looked for her age. It didn’t seem possible that Alexandra was thirty. In fact, in the summer she would be thirty-one, and it seemed like only yesterday that she was a toddler running around her feet. My God, when I was her age I had two children, Diane thought, and a husband to look after, and a growing business to run. Thirty-one, she mused, and in May I’ll be fifty-eight. How time flies, just disappears. Where have all the years gone? David will be fifty-nine in June. What is even more incredible is our marriage. It’s lasted so long, so many years, and it’s still going strong. A record of sorts, isn’t it?

  “Mom, what are you pondering? You’re looking very strange. Are you okay?” Alexa probed.

  “I’m fine. I was just thinking about your father. And our marriage. It’s amazing that we’ve been married for thirty-three years. And what’s even more staggering is that the years seem to have passed in a flash. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and shook her head in sudden bemusement.

  “You two have been lucky,” Alexa murmured, “so lucky to have found each other.”

  “That’s absolutely true.”

  “You and Dad, you’re like two peas in a pod. Did you start out being so alike? Or did you grow to resemble each other? I’ve often wondered that, Mom.” Her head on one side, she gazed at her mother, thinking how beautiful she was, probably one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, with her peaches-and-cream skin, her pale golden hair, and those extraordinary liquid blue eyes.

  “You’re staring, Alexa. You’re going to see all my wrinkles!”

  “Oh, Mom, you don’t have one single wrinkle. I kid you not, as Dad says.”

  Diane laughed and murmured, “As for you, my girl, you don’t look a day over twenty-five. It’s hard for me to believe you’ll be thirty-one in August.”