Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I am indeed very pleased, she’s a lovely young woman,” Anya responded, and patted his hand resting on her shoulder.

  Moving around the table, he went to Alexa and kissed her. “We can lunch tomorrow if you’re free,” he said.

  “I am, Nicky, that’ll be great. Where shall we meet?”

  “I’ll take you to the Relais at the Plaza-Athénée. I know you like it there. Let’s meet at one. Okay?”

  “That’s perfect,” Alexa answered.

  Anya got up, tucked her arm through his, and walked back to the house with him. “Thank you so much, Nicky, for finding out about Tom. I do appreciate it.”

  “I think Alexa does too,” he murmured in a low, confiding voice. “Don’t you think she looks tremendously relieved? Probably to know he’s still single.”

  “Perhaps,” Anya replied, not quite sure if this was the case or not. In her long years as a teacher she had learned one thing: Young women could be very tricky.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I’M SO GLAD YOU DON’T THINK I’M A MEDDLESOME old woman,” Anya said to Alexa after she had ushered Nicky out and returned to the table under the cherry tree. She sat down, sighing lightly as she did. “Some people might, darling girl, and it would truly upset me if you did.”

  “First, I never think of you as old, and second, you were not meddling. I suspect you wanted to find out what was happening with Tom in order to protect me,” Alexandra asserted. “Forewarned is forearmed. I can just hear you thinking that. Am I correct?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m very surprised I didn’t get a lecture from Nicky,” Alexa suddenly blurted out, and added, “He was also protective of me years ago, and he and Larry kept cautioning me about Tom. They both said he would only cause me grief.”

  “I know Nicky can be a pain in the neck at times, but he’s a good person, and very devoted to you. Anyway, let’s face it, Alex, in this instance he wasn’t far off the mark, was he? And neither was Larry.”

  “You’re right, as usual.” Alexa gave Anya a concentrated stare and asked pointedly, “A few minutes ago, was Nicky referring to Maria Franconi? Is that who he meant?”

  “I do believe he did.” Anya sat back, eyed Alexa, averted her face for a moment, endeavoring to stifle the laughter bubbling in her throat. Alexa had obviously been taken aback by Nicky’s announcement about his dinner date. Her expression was one of such horror, it was actually comical. She knew that Alexa and Maria had locked horns at one point, just before their graduation, and there was no love lost there. She’s appalled at the idea of Nicky, her favorite, being with Maria, Anya decided.

  “I can’t believe it! And certainly I don’t get it. He’s married. To Connie Aykroyd.” Alexa shook her head; her expression one of puzzlement mixed with annoyance.

  “Not anymore, at least not for much longer. Seemingly, that marriage is over, except for the shouting. And the legalities, of course. Nicky moved out a long, long time ago, and I suppose he feels he can date other women if he wishes. And if the woman is willing.”

  “And obviously Maria Franconi is … oh, my God, Anya, what a weird mix!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I rather think you’re wrong, darling. Actually, Nicky’s quite taken with her.”

  “Really? How amazing. How is she, anyway?”

  “Maria appears to be very well. And pleased that she managed to lose forty-eight pounds.”

  “Maria got fat?” Alexa exclaimed, and then she laughed. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, all that pasta, I guess.”

  Anya bit back a smile. She was amused that for once in her life Alexa was being a little bitchy. She said, “People get fat for all kinds of reasons. But at least Maria did something about her weight. She went on a very strenuous fitness regime, and obviously it worked. Because she’s so tall, she carries the remaining bit of extra weight very well. And she does have a remarkable face, you know.”

  “Yes, she is beautiful, I’ll concede that.”

  Anya frowned. “From your tone, I can tell you’re still troubled by Maria, and her treachery. Isn’t that what you called it once?”

  “She was treacherous,” Alexa responded in a hard voice, one that brooked no argument.

  “Are you still reluctant to talk to me about it after all these years?”

  “Yes, I am, Anya. It was awful, very unpleasant, and she was a bitch. She was extremely unfair to me.”

  After sixty years of experience as a teacher, Anya knew better than to press the point at this moment. Instead, she said, “Jessica is here also, and I heard from Kay Lenox the other day. She’ll be arriving imminently, if she’s not already here. I do sincerely hope the four of you are going to be able to bury your differences.… ” She let the sentence slide away.

  Alexa looked at her quickly, at once noticing the slightly plaintive tone in Anya’s voice. Reaching out, she patted her hand. “Of course we are.” She began to laugh, and exclaimed, “I’ll beat them all into submission … they’ll behave well at your party, take it from me they will!”

  Anya chuckled. “Oh, Alex, you can always make me laugh when you want to, especially when you try to be tough.”

  “I am tough.”

  “Not you, darling girl.”

  “I hope I am. I don’t want to be a cream puff. Where is that going to get me in this world? I hope I am really tough, because that means I’m strong and resilient. That’s what tough means to me.”

  “Yes, you’re right, actually. Let’s not mix up the words tough and hard; they have very different meanings indeed. I cannot bear hard women because they’re so hard-bitten, so emotionless, without feelings. What was it Hemingway once said? ‘I love tough dames but I can’t stand hard broads.’ Well, anyway, it was something like that.”

  Anya looked off into the distance for a few seconds, and there was a small silence. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, she said: “I once knew a man like your Tom Conners, and it became very difficult for me in the end.”

  “When was that?” Alexa asked gently. She was startled by Anya’s angry voice, the odd twist to her mouth. A bitter twist, she thought.

  “Oh, long ago. A few years after my darling Hugo died. I met another man, as one does if one is out in the world, living life, doing things, and not becoming a dullard, a bore, by staying at home doing nothing. He was a widower. His wife had died of cancer when she was very young. It was a tragedy, she was only in her twenties apparently. But, you see, he used her death constantly to prevent our relationship from going where it should have gone. His dedication to her memory, survivor guilt—all of those things got in the way.”

  “What happened in the end?”

  “One day I left him. It wasn’t worth it to me. I couldn’t understand why I had to be made to suffer because another woman had died too young, too soon. And I was getting awfully tired of being compared to a dead woman who had become a plaster saint in his eyes.”

  “Did he … ever remarry, Anya?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “Oh, goodness, how do I know! Dead probably. Or still marching around with that cross on his shoulders, feeling sorry for himself, being selfish in his continuing grief.”

  Anya shivered slightly and pushed herself to her feet. “It’s growing cooler, Alexa, let’s go inside. Look, the sun is already hidden by the clouds.”

  Together they walked toward the lovely old house with its black-and-white façade so reminiscent of Normandy architecture. Anya led the way, and Alexandra followed her into the small library that opened off the garden.

  Anya went around the room, turning on lamps, saying to Alexa as she did, “Darling, do me a favor and light the fire. There’s a sudden chill in the air. You’ll find the Swan Vestas in that copper bucket filled with logs.”

  “Right away,” Alexa responded, and knelt down in front of the fireplace. There were rolled pieces of newspaper and chips of wood in the grate, and she immediately spotte
d the matches in the copper bucket, struck a match, brought the flame to the paper. It caught with a whoosh, and she knelt there until the chips also ignited, when she put on several small logs. Then she got up.

  Dusting her hands together, Alexa walked over to a small upholstered chair and sat down. Anya was already propped up against a pile of pillows on the love seat opposite. “Thank you, Alex.”

  Then, picking up the conversation where she had left off, Anya continued. “Those sort of men are not worthy of a woman like me, or you either. So do me a favor, and yourself. Deal with Tom Conners. Don’t drag it out. And if you find it necessary to walk away, then walk away. Get on with your life without him if there’s no alternative. You’ll meet another man one day.” She gave Alexa a hard stare. “In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t done so already.”

  “Oh, but I have, Anya. Jack … that’s his name … Jack Wilton … he’s an artist, very talented and successful. He wants to marry me.”

  “And you, Alex? How do you feel?”

  “I like Jack a lot, I love him actually, but …” She shook her head. “It’s not the same as it was with Tom. As I just said, Jack wants us to get married, and we’re sort of engaged, well, unofficially.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. When she finally brought her eyes back to Anya, they were troubled. “I have too much integrity to marry one man while still yearning for another,” Alexa finished quietly.

  “Yes, you always have been a very honorable young woman. But what is honor worth if it is honor without courage? Don’t be afraid, Alexa … don’t be afraid to confront Tom, and Jack, if you have to … take your courage in both hands and be honest in your confrontations.”

  “I know, you’re right, Anya. Honesty is the only thing that works in the end.”

  “Be brave … it’s not as hard as you think.” Anya smiled at her encouragingly, then glanced at the small desk in one corner of the room. “There’s the telephone.” She brought her gaze back to Alexa. “Go on, call Tom now. See how he reacts to hearing from you.”

  For a moment, Alexandra was thrown off balance, and she found herself shrinking back in the chair. And then she stood up very determinedly and walked across the room. She said to Anya as she stood at the desk with her hand on the phone, “What have I got to lose?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. But you do have everything to gain, one way or another.”

  Alexa picked up the receiver. She noticed her hand was shaking, but she ignored this and dialed his private line at the office.

  “Tom Conners,” he answered, on the second ring.

  She found it impossible to breathe. Just the sound of his voice had paralyzed her. She was shaking inside. She leaned against the desk, swallowing; her mouth was dry.

  “Tom Conners ici,” he said again in a level tone of voice.

  “Hello, Tom, it’s—”

  He cut her off. “Alexa—where are you calling from?”

  Momentarily startled by his instant recognition of her voice, she couldn’t speak. And then she said swiftly in a rush of words, “I’m in Paris, and I’m fine, Tom. How’re you?”

  “Okay, doing okay. Are you in Paris on business?”

  “Sort of,” she answered, glad that she sounded normal. “But I really came for Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday.” She glanced at Anya and saw that she was mouthing something. Leaning forward over the desk, frowning, Alexa tried to figure out what Anya was silently saying.

  “Invite him if he doesn’t invite you,” Anya finally said aloud in a stage whisper.

  “It’s hard to believe Anya’s going to be eighty-five,” Tom was saying, laughing. “Can we get together, Alexa? Will you have time?”

  She felt herself going weak with relief on hearing these words. “Yes. I’d like to see you. When?”

  “Are you available this weekend? What about lunch tomorrow?”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m meeting Nicky Sedgwick for lunch. I’m going to be working on a film with him later in the year, and we have quite a lot to go over. So I can’t really change it.”

  “That’s okay. What about tomorrow night? Are you free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we have dinner?”

  “That’ll be nice, Tom.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Meurice.”

  “I’ll come for you around six-thirty, is that all right with you?”

  “It’s fine. See you then.”

  “Great,” he said, and hung up.

  Alexa stood clutching the phone, staring at Anya, a stunned expression on her face.

  Anya began to laugh. “You look shell-shocked, Alexa. As if you can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t,” she replied, and dropped the receiver into the cradle.

  Anya said, “It wasn’t so hard after all, was it?”

  “Not really, but I was shaking. Inside and out.”

  “I know. There are men who have that effect on women, and of course they are lethal.”

  “I guess I am still in love with him,” Alexa began, but her voice faltered.

  “Perhaps you are. But you won’t know how you truly feel until you see him tomorrow night.”

  Leaning back in the chair, Alexa merely nodded, once more finding it difficult to breathe. And then she thought: Tom is lethal. He’s always been lethal for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  KAY WONDERED, AS SHE WALKED UP THE CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES, how she could have stayed away from Paris all this time. Even though it was only an hour by plane from London, and not much longer from Edinburgh, she never “hopped over” as many people did, because Ian did not like to travel, and she wanted to be with him on the weekends.

  Still, Paris was a city of fashion on all levels, and she was in the fashion business, and she realized now that she should have come more often than she had. There was so much to see here, and to learn, as she had rediscovered in the last few days. Silently, Kay chastised herself.

  A moment later she thought of the happy years she had spent at Anya’s school; Anya was another reason she should have come over, because the famed teacher had been her great mentor and her truest friend.

  Everyday life intrudes, she muttered under her breath, but that’s really no excuse. How often she had wanted to confide in Anya, to ask her advice, and yet she had diligently stayed away. This, too, perplexed her. But now was not the time to analyze her behavior, she knew that, and she pushed all such thoughts to one side. There were other situations to deal with, other problems to solve.

  Taking a deep breath, Kay glanced about her. Paris was the most beautiful city, and she noticed that it was particularly lovely this morning. The sky was a light cerulean blue filled with sweeping white clouds, and bright sunlight washed over the ancient buildings. She remembered now that many of them had been cleaned for the millennium celebrations, and the stone façades gleamed whitely in the clear light, looked as if they had just been newly built.

  Staring ahead, Kay’s eyes now fastened on the Arc de Triomphe at the top of the long avenue. Underneath that soaring arch the tricolor, the red, white, and blue French flag, fluttered in the light breeze. The sight made her catch her breath … there was something so poetic and moving about that simple flag flaring in the wind.

  Because it symbolizes a country’s courage and triumph, she reminded herself, thinking of the many history classes she had attended at Anya’s school.

  Anya taught them, although they were not actually part of her master class. She was an expert in the history of the Second World War, having lived through that war, and she loved to teach about it, and what had happened on both sides of the Channel at that terrible time. How horrible it would have been if these magnificent buildings had been blown to smithereens by the Nazi Occupation forces, as Hitler had wanted. In 1944 the Allied armies were rapidly approaching Paris, and Hitler had commanded General von Choltitz to blast the historic monuments so that the Allied forces would be greeted by smoke and debris. Dynamite had already b
een laid under the Arc de Triomphe, Les Invalides, the Eiffel Tower, and the Cathedral of Nôtre-Dame, among others. But at the last minute, General von

  Choltitz had not had the heart to blow up such extraordinary edifices.

  Close call that was, she thought as she finally came to the Place Charles de Gaulle, where the Arc de Triomphe stood. How dwarfed she felt by this massive structure, built on the instructions of Napoleon to celebrate his greatest victory at Austerlitz. At the time, he had promised his men they would go home through triumphal arches. And ever since this arch had been completed, long after Napoleon had lost his power, it was the starting point for national victory parades and celebrations.

  She had once gone up to the top, where she had stood with Anya, Alexa, Jessica, and Maria, looking out across Paris. It was then, and only then, that she had truly understood why the arch was also called the Êtoile—the star. It was at the very center of twelve avenues that radiated out to form a star. Many were named after famous generals, and had been part of the modernization of Paris by Baron Haussmann, which had begun in 1852.

  As she moved through and around the arch, Kay had a sudden unexpected thought … of a woman who, like her, had been unable to give the man she loved an heir … the empress Josephine. And eventually Napoleon had had to divorce her in order to father a son by another woman. He had not been particularly happy with Marie-Louise, daughter of the Austrian emperor, even though she had eventually given birth to a boy. It had been a diplomatic marriage, and Napoleon had forever yearned for Josephine. At least so Anya had told them in one of her other history lessons. “His luck changed the day he left Josephine. Unhappiness and disasters followed him to the grave,” Anya had explained dourly.

  Sighing to herself, Kay wandered away from the great arch, crossed over to the Champs-Elysées, began to walk down this most imposing boulevard, thinking of Dr. François Boujon. She had gone to see him yesterday at his office on Avenue Montaigne to discuss her own inability to conceive. She had an examination and tests, and depending on the results of the tests he had taken, she might have to spend a few days at his clinic in Barbizon, near Fontainebleau. His reputation as an expert on fertility preceded him, and after some years in California he had finally returned to practice in his native France.