Paris Lights

by C. J. Duggan

  ALSO BY C.J. DUGGAN

  Summer series

  The Boys of Summer

  Stan

  An Endless Summer

  Max

  That One Summer

  Ringer

  Forever Summer

  Paradise series

  Paradise City

  Paradise Road

  Heart of the City series

  Paris Lights

  New York Nights (coming 2017)

  London Bound (coming 2017)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also By C.J. Duggan

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sneak Peek of New York Nights

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Hachette Australia

  Copyright

  For all the dreamers – never wait.

  Chapter One

  I genuinely believe that aside from your place of birth there is somewhere else you belong: a place you’re guided to by your heart. Some people might spend their entire lives in search of such a place, but all my life, throughout my travels, I knew which place was waiting for me.

  Paris.

  I had fed my love of Paris by having the Eiffel Tower plastered on my bedspreads and cushion covers, by buying kitchen accessories and placemats with Rue Du Temple scrawled across them, and hanging a cute Bon Appetit sign in my kitchen. I’d tried to explain to my boyfriend, Liam, that it wasn’t really an obsession, I had just adopted a French Provincial style of decorating for our home. He seemed unconvinced.

  Everyone wants to go to Paris. To fall in love, eat smelly French cheese and drink good local wine while toasting to the Eiffel Tower. It was more than just our home’s décor and my Chanel lipstick collection that strengthened my bond. Paris is the art capital of the world, with tourists flocking from near and far to catch a quick glimpse of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and wander the vast halls of the Louvre. But, while many people believed the Louvre to be the pinnacle of the Parisian art museum scene, there were so many other museums to see. With much excitement, I had rattled off the list of must-see locations to Liam as we’d planned this long-awaited weekend in Paris.

  ‘We could head to the Centre Pompidou, Paris’s bastion of modern art. We’ll need a good couple of hours to wander through all the amazing rooms with world-famous works of – oh my God, we’ll be able to see Picasso, Klimt, Miro and Kandinsky!’

  Liam’s face had twisted in horror, and he’d said, ‘Claire, I would sooner claw my own face off than spend an entire weekend in art museums.’

  I had laughed it off, but my heart sank knowing that he wouldn’t budge on this. I would have to settle for compromising on the art so we could both enjoy the trip.

  Liam had insisted we save the Eiffel Tower until our last day in Paris. He’d said we shouldn’t conform to the typical tourist itinerary, that we should discover other parts of the city first. He was so smart, so romantic.

  We battled the crowds at the Louvre for a date with Mona Lisa, strolled hand-in-hand through the Jardin de Tuileries, dodged pigeons and love-lock sellers near Notre Dame, and, of course, no trip to Paris would be complete without a visit to the famed Moulin Rouge.

  And this morning, stepping from the bus, our heads had craned upwards, my mouth ajar as Liam clicked away on his expensive Canon camera, snapping the iron beast before us. Except it wasn’t a beast. The Eiffel Tower was a lady – strong, imposing, beautiful – but I couldn’t have said so to Liam. He would have just rolled his eyes.

  We’d lingered around the edge of the crowds, taking it all in. It was incredible how something that stood still could evoke as much excitement as a themed rollercoaster at Disneyland. Hordes of tourists surrounded us in a blur of excitement and delight. Despite the wonders around me, though, my attention remained on Liam. I only had eyes for him.

  I tilted my head, admiring my gorgeous boyfriend: his dark, unruly hair, his five o’clock shadow, his charcoal-grey jumper and dark jeans that made him look like he belonged here; a true Parisian. Liam had been acting strange for days. Twitchy, antsy, a bit snappy. As he stood beside me, rubbing his unshaven jaw, I could see the cogs turning in his head, no doubt wondering what to say, how to do it. He is such a stickler for details; it’s one of the things I love about him.

  My chest expanded as I breathed deeply. I tried to hide the knowing smile that twisted the corner of my mouth. This is it; this is really going to happen. It was all clear to me now: the impromptu visit to Paris; saving the tower till last.

  This is my moment.

  Wait until everyone back home finds out about this.

  I stood in the heart of the square and waited for Liam to speak. Waited for him to ask the big question, to go down on one knee in front of all these people, and ask me to be Mrs Liam Jackson.

  My chest tightened as he turned to me. His focus was on me and me alone. In this moment, under the massive iron structure, the world around us didn’t matter. It was as if we were the only ones on the planet and that the tower had been built for us alone. I could feel my skin prickle despite the warm air that swept over us.

  ‘Claire.’ Liam swallowed nervously. I could feel my eyes watering as he reached out and grabbed my hand, a hand that had been nervously tapping my thigh.

  ‘Yes?’ I breathed out, my heart beating a million miles an hour. Yes, yes, yes had been echoing in my mind all morning.

  The dark, hypnotic pools of Liam’s eyes made me breathless as he gazed intently at me.

  This is it! This is what I’ve been waiting for. The perfect end to a perfect weekend.

  He squeezed my hand. ‘I think we should see other people.’

  I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly; the sound of a record scratching in my head might have prevented me from understanding. Or maybe it was the tourists, talking and pointing animatedly as they took selfies with the tower. Even the traffic noise seemed painfully loud right now. I tilted my head as if to listen more intently, my eyes blinking in confusion.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Liam’s eyes seemed less romantic now, and his face was twisted in pain. But it wasn’t pain caused by the inner turmoil of working on romantic perfection like I had thought. It was another kind of pain entirely.

  ‘I said, I think we should—’

  ‘No!’ I shut off his words, afraid that he would only repeat himself. ‘No, no, no, no!’ This was not how it was supposed to go.

  I had planned it all in my mind: Liam on
one knee, a box appearing from his pocket (preferably from Tiffany), applause ringing out across the square as I cried and said, Yes, yes, YES! I had envisioned how to pose with my ring for Instagram, adding the witty caption: ‘I said oui oui.’ I had even picked out the appropriate filter for our selfie. It was all so perfect – in my head.

  ‘Claire, I’m sorry.’ His brown eyes were sorrowful, as though his heart was breaking. It was like I had just said the words that would tear us apart, not him. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

  I felt my fists clench. My shock, my disbelief, was morphing into something else, even as the hot tears pooled in my eyes.

  He never meant to hurt me.

  ‘You’re breaking up with me!’

  Silence.

  ‘In Paris.’

  He looked away.

  ‘Under the Eiffel fucking Tower!’ I screamed, attracting the attention of those who were unlucky enough to be standing nearby.

  Was there any feeling worse than this? A punch in the face on a gondola in Venice maybe? He might as well have punched me – it felt like all the air had been sucked from my lungs.

  My admiration for him, my total and utter besotted and blind obsession with Liam, died. I could feel my heart darken; my soul was so black it scared me. We had been together for eighteen months, had moved from Melbourne to London so Liam could follow his path in life – whatever that had meant; he’d never actually clarified it. If he meant we were both always strapped for cash and working double shifts in the dimly lit London pub, then we were following his path all right. Living the dream! We had been so determined to find our way and make a new life in a foreign land, despite Liam’s rather lacklustre path in London. I had been certain we knew each other’s dreams and fears. And that’s what was burning a hole in my heart, because at the crux of it, I don’t actually think Liam knew me at all. Because anyone who ever did know me knew that coming to Paris had been my lifelong dream. I had mentioned it often enough. The city was so close to our new home, but until this weekend we had been too busy to make the trip: there was an excuse, there was always an excuse. So when Liam not only agreed, but instigated this trip, I had convinced myself that this was the moment. Why else would he bring me here?

  I shook my head. ‘How could you?’

  I broke away from his hold. He was trying to explain, but I couldn’t listen to his reasoning. I stumbled away, skimming past people as I made my way toward the bus that would take me back to the hotel. Everything was a blur. I sat on the top level of the double decker, my eyes forward, staring aimlessly at a balding Italian man and his wife. I couldn’t look back to the tower for fear of catching a glimpse of Liam. I didn’t hear Liam calling my name, pleading for the bus to stop as it pulled away. I’m not sure if I was more relieved or hurt by the fact he didn’t pursue me, but I guess those kind of dramatics only happen in movies.

  The sky was grey and ominous. I swear it had been blue when we arrived. That’s how quickly things had changed. My bus rolled on, pausing only to give happy, snapping tourists one last chance to take a shot of the tower. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at it, not that I would have been able to see it anyway through my bleary vision.

  Maybe one day I would forgive Liam for breaking my heart. But tainting Paris, and ruining my experience of this city, that was something I could never forgive – ever!

  Apparently Paris is especially magnificent in the rain. I had yet to experience the pleasure in my short stay, but as soon as I stepped off the bus, the heavens opened up, soaking me to the bone. It seemed a fitting finale to my disastrous afternoon. In a moment of complete self-indulgence to my misery, I had refused the complimentary plastic poncho from the tourist bus, opting instead to let the rain pummel me. Ordinarily a person might squeal, laugh and run for cover, delighting in the glorious downpour in a foreign city. It was, dare I say it, romantic. But let’s face it, romance was dead, as was my ability to feel anything.

  I walked along the pavement from the bus stop to a pedestrian crossing, squelching a slow, sad path in my ballet flats, my pleated skirt clinging to my thighs, my long brown hair plastered to my face. Mercifully, the droplets of water disguised my tears. Our hotel was a few blocks away on Rue Lauriston. We were ideally located between the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. It only seemed like yesterday that we had booked the last room available with great excitement.

  Our hotel that we had booked.

  I guess I had to stop saying things like that now. In one afternoon, the life I’d thought I had had became completely redundant. Was that even possible? Had I stayed to face Liam’s explanations I might have found out more. If I’d challenged him, fought, screamed, demanded answers. But ‘Let’s see other people’? That was like a dagger to the heart, almost as bad as ‘I’m seeing someone else’. I tried not to entertain the thought that that could have been the reason behind his decision.

  I let my feet guide me along the narrow path, through the neighbourhood that seemed amazingly familiar to me even though I’d only been here for a short time. The past three days I’d been wide eyed, drinking in every detail of the impressive Haussmann-designed apartments and buildings; watching the locals go about their daily rounds to the butcher, florist or bakery in their effortlessly stylish way. The air felt thick. I fixed my gaze on the ground, willing my feet forward, telling myself that my reward would be to lock myself away in my hotel room and let my defences crumble down and scream and cry into my pillow.

  The red sign of our hotel was mightier than any beacon. I battled on, each step becoming more perilous as the soles of my shoes fought to gain traction on the wet footpath. It took immense concentration to quicken my pace without breaking my neck, but I was determined. That’s when I heard the distant sound of a fast-approaching car.

  It slid around the corner, the revving engine of the black Audi echoing in the small street, disturbing the peace and quiet, slicing its way through the dying light. It was enough to distract me, annoyed as I was by the recklessness of its approach as it sped along like a rally car, and in wet conditions too.

  I made sure to glare at the driver.

  ‘Bloody maniac,’ I grumbled.

  Stepping back from the kerb, I gasped as the car sprayed up a wave of putrid gutter water. Now I was mad. Madder than hell.

  I watched as the very same car pulled up in front of my hotel.

  ‘Right,’ I said. I was in just the mood to give the flashy lunatic behind the wheel a piece of my mind. And sure, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t understand a word I was saying, but if all else failed, flipping the bird was a pretty universal gesture. I neared the car, sleek and beaded with droplets of rain, the windows so heavily tinted it was impossible to see inside.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted, knocking on the driver’s window angrily.

  There was no response; the only sign of life was the heat that radiated from the vehicle itself. I glared at the window where I imagined a person’s head might be. Feeling pretty satisfied at showing my displeasure, I sacrificed the unladylike gesture of flipping the bird and thought it best to just head into the hotel, leaving a watery path behind me.

  And I was about to do exactly that when the unexpected happened. The driver’s window slowly edged its way down, revealing a pair of intense, angry blue eyes that seemed to stare right into my soul.

  Yep, my day was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Chapter Two

  If I could have, I would have glued all Liam’s undies to the floor and set his favourite pair of jeans on fire, all the while tossing his other possessions over the balcony. Instead, with much less drama, I quietly spoke in a croaky voice to the doorman by the front entrance.

  ‘Can you please come and collect some bags from room twenty-five?’

  I was wet and deflated and completely rattled from the death stare the Audi driver had given me, which had sent me fleeing into the hotel. Guess I wasn’t as tough as I thought. I certainly didn’t feel it right now. What’s French for fragil
e?

  If it hadn’t been for Cecile, the warm, bubbly lady at reception, I would have sworn everyone in Paris hated me.

  ‘Bonjour!’ she said, beaming, showing the gap between her extremely white teeth. Her bright blue eyes lit up and I knew I had her full attention like always. ‘Oh, Mademoiselle Shorten, you got caught in the rain?’

  I sheepishly examined the squelchy footprints I had trekked through reception.

  ‘Next time, take an umbrella by the door,’ she added helpfully.

  Ha! Next time. There won’t be a next time. I am done.

  Despite the bitter edge to my thoughts, I smiled. It was strained, but no matter how bad I was feeling I could never take it out on sweet Cecile; she had, after all, been one of the very few highlights of my weekend.

  ‘Merci,’ I said, one of the very limited words I knew the meaning of, even after listening to the audio translator on the Eurostar from London three days ago. My memory for language was not great; I had managed to remember that paper in French was ‘papier’, and the door was ‘la porte’. Neither was going to get me out of a bind.

  My watery trail followed me across the foyer to the lift. Pressing the button to summon the slowest lift in Paris, if not the world, I brought the edges of my soaked cardi together, the chill from my wet clothes starting to work its way into my bones. The screeching, rackety shoe box–sized lift groaned its way down to reception, the door struggling to open as the tiny cavity of doom presented itself to me. I tentatively stepped in and, like every other time I had done so, I wondered if this would be the time I would be trapped in here. Would today be the day the lift gave up the ghost? With my current track record, I wouldn’t be surprised – it would be the icing on the bloody cake.

  The lift screeched its way up to level four, its doors sliding painfully slowly to the side, releasing me to freedom on the narrow landing. I couldn’t get out quickly enough. I would live to see another day.

  I walked down the narrow carpeted hall to our room. The dated, awkward spaces that had once seemed so quaint to me now just seemed dingy. It made me feel less bad about leaving marks on the already worn, rose-coloured carpet. In the short time that I had stayed here, I had realised that our door required a particular lift-twist-and-shimmy action in order to open it. Still, it took me three goes to get it open, with a few swear words to aid the cause. After finally hearing the magical click of the lock, I shouldered my way through, the door hitting one of the suitcases in the light, tidy yet small room. I negotiated my way through the mess of our bags and clothes to the bed. Side-stepping around it I went to the balcony door, wanting nothing more than to let some fresh air in.