The message is swiftly followed by another.
It might be a while yet.
Disappointment stabs, but I don’t let myself react.
Oh well, it can’t be helped, just do what you have to do.
He replies straight away.
I’m not complaining. I’m out here to build housing for people that are a lot less fortunate than me.
See, he’s a good guy. How can I even think about doubting a good guy like Jack?
Plus I have a great team helping me.
At the mention of his team, I get a flashback of his ex in a hard hat on the construction site.
That’s good.
I pause, then do something that I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.
Have you met any of them before?
I wait. A few seconds feel like the longest time. I see he’s typing. I hold my breath. Then beep, the message pings in.
No, no one.
And suddenly my insecurities don’t feel so stupid any more.
21
I must have crashed out on the sofa, because the next thing I know I’m being woken up by the sound of the key being rattled in the lock and the door being flung open.
‘Ugh . . . hello?’ Blearily, I open my eyes just as the light’s switched on, and blink at the sudden brightness.
‘It’s only me,’ yells Harriet, in a voice that tells me she’s had a bit too much to drink. Whenever she’s had a few, the volume control goes off the scale.
‘How did it go?’ I ask, sitting up groggily.
‘I’ve fallen head over heels!’ she shrieks, lurching into the apartment.
‘You have? Wow, I knew you liked him, but—’
‘No, literally,’ she gasps, collapsing next to me on the sofa. She holds up her ankle and waves at it me. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle on these damned heels.’
‘Ouch.’ I take a sharp intake of breath. It’s already swollen to twice its size and is starting to turn all kinds of garish colours. ‘That looks painful.’
‘Actually, it’s not too horrendous at the minute,’ she says, her voice slurring slightly, ‘wine’s rather a wonderful anaesthetic you know—’ She breaks off as she spots my bottle of wine next to the sofa. ‘In fact, I could do with a top-up.’ She lunges for it, then frowns. ‘There’s none left.’
I look at the empty bottle in her hands and my mind flashes back. Harriet wasn’t the only one in need of an anaesthetic tonight. I’d finished it after reading that message from Jack.
Our conversation had ended soon after. He said his battery was about to die.
I have no idea if he was telling the truth. Just as I have no idea if this sick feeling I’ve got at the bottom of my stomach is justified. His message doesn’t have to mean anything. After all, I haven’t been completely truthful, have I? I haven’t told Jack I’m in Paris. I told him I was home watching a movie on TV when I was at a party on the Seine.
At least, he assumed I was home watching a movie on TV, and I just played along. Does that make it different? Does that make it less dishonest?
I don’t know. I don’t know about lots of things any more. The last few days have turned everything upside down and inside out. But what I do know is his ex-girlfriend is with him in Colombia, and he doesn’t want me to know about it. He flat out denied it. And rightly, or wrongly, that sure as hell feels a lot like a big deal to me.
‘Urgh! What am I going to do?’
I zone back to see Harriet staring at me, her eyes slightly glazed, the bottle dangling dangerously from her fingers.
‘Um . . . I think I might have some paracetamol you can have instead,’ I suggest, taking the bottle from her before she drops it and we add cuts to sprains.
‘No, not about the pain,’ she groans, and flops her head back onto the sofa. ‘I mean about tomorrow.’
‘Why, what’s happening tomorrow?’
‘I’m catching the train to Avignon in the south of France to meet with Madame Dumont’s heirs,’ she groans again, only louder this time. ‘Well, I was, but I can’t now. Now I can barely walk.’
‘Can’t you reschedule?’ Getting up off the sofa, I walk over to the tiny fridge and delve into the even tinier freezer compartment. As luck would have it there’s an ice-cube tray and it’s got ice in it, which, if you knew Harriet, is a miracle.
‘Impossible. The auction is Sunday. Tomorrow’s the last day I can go as I have to be in the office on Saturday – there are still a hundred and one things to do.’
Popping the ice cubes out, I wrap them up in a tea towel.
‘Oh bollocks, what am I going to do? This is a disaster!’
‘Here, this should help.’ I walk back over to her and wrap the ice round her ankle.
She winces, then lets out a grateful smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ I start plumping up a cushion.
‘No, I don’t think so . . .’ She shakes her head, then seems to sort of stiffen.
I stop plumping to see she’s looking at me funny.
Uh-oh.
‘Actually, there is something you can do.’
‘There is?’ Why do I get the feeling this is going to involve more than fetching a couple of painkillers?
‘You could go instead.’
Yup. I knew it.
‘Go where?’ I try to play dumb.
Which of course, doesn’t work. ‘The south of France!’ she says exasperatedly.
I look at her like she’s gone mental. ‘You want me to go to the south of France instead of you?’ I repeat, more for my benefit than hers.
At the prospect, I feel a flash of excitement. But I quickly grab a hold of myself. I can’t go gallivanting off to the south of France. I need to focus on my own life, which right now feels on the brink of falling apart.
‘Yes.’ She nods, her face lighting up with the idea. ‘Oh, sweetie, would you mind terribly? You’d be doing me such a huge favour, I’ve been working so hard on this auction and I don’t want to screw it all up now. This would be the perfect solution—’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ I interrupt.
Harriet frowns, deep in thought, then looks triumphant. ‘Of course! But don’t you worry, I can look after Heathcliff, I’ll be home all day. You love your Auntie Harriet, don’t you?’ She starts making clucking sounds at Heathcliff, who eyes her warily.
‘I’m not talking about Heathcliff,’ I gasp. ‘I’m talking about how I don’t know the first thing about antiques.’ I mean, honestly, talk about pointing out the obvious.
‘Oh, well that’s not a problem.’ She bats it away dismissively. ‘You can say you’re my assistant like we did before. All you need to do is deliver the catalogue.’
‘In that case, what about FedEx?’
‘They want it delivered personally. They’re very demanding clients.’ She looks at me. ‘They’ve taken over the running of the family estate, where Madame Dumont lived, and it’s not far from the station. You can catch a cab. It’ll be easy.’
‘Harriet, this is crazy—’
She makes a little whining noise like Heathcliff when he’s begging for something. ‘Please Ruby, this is really important. You know how I’ve always wanted to be an auctioneer instead of just cataloguing, this is my big break, I might never get another chance . . .’
How can I refuse? Harriet has done a million favours for me in the past, it’s the least I can do for her. ‘OK, OK.’ I say, giving in.
Her face breaks into a huge, drunken smile and she throws her arms round me. ‘Thank you darling, oh thank you! You’re a lifesaver!’
As she smothers me underneath her bosom, the reality of what I’ve agreed to hits me. Wow, I can’t believe it. I’m going to the south of France. I’m going to see where Emmanuelle fled to at the outbreak of the war. I’m going to meet her heirs—
Oh, please. Of course, I can believe I’m going. The moment Harriet asked me there was never a moment’s doubt.
Fast forward to ve
ry early the next morning and I’m bumping and excusez-moi-ing my way down the central aisle of the TGV, bound for Avignon. Clutching a coffee in one hand and my ticket in the other, I’m looking for my seat. Only I’m being super careful this time. Last time I was on a train, I sat in the wrong seat and we all know what happened there, don’t we?
My mind flashes back to India and the moment I locked eyes with an unshaven American in a fedora. Actually I saw his feet first, as I was lying on my berth – well, his berth, as it turns out. I remember they were very tanned and wearing a pair of flip-flops. And I remember thinking they were nice feet, until he told me I was in his seat and had to move, and then I realised he had wonky toes and I didn’t like them at all.
But most of all I remember his eyes. They were hazel, and the whites looked really white against his deep tan and dark messy hair. And even though he was rude and annoying and a total pain in the ass, he was also absolutely bloody gorgeous.
Jack.
As the memory hits me like a tidal wave, I momentarily lose my balance and nearly fall into a French lady’s lap. My coffee spills and there’s several moments of me saying pardon about a million times and feeling like a clumsy moron and her dabbing her tweed skirt with her tissues and saying something in French that it’s probably a good thing I don’t understand.
Still, I get the message, no translation necessary, and I set off to make my way down the rest of the carriage until finally I realise the numbers are getting much closer. In fact, that must be my seat right by—
‘Xavier?’ I say in astonishment as I spot his handsome profile sitting by the window, tapping away on his laptop. No, it can’t be.
Hearing his name, he looks up from his keyboard and pushes his reading glasses onto his head.
Oh my god, it is him. I feel an unexpected tingle of excitement.
Seeing me, he looks momentarily surprised, then his face breaks into a wide smile. ‘Ruby, what are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief as I sit down opposite him. ‘What a coincidence that we’re on the same—’ I break off as the penny drops.
Of course. This isn’t a coincidence. Harriet and Xavier must have been due to travel together, though I wonder why she didn’t tell— Suddenly I have a distinct suspicion Harriet has used her twisted ankle as an opportunity to try to play matchmaker.
‘I have a meeting with Madame Dumont’s heirs in Provence,’ he replies.
‘Me too.’ I nod, trying to refocus. I can’t believe Harriet. What on earth is she thinking? She knows I have a boyfriend.
Who is currently in Colombia with his ex-girlfriend, a voice in my head reminds me. Like I could have forgotten.
He looks surprised. ‘Where is Miss Fortescue-Blake?’
‘She hurt her ankle last night, she’s had to go to the hospital this morning.’
‘Is she OK?’ His tanned brow furrows with concern.
OK probably isn’t the word I’d use to describe an ankle the size of a balloon and all the colours of the rainbow. Poor Harriet had been very stoical, stiff-upper-lipped and all that, but still, she’d turned green with the pain as I helped her into the cab. ‘She just needs an X-ray to check nothing’s broken.’ I spare him the details.
‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ he reassures me.
‘Yes, I hope so.’ I nod. ‘So, anyway, she asked me if I could deliver the catalogue for her. In my role as her assistant, obviously,’ I add quickly.
‘Obviously.’ He nods, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment I’m sure I see the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. Something tells me he hasn’t entirely fallen for our assistant/boss story.
‘Though I don’t know why she couldn’t just have asked you,’ I add pointedly. I want to make it clear that this wasn’t my idea.
‘Conflict of interests,’ he replies, ‘as their lawyer overseeing the sale I cannot be involved in this side of things.’
‘Oh I see,’ I nod, though I don’t really. All that legal stuff goes over my head.
‘Besides, now we get to carry on from where we left off.’ He smiles, his dark eyes meeting mine.
‘Left off?’ I try to keep my voice steady, but abruptly the air between us feels charged.
‘At the café at the Louvre, I had to get back to the office.’
Reminded, I feel a stab of guilt. And something else. A faint, secret flutter of excitement.
‘So tell me, where were we?’
Drinking champagne. Flirting.
‘I can’t remember,’ I say quickly, my words stamping firmly on the embers of our previous conversation. Flirting might be an entirely innocent pastime to the French, but it’s not to the English. It feels risky, dangerous, like I’m playing with fire.
‘Really?’
After last night, the distance between me and Jack feels ever wider. Insecurities are bubbling. Doubts are multiplying.
‘Really.’ I nod firmly.
‘Well in that case, I should get back to my work,’ he says and turns to his laptop.
It only needs one spark, and this whole thing could ignite.
22
Travelling on a train through France is a totally different experience from my train journey in India. Modern and super fast, it’s much more plush and comfortable and quiet, with fellow passengers sitting around me, reading books or working on their laptops. In India it was the total opposite. Loud and chaotic, it was about talking to strangers, feeling the warm breeze on my face and watching the world go by. It was about the journey, not the destination.
But this time it’s all about the destination. I’m eager to get to Avignon and, this being the TGV, it’s no time before we’ve left Paris and are hurtling through the countryside. Xavier sits opposite on his laptop while I gaze out of the window, at the blurring scenery speeding by.
I’m tired – I didn’t sleep much last night and it was an early start – but adrenalin and nerves are keeping me awake. I’m out of my comfort zone and the reality of the situation is beginning to dawn on me. What am I doing? What am I hoping to find? Reading Emmanuelle’s old love letters is one thing, but now I’m actually travelling hundreds of miles to meet her heirs and see where she lived, and where she died. I mean, it’s all a bit mental really.
I glance across at Xavier, his designer glasses framing his eyes as he studies some legal document lying on the table beside him. My eyes take in the immaculate cut of his suit, the stitching of his lapels, the crisp white collar of his shirt. I watch him rubbing his chin in concentration, notice the curve of his Adam’s apple—
He clears his throat and I quickly look away. I’m on edge. Adventures might sound exciting, but they end up getting you into all kinds of trouble. My family and friends think I’m holed up in the country with Jack, wafting around in his and hers waffle bathrobes and making up for all that distance. Not gallivanting off to the south of France with a seriously handsome French lawyer.
Still, there’s no turning back now. I glance out of the window. The train is travelling at two hundred miles an hour. The country is rushing by and we are moving further and further away from Paris, from London, from my life as I knew it. Leading further and further into something new and unknown. Nerves flutter, but underneath I feel a secret rush of exhilaration. And the truth is, I wouldn’t want to turn back anyway.
After just a couple of hours, we arrive in Avignon. It’s a busy, bustling station and Xavier expertly navigates himself through the terminus to the taxi rank outside where we transfer into a dark Mercedes that’s already waiting for us. No standing with all the other hot, sweaty tourists or a crappy minicab for him. He speaks briefly to the driver in French, his voice low yet with the kind of authority of a man who’s used to being listened to, then settles back against the plush leather seats.
I watch him, impressed. Everything about Xavier is so seamless and unruffled. So in control. I think about my own life, which seems to be spinning out of orbit, rapidly un
ravelling, all messy and crumpled. Like myself. I grimace inwardly, looking down at my skirt, which bears a stain from the sandwich I dropped on my lap on the train. Note to self: rubbing it furiously with a napkin and Evian water does not make it better, it makes it much worse.
Xavier, meanwhile, is a picture of smart composure. Despite the stifling heat, he is still looking cool and crisp in his suit and tie and a freshly laundered shirt, and giving off a fresh scent of cologne.
‘Would you like me to ask the driver to turn on the air conditioning?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ I nod, fidgeting uncomfortably. Despite liberal applications of deodorant I feel hot and sticky.
He murmurs something to the driver, then settles back in his seat. Is it just me or does he feel a hair’s breadth closer? I cross my legs nervously, then uncross them again. Honestly, what’s wrong with me?
‘The estate is in a village some kilometres away, but we should be there within the hour.’
‘Oh, it’s that far?’ I say in surprise, then catch myself. Why am I surprised that Harriet’s ‘jump in a cab’ is not quite the whole truth?
‘Yes, I’m afraid it’s a bit of a drive, but at least you get to see one of the most beautiful parts of the world.’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I’m looking forward to it, I’ve never been to the south of France.’
‘Non, this is not possible!’
‘I’m afraid so.’ I laugh at his shocked expression.
Though obviously I’ve heard all about it. Who hasn’t curled up with A Year in Provence and hankered after lavender fields and gorgeous hilltop villages, or seen paparazzi shots of celebrities and their yachts in St Tropez and fantasised about the glitz and the glamour? It’s the stuff of dreams.
‘Trust me, once you have been you will never want to leave,’ he says, smiling.
It’s also where Emmanuelle fled to from Paris almost seventy-five years ago. And, feeling a flutter of anticipation, I turn to gaze out of the window as the car purrs quietly into the traffic.
Love From Paris Page 19