Still, never mind, it’s probably only a shower.
Suddenly there’s a pistol crack of lightning, followed immediately by a crash of thunder. Then the heavens open.
‘Argh!’ I let out an involuntary shriek as a deluge of water cascades down from the skies, drenching me within seconds. I shriek again, holding my scarf futilely over my head as I race across the cobbles, which have now become so slippery I can barely keep my balance.
I’m getting completely soaked.
Another loud splinter of lightning and drumroll of thunder. Rain hammers on my face, drenching my scarf and turning my hair into soggy rat’s tails that cling to my forehead.
I need to find a taxi rank, and quick.
Dashing into a main street, I try blindly to search for one, but it’s impossible through the curtain of water that’s pouring from the sky. Instead I spot an awning and dive underneath it, sheltering under the sodden fabric. But it’s hopeless. Already it can’t take the weight of the water and is leaking at the sides, pouring in rivers on to my feet and down my shoulders.
My teeth start to chatter.
Oh fuck, what am I going to do? I’m totally drenched. I’ve got no hope of getting a taxi. And it’s well after midnight.
‘Ruby?’
Amid the drumbeat of rain hammering down on the awning, I listen intently. Was that really someone saying my name? I peer out from underneath the awning, scrutinising the blurry figures hurrying past.
Then I see him across the street. A guy in a suit, his white shirt clinging to him as he holds his jacket above his head. His face is obscured, but I would still recognise him anywhere.
Xavier.
He crosses the street, ducks his head underneath the awning and yells above the sound of the rain.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was at a restaurant,’ I cry, trying to make myself heard over the drumming of the rain. ‘I’m trying to find a cab.’
‘You’ll never find one here.’
I nod dumbly, shivering as the rain hammers down around us.
‘Come! My apartment is just across the street, you can call one from there.’
I watch as he holds up his jacket for me to shelter beneath and, for the briefest of moments, hesitation flickers in me like the lightning in the sky. Then the rumble of thunder explodes above me and I dive underneath it and together we rush across the street, getting sprayed as we dodge cars, their headlights streaking in the rain.
A couple caught in a thunderstorm in Paris, their figures blurring against the backdrop of the city, like an Impressionist painting.
Xavier’s apartment is indeed just across the street. We burst in through a grand doorway and our footsteps clatter on the tiles of the small hallway.
‘We made it,’ he pants, lowering his sopping jacket, which drips heavily all over the floor.
‘Yes,’ I manage.
Our breathing is loud as we try to catch our breath. We look at each other, both soaked to the skin, the rain still running in rivulets down our faces and dripping from our hair, our chests heaving. It’s so textbook erotic it’s almost a joke.
‘Please—’ he motions to where the lift is waiting for us and pulls open the metal door.
Wordlessly I do as he says. Inside, the space is small and we stand, huddled next to each other, as he closes the door behind us. I can feel his damp skin close to mine, the heat from our bodies being generated despite our cold wet clothes, the intimacy.
Stop it. I should not be having these thoughts.
I should not be having these thoughts.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra. It’s wrong. I have a boyfriend. I love him. I’m not interested in Xavier.
And yet, even while I’m thinking that, I can’t deny the adrenalin I can feel coursing through my veins, the quickening of my heartbeat, the sheer physical desire.
As we climb the floors the mirror next to us begins to steam up. I stare steadfastly at my toes, wrinkling them up in my sandals, feeling the wet leather beneath, trying vainly to distract myself.
I’m relieved when we step out of the lift and into his apartment.
It’s as I expected. Modern, tasteful, expensive. As he disappears I glance around, taking note of several photographs of Xavier on the mantelpiece, all in expensive, heavy silver frames. Most of them look to be him with members of his family, though there are a few with his arms thrown round various attractive girls. I peer at them closely, feeling a flutter of jealousy. It catches me by surprise.
‘Here.’ He reappears with large, fluffy white towels and I quickly turn away from the photographs. ‘You can dry off.’
‘Thanks.’ I take one from him and start drying my hair.
He does the same, sweeping his hair back from his temples. It looks even darker when it’s wet, a silky black, and his shirt is now transparent. I try not to look but it’s impossible not to. The expensive white cotton is sticking in wet folds to his chest, revealing his tanned skin underneath, the smattering of hair on his chest, his muscular back and shoulders—
Oh lord.
It’s like Colin Firth when he came out of the lake as Mr Darcy, only about a million times sexier, which until now I didn’t think was humanly possible.
I lower my gaze hastily and hope he hasn’t noticed me looking.
He’s noticed.
‘I might just go and change out of these wet clothes . . .’
‘Yes, of course.’ I nod, reddening and burying my head in my towel. How embarrassing. I’m like a schoolgirl with a crush.
He returns a few minutes later in a grey T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare and tanned. I watch them walk over the wooden floor towards me. ‘I’ve brought you this,’ he says. I emerge from my towel to see him holding out a thick waffle bathrobe. ‘If you want, I can dry your dress . . . ?’
Alarm flashes through me at the thought of taking off my clothes in Xavier’s apartment. ‘No! Um – thank you,’ I say hastily. ‘It’s silk, it might shrink in the dryer – or even on a radiator – it’s dry-clean only . . .’
I’m babbling. I sound like a complete idiot.
He shrugs. ‘OK, I just thought . . .’
His eyes flick away from my face and it dawns on me that his shirt isn’t the only thing that the rain has turned see-through. My silk dress is clinging to me, the delicate fabric having gone completely sheer. Even worse, its straps are so delicate I decided not to wear a bra, so now my nipples are on full display.
‘But I’ll wear it, to keep me warm,’ I say, hurriedly slipping my arms into the sleeves of the bathrobe and tying the belt tightly.
He nods and smiles, his eyes flashing with what looks like amusement. Is he laughing at me? I can’t tell. I perch awkwardly on the side of an armchair and wish I was more sophisticated.
‘So, tell me, what were you doing out alone in the rain at midnight?’ he asks, heading into the open-plan kitchen. It’s all stainless steel and minimalist with acres of empty countertops. It doesn’t look like he’s ever cooked here, but then Xavier doesn’t look like the kind of guy who stays in and cooks.
‘I went for dinner with some friends, they were on a scooter,’ I say in explanation, and add, ‘I wanted to walk for a little while. It was such a beautiful evening.’
‘Even more so in the rain,’ he says, his slate grey eyes studying my face. Despite myself, I feel my heartbeat quicken.
‘I should call a cab.’
If I wasn’t clear before, I am now. A bit of flirting is fun, harmless, no one gets hurt, but this is entering dangerous territory.
‘Yes of course.’ He nods and, tugging out his phone, he reaches for a card in his wallet. He makes a quick phone call and says something in French, then frowns.
‘It will be at least an hour,’ he translates, pressing the receiver against his jaw.
‘An hour?’ Panic flickers.
Or is it excitement?
‘It’s the weather, everyone is wanting a cab,’ he explains. ‘It is OK f
or you to wait here, I don’t go to bed early.’
I have no choice. I can’t wait in the rain. And anyway, I don’t want to.
‘OK, thanks,’ I say, and he fires off some instructions, then puts the phone down.
‘Please, make yourself more comfortable.’ He gestures to the large sofa that takes up the far corner of his apartment. ‘I’ll get you something to drink, what would you like?’
I’m about to propose a cup of tea when he suggests, ‘A glass of wine? A liqueur?’
‘Um . . .’ I stall. I’ve already drunk so much this evening. I really shouldn’t drink any more. I’ll have the most awful hangover.
Yet it’s raining hard outside, I’m inside a handsome man’s gorgeous apartment in Paris, it’s after midnight—
‘A glass of wine, please.’
His face breaks into a small smile. He selects a bottle of wine from several in a rack. ‘So, how was dinner, good?’
‘Yes, we went to La Petite Bleue Fenêtre, the food was amazing.’
‘You got a table?’ He looks impressed. ‘It’s very difficult to get a reservation.’
‘Harriet’s . . .’ I pause, briefly, then – ‘her boyfriend knows the owner,’ I say confidently. After tonight something tells me that’s exactly what Luc will be. ‘She wanted to take me somewhere special—’ I break off. I was going to say as a thank you for going to Provence, but I don’t want to remind him about my accident and him wanting to sue Gigi. ‘To celebrate my birthday,’ I finish.
‘It’s your birthday?’ Corkscrew in hand, he raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, in that case we should have champagne.’
‘It’s not until tomorrow,’ I counter quickly.
‘It’s already tomorrow,’ he fires back without missing a beat.
It’s almost like a dare. Our eyes meet across the apartment and for a moment I’m reminded of that game I used to play with my sister, when the first one to blink was out.
‘OK, great.’ I reply without blinking.
He pulls out a bottle of Veuve Cliquot from his fridge, with the nonchalance of someone for whom having champagne chilling in their fridge is a normal state of affairs, and reaches for two long-stemmed flutes. Popping the cork quietly, he pours out the pale straw-coloured liquid.
‘Though you should really never need an excuse to drink champagne.’ Holding both glasses, he joins me on the sofa and passes me one.
‘Cheers,’ he says in a terrible English accent, chinking his glass against mine.
‘Cheers.’ I smile and take a large gulp.
The ice-cold bubbles burst on my tongue and fizz up my nose, making me want to sneeze and laugh at the same time. It’s a delicious tingling. I don’t know what it is, but everything about champagne just feels special. It crosses my mind to wonder if the people rich enough to drink it every day still find it special, or if for them it’s just like drinking a cup of tea.
I glance across at Xavier, sitting next to me on the sofa, drinking champagne. I can’t believe this could ever get old.
‘So what’s your story?’ I ask, turning the attention away from myself.
‘Mine?’ He smiles, as if amused by the question. ‘I’m a lawyer, I live in Paris, my favourite colour is blue—’
‘Not that kind of story.’ Now it’s my turn to smile.
‘Ah, you mean the romantic kind.’
I feel myself blush.
‘I don’t have a girlfriend, if that’s what you want to know.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant!’
Which is a complete lie. That’s exactly what I meant.
‘Though of course I enjoy the company of women,’ he adds. ‘I am a French man after all.’ He gives a shrug of his shoulders, as if that explains everything. Which in a way it does.
‘In other words you’re a playboy,’ I challenge, emboldened by the champagne.
‘Not by choice.’ He looks amused.
‘That’s what they all say,’ I tease.
‘If you really want to know, I’m divorced. Love didn’t work out for me—’ He breaks off and studies my face. ‘Not the first time round, anyway.’
He moves closer, just by a hair’s breadth, or is that my imagination? I can’t tell. It’s warm in the apartment and the champagne is going to my head.
‘Your boyfriend is a very lucky man.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’ His tone is light but persistent.
I look down into my glass, watching the thousands of tiny bubbles rising up and bursting on the surface. My eyes blur. My mind skims through memories like a pebble skimming on the water, and without any warning I feel suddenly choked up. ‘I’m not sure he thinks that,’ I murmur, tears springing to my eyes.
Oh god. It’s the damn stupid champagne, it always makes me emotional. I can feel Xavier’s eyes on me but I won’t meet them. I don’t want him to see.
He notices immediately.
‘Hey – what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing . . .’ I shake my head, forcing a smile as I look up, but it’s hopeless. A lone tear escapes and trickles down my cheek. ‘Everything,’ I confess, my voice barely audible.
He doesn’t ask for an explanation. He doesn’t say anything. Instead he simply reaches over and, putting his arm round me, draws me close to him. And I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol, or the warmth, or the sound of the rain outside the window, or the events of the last few days all coming to a head, but everything seems to release and I let go.
‘Sshh,’ he whispers, as I bury my face against him to try to muffle my sobs, ‘it’s OK.’ He begins stroking my hair and, wrapped in the warmth of his bathrobe, I breathe him in, inhaling the warm citrus of his cologne. ‘Sshh . . .’ His voice is soothing and I feel myself relaxing, my eyes closing – his fingertips tracing their way across my collarbone.
My body stiffens. I lift my head to look at him and our eyes meet.
And suddenly everything seems to freeze.
33
Ugh, where am I?
I peel open my eyes. I’ve woken up in a darkened room. My head is clanging. My throat is dry. I feel dreadful. I peer out into the dimness, trying to take in my surroundings. I’m in bed, only it’s not Harriet’s sofa bed. This one is all soft and warm, with feather pillows you sink into and expensive high thread-count sheets.
And it’s absolutely gigantic. Slowly rolling over, I spread out my limbs starfish-wide but they still don’t touch the edges. With superhuman effort I pull myself up on my elbows to try to see more.
Which is when I suddenly realise I’m naked.
Oh fuck.
And I’m in Xavier’s bed.
Snatching the sheets to my breasts, I go rigid. Oh fuck. Then into a blind panic. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—
Fuck, stop saying fuck! That’s not a word you want to be saying when you’ve just woken up naked with a hangover in someone else’s bed. Especially when that someone happens to be an obscenely sexy Frenchman you got drunk with last night. Oh fuck.
See! There I go again.
Pieces of the evening start coming back to me like a jumbled-up jigsaw. Blurred flashes, bits of dialogue, snatches of scenes. The thunderstorm and being caught in a downpour . . . seeing Xavier, coming back to his apartment . . . our wet clothes – the champagne . . .
I’m distracted by the sound of a soft click, and I turn to see a shaft of light entering as the door swings open, revealing Xavier standing in the doorway.
‘You’re awake.’
He’s fully dressed and holding a cup of coffee. He looks as good as the coffee smells.
‘Yes, just now,’ I mumble, arms still crossed firmly across my chest like an Egyptian mummy.
He walks over and holds out the coffee. I juggle the sheet into one hand and reach out for the cup.
His mouth twists into a smile. ‘Don’t worry, your modesty is intact.’
I redden, both relieved and embarrassed. ‘Did you have to put me to bed?’ I ask, not really wanting to hear
the answer.
‘You were a little unsteady—’
‘Oh no, did you have to carry me?’ More pieces start falling into place. Me being drunk and upset. Crying on his shoulder about Jack. There are even vague memories of me getting out my iPhone and going through my photo library, showing him the pictures of the two of us in India . . .
But there’s something else. A flashback. Me saying I felt sick.
Oh god, I didn’t.
‘I had to carry you from the bathroom.’
Oh god, I did. I threw up in Xavier’s toilet.
‘I am so sorry,’ I say, waves of mortification rushing over me as I have an excruciating image of me on my knees with my head in the bowl.
‘Please.’ He holds out a hand to quieten me. ‘It’s OK.’
I look across at Xavier, his other arm raised up above his head, resting on the doorframe. I take in his smattering of stubble, the simple grey T-shirt that’s ridden up slightly to expose his muscular stomach, his jeans hung loosely round his hips. He’s like something from the pages of GQ. The type you’d lust over while you’re having your hair done or a manicure. Sexy, brooding and stylish, he’s got the holy trinity of male attractiveness. He even smells good.
And yet, I couldn’t be happier that nothing happened between us. That nothing is going to happen between us.
Because after last night, it’s over. It’s over before it even started. All that flirtation and sexual tension, the dangerous sense of anticipation, the sense of uncertainty between us – it just evaporated. Last night we crossed a line, and it wasn’t just because I threw up in his loo, though if ever there was anything to kill the mood, that was it. It’s as if after the last few days of being thrown together, we both reached a point where if something was going to happen between us, it was going to happen then.
And it didn’t.
Though I can’t help wondering: was it ever for real anyway? Or was it in fact just Paris, the city of love, casting its spell upon me? I mean, nothing really happened. Nothing but a few glasses of champagne, a train ride to the south of France and a thunderstorm. I wasn’t seduced by Xavier, I was seduced by Paris. By its beauty, its history, its romance that oozes from every cobbled side street and wrought-iron balcony.
Love From Paris Page 28