The Paris Secret

by Karen Swan

  She shrugged. ‘I have. But I just haven’t fallen for them. Not really hard, anyway. I mean, I’ve had my obsessions but . . .’ She sighed. ‘It’s just never more than that. I don’t miss them if they go away, I don’t fret if they don’t call . . .’ Her voice faded and she pressed the glass to her lips.

  Bruno shook his head, watching her. ‘Poor Stefan. He never stood a chance with you, did he?’

  Flora held up a warning finger. ‘Don’t even mention his name to me. He is not poor Stefan. He is a ruthless bastard who screwed me over to advance his career and score a point against a bloke who probably doesn’t even remember he exists.’

  Bruno held his hands up as though she was pointing a gun at him. ‘Hey, look – I’m not defending the guy. What he did was shitty. I’ve ignored all his calls for the past week. I’m too scared of you and Ines not to!’ He hugged her by the shoulders, grinning wildly. ‘But don’t think I feel any sympathy for that Vermeil scum either. What they did?’ He tutted loudly.

  Flora stared into the distance. ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. She wouldn’t defend them tonight, none of them. She didn’t care if Jacques was opening a foundation for refugees, she didn’t care if Lilian had lost her friendship with the President’s wife, she didn’t care if Natascha was gossiped about in the tabloids, Xavier heckled in public. They weren’t her problem. Her problems were bigger than anything even they were dealing with right now.

  ‘Tell me about your new sponsorship deal,’ she said, eager to change the subject. How had they ended up talking about Xavier Vermeil, anyway? Couldn’t she have even a moment’s peace from the guy? She took another slug of wine. Why wasn’t she drunk yet? ‘You must be so stoked.’

  ‘I am. It’s my dream, you know, being able to make a living off the board? I’ve just got to try and win as many trophies as possible and appear at any exhibitions or events they sponsor.’ He shrugged. ‘Happy days . . . Flora? You OK?’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she asked, tuning back in.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Absolutely. Tickety-boo. Just peachy.’

  Ines sauntered over. ‘They want us to sit, food’s ready,’ she smiled, sweetly taking Bruno’s glass from his hand and emptying it. ‘Thanks, baby.’

  They found three free places at a table mainly occupied, it seemed, by a group of merry widows. Bruno, sitting opposite Flora, looked terrified and more in need of his skateboard than ever. Ines, of course, immediately launched into conversation as though she’d known them her whole life. Flora was seated next to Sylvie, a seventy-six-year-old woman with the skin of a baby who proceeded to regale Flora with merry tales of her widowhood and, in particular, her current torrid affair with the butcher.

  The food was delicious but rustic, bowls of ratatouille passed down the benches from the waitress who stood at the far end, dishing them out from a giant tray. Flora took a look down at her dress and hoped for the best. One spot of tomato sauce and it would be ruined.

  More wine was served and as the women around him talked, Bruno occupied himself intently with either eating or drinking; it meant he didn’t have to make small talk. He took it upon himself, as the only man on the table, to keep everyone’s glass full at all times – so that soon Flora had lost count of how many she’d had, which was rather the point for her tonight. She wanted to let loose. She wanted oblivion; she wanted to give up the pretence of being in control of her own life when in fact she was anything but; it had run away without her. What was the point in even trying? One lie and an entire life could fall. Why did anyone even try to keep it together? Chaos had its own gravitational pull; sooner or later, they all had to succumb.

  The mayor got up to make a speech, everyone clapping and calling as he took to the stage. Flora shifted slightly in her seat to get a better look. A band behind him was already warming up, the guitarist strumming quietly by the speakers.

  Beyond the stage, Provence twinkled below them, the vividity of the azure-blue sea dimmed for the night. Sylvie had told her there was a fireworks display due to go off at 10.30 p.m. – it would still be too light before then – and she could only imagine how much more spectacular the setting would become as colours were scribbled in the night sky, gathering the entire region under the umbrella of their celebrations.

  She looked around at the crowd as the mayor spoke, intrigued by this madly diverse, eclectic group of people gathered together to eat, drink and dance by the foot of the town walls: rich and poor, young and old, local and foreign, families and dignitaries, lovers and enem—

  And then she heard her. She heard Natascha before she saw her – that sharp laugh that always made Flora catch her breath, breaking through the respectful silence accorded to the mayor during his speech. Several heads turned, frowns settled on foreheads as the culprit was identified. Bruno caught her eye but he didn’t need to say a word. She knew as well as he did that where Natascha led, Xavier was usually sure to follow.

  She dropped her head suddenly, knowing that he was here and he had seen her; now that she had broken off from her polite conversation, she felt the weight of his stare as surely as if he’d been kneeling on her chest.

  Natascha laughed again, like a hyena in the savannah, the sound warning others of her presence. In spite of herself, Flora looked up. Natascha was sitting three tables along; Xavier five people down from her. He was pouring some wine, a blonde – different from the one who’d knocked her flying in Paris – talking intently on his left. But as he put the carafe back down, his eyes rose to hers again with a certainty that he’d find her, as though he’d only left off from looking at her for a moment.

  She looked away before he could lock her in a gaze. She remembered his snub this morning; and the one yesterday afternoon; and the way he’d called her nothing in front of his family; and . . . no. She was done with him, his games. She only had energy for Freddie now. She was on emotional lockdown.

  And yet she didn’t hear a word of what the mayor said. She didn’t notice that everyone was clapping. She could only think of him, a man she didn’t want to want.

  She sat out the dances, steadfastly refusing to get up as she saw the locals arrange themselves into intricate positions. ‘Categorically not,’ she said bluntly every time Bruno tried to get her to join him and Ines, all the while belligerently, drunkenly watching Xavier dance with the blonde. He was an accomplished, if not enthusiastic, dancer.

  ‘Come on, Flora, you’re going to love this one,’ Bruno said, breaking her reverie and snapping his fingers in front of her face.

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she said.

  ‘Too bad. I’m not taking “no” as an answer this time. This is the last of the folk dances.’

  ‘Bruno, I told you—’

  ‘I don’t care. Up.’

  Oblivious to her protests this time, he pulled her up by the wrist and led her over to the dance floor where Ines was already standing, arranging people into correct places. Everyone had divided into five pairs of lines that each spanned the length of the dance floor, men on one side of the pair, women on the other.

  Flora watched as the MC – a portly man in a red braided jacket that looked more like a lion-tamer’s suit – demonstrated the dance with his wife and two others on stage. It vaguely reminded her of some reeling lessons she’d once had as a teenager – linking opposite arms to turn, twirling on the spot . . . Bruno was right, not so hard.

  She could see Xavier further up their line but there were at least fifteen people between them and she pointedly ignored him as the music started and the first couple in their ‘set’ began to dance.

  Everyone started clapping in time, Flora too, as the first pairs in every eight couples moved towards each other and, linking arms, turned on the spot. She watched closely, concentrating hard and finding the pattern as the woman moved down the line, repeating the turning sequence with each man before rejoining her partner in the middle. At the end of the set, when the couple had danced with all o
f the seven other pairs, they then rejoined each other in the middle for a flamboyant twirling extravaganza (Flora was immediately worried for Sylvie – she’d mentioned something about a dodgy hip at dinner) before moving down the line to the next set of dancers.

  Even feeling as tipsy as she did, Flora was pretty sure she’d got it: twirl your partner, link arms with Man 2, twirl your partner, link arms with Man 3 and so on until Man 8, then back to your partner who will twirl you like mad for sixteen bars. But . . . Flora felt her nerves spike as she thought it through more fully. Didn’t this mean those at the top of the line would end up dancing with those at the bottom? I.e. everyone would dance with everyone?

  Sociable it might be, but she could already see that it was Xavier’s turn to move down the set and he was eight couples closer than he had been four minutes ago. The blonde was his partner, her hair snapping like a whip as he spun and flung her with careless ease, the girl laughing delightedly as he passed her to one man and himself turned another woman.

  Desperately, she counted the number of couples between them. Five, six, seven . . . Had he seen her here? Did he know they were in the same set? She looked around, trying to find an escape route off the dance floor but Ines had positioned them slap bang in the middle, with two dancing sets either side of them. She couldn’t walk between them without causing havoc – there was a very high chance of getting hit by an outflung arm or leg if she tried that – and she certainly couldn’t run down the middle between the twirling pairs.

  It was academic anyway. He was already here, turning Ines who was standing to her right and had clocked her dance partner too late. But Xavier wasn’t looking at Ines; his eyes were on Flora – as he linked arms with Ines, as he twirled the blonde again – and then suddenly it was her turn, his arm pressed against hers for a whole revolution. She saw nothing but his face, the lights and colours and festivity around them smeared into bright streaks that flashed past in the periphery.

  It was a moment before she realized he was supposed to have let her go by now. He was supposed to be back dancing with his partner in the middle of the line – Flora could see the girl standing alone, gesticulating wildly at the two of them – but Xavier was either oblivious or just didn’t care, his arm as clamped to hers as if they’d been shaped from a single sheet of bronze: not riveted together, not bolted, but made as one. She felt her hair flying upwards, their bodies spinning in time, and when the music suddenly stopped and he twirled her into a dip, her body twisted round his as she stared into those black eyes that betrayed none of his secrets, none of his thoughts. Just his desire.

  Slowly, he brought her back to standing, the two of them breathless in the middle of the line as everyone clapped and called for another dance.

  Flora couldn’t look away. What was he doing to her? He had been a bastard to her by intention, he had walked away from her, snubbed her – and then he danced with her like that?

  The blonde came over, pulling Xavier by the shoulder, but he didn’t stir. He didn’t seem perturbed to be found staring down so brazenly at another woman. It was Ines who broke them up, yanking Flora away by the wrist and walking her off the dance floor and straight over to the bar.

  ‘No!’ she said, wagging a finger in her face. ‘No, no, no!’

  Flora inhaled, went to speak, to protest that she hadn’t done anything—

  ‘No!’

  Bruno joined them, looking too scared to speak.

  ‘Bruno?’ Ines commanded, demanding backup.

  Bruno looked at Flora, jerked his thumb towards his girlfriend. ‘What she says.’

  Flora sighed and looked away, back towards the dance floor. Xavier was still standing there, staring after her, oblivious to the blonde standing with her hands on her hips and calling him out. She realized why the music had stopped now; everyone was looking heavenwards, children (those still awake, anyway) sitting on their parents’ shoulders as the fireworks display began.

  Ines hooked her finger under Flora’s chin and made her look back at her. ‘I said no! You know what he is.’

  A sudden bang split the sky, making them all jump and look up. A brilliant shower of golden beads was cascading towards earth. Flora looked up at the stonework in the walls, now picked out by the dramatic pink-and-blue spotlighting. She looked back at the dance floor again; she couldn’t help it. He was still watching her, observing how her body language changed, how her friends had closed ranks around her.

  And then he was coming over.

  Another crack of the heavens; this time blue screamers, tearing up the sky.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said in panic, making both Ines and Bruno whip round to follow her eyeline.

  ‘Give us a minute,’ Xavier said to Bruno and Ines, but looking at neither. His eyes wouldn’t leave Flora.

  ‘What? And leave her alone with you? I don’t think so,’ Ines said fiercely, standing in front of Flora and crossing her arms over her chest for good measure.

  He glanced at them both then, Bruno looking mainly embarrassed that his girlfriend was slightly overreacting to the situation. After all, what had the guy done apart from dance with her?

  Xavier looked back at Flora again, seemingly instantaneously forgetting the two of them were there. ‘You look beautiful.’

  Flora couldn’t have been more surprised. A compliment? From him? It stunned her more than a double-punch.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Ines said, bossily. ‘Bruno, get my bag. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Ines, wait—’ Flora protested as Ines caught her by the elbow and began to pull her away. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, it’s ridiculous, is it? Protecting you from making a huge mistake with a guy who has pretty much slept his way through Paris, treats you like dirt—’

  The sky above them was coloured purple and green, a crescendo of ‘oooh’s coming from the crowds.

  ‘Don’t fall for it. Have some self-respect.’

  Xavier’s head whipped round, his eyes scornful on Ines. ‘You don’t know me.’

  She looked up at him, fearless. ‘No, but I know all about you.’

  ‘And that means it’s the truth, does it? The gossip you pick up at parties?’

  ‘Friends. Friends of friends. Reliable sources. They can’t all be wrong,’ she replied defiantly.

  Xavier turned back to Flora, dismissing Ines with the gesture. ‘I want to talk to you. Just to talk.’

  ‘Ha! Not based on what just happened out there, you don’t,’ Ines laughed, refusing to be cold-shouldered. ‘Your girlfriend’s not looking too happy about this, by the way.’

  Xavier didn’t turn to look, his eyes on Flora alone. Flora tried to read him – she didn’t understand why he was so hot and cold with her; snubbing her one moment, chasing her down the next. But there was something there, between them. It might not be logical or rational but the air between them was always charged; neither one of them could deny it.

  The sky flashed white, the explosion like a thunderclap. And as the night was suddenly lit up, she saw something over his shoulder.

  A couple was walking towards a parked car – only the woman wasn’t walking so much as being led. Or . . . or dragged. Flora squinted, trying to see better. The sky was jet again and although dramatic lights were being thrown up the walls, the ground beneath seemed to be drenched in blackness by comparison. But she caught a glint of sequins – gold hot pants, the lambent flash of long, long legs that were far too much on display.

  Another flash and the sky lit up. The scene became more real, more vivid. She could see now what was happening. The girl was crying, shaking her head, leaning back on her heels. ‘Oh my God,’ Flora gasped, as the couple arrived at the car and the man tried to push the girl in, though she was locking her arms straight against the door frame and resisting. ‘Xavier, it’s Natascha!’

  He spun on his heel and with the next whipcrack of light, saw what she’d seen – the couple struggling in the shadows. His face drained of colour. In not even half a moment, he w
as sprinting across the dance floor, over the grass, sending people flying as he roughly barged them out of the way. People stared after him in the commotion – tutting loudly, hissing insults, his family’s disgraced Austrian name audible in the crowd – as they briefly turned to watch him race towards the parking area, arms pumping, the tails of his shirt untucking as he ran, before they turned back to the celestial display.

  The sky brightened. Crack! Flora’s hands flew to her mouth as she saw the man slap Natascha hard round the face, hard enough to make her hands leap to her cheeks, and he pushed her into the car, slamming the door on her and running round to the driver’s side.

  Flora watched in horror as Xavier raced over the grass. He wasn’t going to make it! The car had started, it was pulling away, a spray of gravel shooting out from behind the back wheels.

  Xavier dived forward, straight into the path of the car, landing on the bonnet. Flora screamed as the driver braked hard and Xavier rolled off, landing heavily on the gravel. People turned at the sounds, gasps spreading as the show on the ground began to outshine the one in the sky.

  Xavier was already getting up. The car windscreen was cracked, the bonnet heavily dented, and it was clear he’d taken a hard hit. His head drooped as he got unsteadily to his feet, swaying. He looked up and saw the driver’s door was already open, the man beginning to sprint as fast as he could away from the scene.

  Adrenalin kicked in. Fight or flight. Xavier ran, his long legs catching up the smaller man easily and he dived again, rugby-tackling him to the ground. The crowd gasped as one – rapt now – as they saw his arm rise up and then dive down on the prostrate man in a ferocious punch. Flora heard someone calling for the police.

  Everyone had begun to move, the crowd surging forwards.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Flora cried, beginning to push through the people in her way.

  ‘Flora, don’t.’ It was Bruno, holding her arm, holding her back. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘But he’s hurt!’ Flora cried.

  ‘Someone will have called an ambulance. Look.’ He gestured to the crowd clamouring towards the scene by the car which was now hidden from sight. ‘You can’t help right now.’