‘Really?’ Angelos smiled. History was repeating itself once more.
‘Something is funny?’ The dentist shot him a perplexed look.
‘Forgive me,’ he explained, ‘some years back I was here with…with my wife, a young English woman. She had been suffering great pain with an infected tooth, a tooth which you extracted. She had to be sedated as it was the first time she’d ever been to a dentist in a little under thirty years and… I don’t suppose you remember,’ he apologised, ‘I mean, the amount of clients you must have in and out all day and this was a very long time ago.’
As it happened the dentist did remember. He remembered the young English girl very well indeed. And he remembered Mr Costas too.
‘This one is perfect,’ he remembered saying to his assistant, who also happened to be his wife. ‘She is foreign, on holiday, doesn’t speak the language…if we get rid of the husband…’
‘She is very plain-looking,’ his assistant wife had grumbled. ‘I really think this should be the last time, Constantine, you are taking too many risks.’
‘You are not staying to watch?’ he had raised an eyebrow. ‘You know how much you enjoy it, Christina.’
His wife had shot him a look of disapproval.
‘The last time, Constantine, I mean it,’ she had chastised him. ‘It is no longer exciting. We need something new…’
The dentist now smiled amiably at Angelos.
‘Yes, well, I see many, many emergencies, more and more it seems these days,’ he replied, glancing over at the nurse.
‘Will I need sedation?’ Angelos asked. ‘Maggie said it had left her feeling ever so strange but that she couldn’t remember a thing afterwards and…’
A sudden shiver attached itself to his spine and a diabolical thought broke the surface of his mind. Sitting bolt upright he stared at the dentist’s dark wide eyes and hooked nose, his collection of thick dark curls quivering on top of his head… In blind panic he pulled out his wallet and once more stared at the picture of the little boy, first looking at the image and then at the man facing him.
Angelos Costas audibly gasped, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth, adrenalin coursing through him, his heart rate accelerating, making it difficult to regulate his breathing.
‘Y…y…you!’ he said, eyes wide with horror and shock. ‘It was YOU!’
Angelos swung his head to look at the nurse.
‘You were here that day,’ he said to her, ‘you were here in the room when Maggie was sedated. Tell me, tell me what did you see, what happened?’
The nurse calmly exchanged looks with the dentist. She had known this would happen one day; her husband had been greedy, too slack, and now they would have to deal with it.
‘Answer me!’ Angelos demanded. ‘The english woman, six years ago, she was here in this room… You sedated her…you…you…’
‘I’m afraid my wife has no idea what you are talking about,’ the dentist replied, taking the small syringe from her outstretched hand.
‘You sedated her…and then you….good God!’
Suddenly it all made shocking, terrible sense. How had he not thought of this before? The child, Charlie, he was the image of the man, the spit from his mouth. He was shaking violently now, and he made to get up.
‘I’m sorry Mr Costas, but you are very much mistaken. I am not familiar with your wife.’ The dentist’s thick lips parted over his straight white teeth to display a malevolent smile. ‘Now please sir, just relax,’ he said, the pair of them using brute force to push Angelos back into a reclining position on the chair. ‘This won’t hurt a bit.’
About the Author
Anna-Lou is the former and acting editor of J-17 and Smash Hits respectively. An award-winning journalist for over 15 years she has written for all the major women’s glossies including Grazia, Marie-Claire, Company and was more! magazine’s resident advice columnist for over three years.
Anna-Lou has written two novels for the young adult market, IBIZA SUMMER and THE WRONG BOY (Piccadilly Press). Her debut adult novel, CHELSEA WIVES (Avon, Harper Collins) was released in 2013 to critical success with Grazia magazine calling it ‘The perfect poolside companion’, and was followed by WICKED WIVES (Avon, Harper Collins) in 2013. Her third adult title, BLACK’S WIDOWS (Bookouture) is the sequel to WICKED WIVES and is out this summer in both the UK and US.
Anna-Lou lives in London with her two sons. When she is not writing, which isn’t often, she teaches pole dance fitness and is busy adding to her ever-burgeoning collection of vintage bikinis.
Website: www.annalouweatherley.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/annaloulondon
Facebook: www.facebook.com/annalouweatherleyauthor
Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and their story destinations.
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In Paris, With You
***
Julia Williams
DESTINATION: Paris
Paris, the city of my heart. The city of my dreams. The place where I met you…
Not a salubrious meeting as it goes. Nor one that promised much. It was my first time in Paris. I was there for a few months on a student exchange. So while I had to study at times, I was also free to explore the city at my leisure. And explore I did. I went everywhere: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Napoleon’s Tomb. And fell in love with it all: the food, the culture, the accent. Oh lord, the accent. I had fantasies about a cute French boyfriend who spoke with a Parisian accent.
I’d even taken a bateau mouche, and been proud of how much more of the language I had picked up in my short time there. It was the middle of August – the height of the annual flight to the country for the majority of Paris’s inhabitants, and the city felt deserted, like my own private fiefdom. I roamed its streets on sun-drenched days and revelled in discovering new and interesting nooks and crannies that your average tourist never saw.
What I enjoyed less was the attention I received from the numerous men (sadly unlike the cute French boy of my dreams) who pursued me in ways that their English counterparts would have been too polite to. From the relatively mild: ‘La petite anglaise veux un café?’ to the more tackily obvious, ‘Voulez vous—?’.
The low point had come at the Sacre Coeur, which I had been visiting for the umpteenth time. I was happily walking around inside, taking in the sights and sounds of this incredible building, when a young man fell into conversation with me. A tourist, like me I judged – the shorts, white t-shirt and back-pack giving him away – so I thought I’d be safe. Besides we were in church. Who tries it on in a church?
Well, him, apparently. His name was Alberto, and he was an Italian with very frisky hands, as I discovered to my cost when I made the mistake of going up the bell tower with him, in order to get a better view of the city. Paris lay before us in a blaze of sunshine, and all I could think about was how to keep his hands off me.
When we got down to ground level again (I insisted on following him down), I tried to shake Alberto off to no avail. Eventually, I found myself agreeing to have a coffee with him, in the hope that I would have an opportunity to make good my escape. Being English, I was crippled with an innate sense of politeness which prevented me from telling him where to get off. I was frantically trying to work out how I could conceivably get away from my unwelcome pursuer, when I spotted that the loos in the café were near the entrance. Alberto had found us a very cosy booth in the corner, out of their sight. So, making my excuses, I fled to the toilets and slipped away as quickly as I could. I ran through the cobbled streets of Montmartre, guiltily delighted at having escaped Alberto’s clutches, not looking where I was going until I tripped over and fell, right in front of… you.
‘Que’est-ce que vous faites la, hein?’
I looked up from my embarrassing position on the floor into the face of a very angry person who was standing over me flapping
his hands around in a very Gallic manner, buzzing around like an angry fly. You. Not an attractive sight as it happened. Your hands were large and stained with coloured chalk, and there was a smudge of red on your rather protuberant noise. Fierce blue eyes stared at me from under a mop of dark curly hair. Your lanky frame loomed over me while you talked at such a rapid rate, I couldn’t understand what was being said.
I realised rather belatedly the cause of your anger. I had fallen on what had been (from the bits I hadn’t ruined) a rather impressive picture of the Sacre Coeur at sunrise. I had managed to smudge most of it. From the gist of what you were saying, I gathered that it had taken you all day to produce this masterpiece, and I had destroyed it in seconds.
‘Er, désolée,’ I said as I attempted to stand up. Ouch, my leg, hurt. Badly. ‘Je suis anglaise,’ as if that were sufficient reason for ruining a piece of street art.
‘Évidemment,’ was your response, as if you thought so too.
I gathered my things together, apologising profusely, mainly in English, as my French seemed to have deserted me in the stress of the moment. It was only as I bent down to pick up my purse which had fallen out of my bag that I realised my leg was pouring blood. Oh lord. I felt instantly sick and dizzy. I am really not good at all with blood. To my embarrassment I found myself keeling over, and everything changed in a heartbeat.
It was then that you caught me in your arms. Your very strong arms. Not, it has to be said, an entirely unpleasing sensation. Nor was it a hardship to stare up into those very piercing blue eyes and realise that actually, under that mop of hair, and protuberant nose notwithstanding, was a rather charming face. Particularly when it was now looking down at me with some anxiety. I could just work out the rather luscious lips owned by the face was saying, ‘But you are hurt,’ in a very cute French accent.
‘It’s nothing,’ I gasped, trying to stand up again and failing.
‘It is not nothing,’ you said (or rather ‘Eet izz not nuzzing’ as it sounded quite delightfully to me). ‘Here, let me.’
You sat me down and produced a piece of cloth (thankfully clean and not covered in chalk) and proceeded to tie it round my leg.
‘Can you walk?’ you said.
‘I think so,’ I said, but when I tried it hurt too much, and I found myself leaning against your deliciously strong chest while I bit back tears of pain.
‘Let me find you a taxi,’ you said. ‘You must go to the hospital.’
Vaguely wondering if my holiday insurance actually covered hospital visits, I allowed you to flag down a taxi, in which you promptly joined me. Oh damn. Now it was coming. Were you going to turn out to be like all the other men I’d met in Paris; as soon as you sat next to me, I’d have to be fighting off your wandering hands?
Except I wasn’t. You were instead the perfect gentleman. Helping me into the cab and then sitting opposite me, almost resolutely not touching me. Paradoxically, I was offended. Maybe you didn’t find me attractive. In fact now we were alone in the taxi, you seemed to have retreated into icy politeness.
‘I’m sorry about your painting,’ I said, by way of breaking the ice. ‘Can I give you some money for it?’
I scrabbled round in my purse and then realised I’d spent nearly all my money mooching around in Montmarte before I’d been to Sacre Coeur. I had a carnet de billet for the Metro so hadn’t thought to get any more cash out to go home.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ you said (actually, it was more like ‘It duzzn’t matter’ which sent me into paroxysms of pleasure). ‘There is always tomorrow. Besides, rain is forecast for tonight, so I would have had to start again tomorrow anyway.’
‘How can you bear to create such a beautiful piece of art and have it washed away?’ I asked, curious.
‘It is a way of learning my craft,’ you said simply. ‘Tomorrow, I do it again. And do it better.’
Your name was Michel Sabor, and you were a young struggling artist studying at the École des Beaux Arts. You liked to do street art both to earn money and as a way of improving your technique.
‘I enjoy talking to the other (‘ozzer’ – swoon) artists, as I can learn a lot from them,’ you told me.
By the time we reached the hospital, I was totally smitten with you, my unlikely hero, who disappointingly appeared to be the only man I’d spoken to in France who was uninterested in me. Quel dommage.
You stayed with me till they’d stitched me up, and even though I said you could go you insisted on taking me home in another cab. Which again you paid for.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said as you left me at the door of my flat. ‘You’ve been very kind. And sorry again about your picture.’
‘De rien,’ you said, ‘It was nice to meet you, Jacqueline.’
You practically sang my name. I felt in seventh heaven. And then you were gone. Like an insubstantial dream. As if I’d imagined you.
This is ridiculous, I told myself as I walked up the steps out of Anvers Station and headed back to Montmartre. You were right; it had indeed rained in the night, and the cobbled streets were shining and new. I wondered if you’d be able to draw much today.
I hadn’t slept a wink all night, thinking about you. Together with my flatmate Lizzy, we had dissected what had happened over a bottle of wine a hundred times. You hadn’t come in; you hadn’t given me your number. It probably meant nothing to you, as Lizzy was keen to point out. But, ridiculous or not, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. So, against Lizzy’s advice and my better judgement, I’d come back to Montmartre to find you. I had the feeble excuse of wanting to pay you back for the taxi, if you wondered why I’d come, but I was hoping you would be so thrilled to see me, I wouldn’t need an excuse…
Feeling sick with nerves and not a little foolish, I made my way back to the street where I’d fallen on your picture. The street artists were already in situ, despite the damp start to the morning. In vain I scanned for you. You weren’t in the spot where you’d been the previous day; in fact, after much scouring, I realised you weren’t there at all. I asked some of the other artists if they’d seen you, but they either didn’t know a Michel Sabor or didn’t know where I might find you. After a frustrating half an hour, I realised that I’d drawn a blank. You were nowhere to be found. I went back home, Lizzy said I told you so, and that, I presumed, was that.
Until one day, a week later, there was a knock on the door, and there you stood, my knight in shining armour, with your ridiculous nose, huge hands, lanky long body, curly black hair and beautiful blue eyes. I’d love to say you came armed with roses and wine but, alas, nothing so romantic. Instead you waved a sketch book at me.
‘Jacqueline,’ you said, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’
Good, I couldn’t stop thinking about you either, though I had tried very hard.
‘You are just perfect for a project I have in mind. Would you permit me to paint you?’
‘Erm—’ As romantic moments go, this wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind.
‘So long as you’re not going to paint her naked,’ quipped Lizzy from the lounge.
‘Non, absolument non!’ came the horrified response. Such a gentleman. It was almost a pity.
‘What then?’ I said a little baffled.
‘I would like to do a series of pictures of someone like you: a foreigner in Paris, an outsider’s view if you like.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I said.
And so it began. My time in Paris, with you…
Day after day, we went out. You sketched me on the Pont Neuf, in front of the Louvre, on a bateau mouche, at Notre Dame, and (my favourite) outside a café in Montmartre.
And never once did you betray anything other than a professional interest, though I grew more obsessed with you daily. It was a torture but a pleasurable torture, and I never wanted it to end.
But end it did. End it must. You finished your paintings. I had to go back home to England. It was only on the day I left that you gave me an indication that perhaps you
wanted something more. You had taken me on a farewell tour of the Musee d’Orsay and then walked me back to the Pont Royale, where we parted company. It was the end of summer, and there was an autumnal feel in the air. The day was grey and glum, much like my mood. And as we said our goodbyes, as if to emphasise my misery, it began to rain. Soft, gentle drops that ran down my cheeks covering up the tears that were threatening to fall. I was never going to see you again. I knew that. And you didn’t care at all.
Except it was at that moment that you leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips.
‘I won’t forget you, ma petite anglaise,’ you murmured. ‘You will write, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said giddily. I had already memorised your address.
This was in the days before email and Facebook; your address was all I had. But now you had kissed me. And I had that too.
And I held on to it that long dark winter. I held out hopes that your hesitant responses to my gushing missives were a result of language difficulties – sweetly you always wrote to me in English. But even I, optimist that I am, had to give up when your letters stopped arriving altogether, and mine came back unopened.
What had I hoped for, really? Our time in Paris was an interlude, a short moment of joy which I had invested with more meaning that it deserved. I was mad to think anything would come of it. You clearly never did. You had moved on in your life, and so, with regret, must I.
And so the years passed. At Lizzy’s insistence I put you out of my head and did the sensible thing (or perhaps not so sensible) and married the next man that came along. I followed your career surreptitiously – launched as it turned out by that series of pictures you painted of me, all those years ago. ‘In Paris, With You’, you called it. If only…
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 68