Five Days in Paris

by Danielle Steel

  “Peter … I love you …”

  “That's a good thing,” he said, pulling her so close to him that they almost seemed like one person, “because I've never loved anyone so much in my life. I guess I'm not a gentleman after all,” he said, looking only faintly regretful, and so pleased with what they'd done, and she smiled sleepily at him.

  “I'm glad you're not.” She sighed and snuggled still closer to him.

  They said nothing for a long time, and just lay there in each other's arms, grateful for every moment that they shared. And finally, knowing they would have to leave each other again, they made love again, one last time. And when they got up at last, Olivia clung to him and cried. She never wanted to leave him, but they knew they had to. She had decided to go back to Paris with him. And they left their hotel at four o'clock looking like two children banished from the Garden of Eden.

  They stopped and got something to eat, and shared a glass of wine and some sandwiches sitting on the beach, looking out at the ocean.

  “I'll be able to visualize you here, if you come back,” he said sadly, looking at her, and wishing, as she did, that they could stay there together forever.

  “Will you come to see me?” she asked, smiling wistfully at him, her hair hanging over her eyes, with grains of sand along the side of her face where she'd been lying.

  But for a long time Peter didn't answer. He wasn't sure what to say to her. He knew he couldn't make any promises. He still had a life with Kate, and only an hour before, Olivia had said she understood that. She didn't want to take anything away from him. All she wanted was to cherish what they had shared for the past two days. It was more than some people had in a lifetime.

  “I'll try,” he said finally, not wanting to break a promise to her even before he made it. They both knew how difficult it was going to be, and they had already said that they couldn't continue their affair. It would have to remain nothing more than a memory. Their lives were too complicated, and they were both far too involved with other people. And once Olivia went back to her own world, the paparazzi who normally followed her would never let something like this happen. What they had shared here was a miracle and could never be repeated.

  “I'd like to come back here and rent a house,” Olivia said solemnly. “I think I could actually write here.”

  “You ought to try it,” he said as he kissed her.

  They threw the last of their lunch away, and stood for a moment, hand in hand, looking out at the ocean.

  “I'd like to think we'll be back here one day. Together, I mean,” Peter said, promising her something he hadn't dared to say before, that there was some dim, distant hope for a future. Or maybe just another day. Another memory to carry with them. Olivia expected nothing of him.

  “Maybe we will,” she said quietly. “If it's meant to be, maybe that will happen.” But they had obstacles to overcome first, hurdles they had to jump, burning hoops they had to leap through. He had Vicotec to see through to the end, his father-in-law to contend with, Kate waiting for him in Connecticut, and she had to go back and deal with Andy.

  They walked quietly to his car, and she had bought some food for the road. She put it in the backseat and hoped he couldn't see the tears in her eyes, but even without looking at her, he could feel them. He could feel them in his heart. He was crying for the same reasons that she was. He wanted more than either of them had a right to.

  He pulled her close to him, as they stood looking out to sea for a last time, and told her how much he loved her. She told him the same thing, and then they kissed again, and then finally got into his rented car to begin the long drive back to Paris.

  They hardly spoke to each other for a while, and then finally they both relaxed again, and started talking. They were each dealing with what had happened in their own way, trying to absorb it, make it theirs, and accept the inevitable limitations.

  “It's going to be so hard,” Olivia said, smiling through tears in spite of herself as they passed la Vierrerie , “knowing that you're out there somewhere and I can't be with you.”

  “I know,” he said, feeling a lump in his throat as well. “I was thinking the same thing when we left the hotel. It's going to drive me crazy. Who am I going to talk to?” And now that they had made love, in some ways he felt she was his now.

  “You could call once in a while,” she said hopefully. “I could let you know where I am.”

  But they both knew that wherever he was, he was still going to be married. “That doesn't seem fair to you.” None of it was. It was the danger in what they'd done, but they both knew it. And not making love wouldn't really have changed anything. In some ways, it might even have made it harder. At least this way, they had had it all, and they could take it with them.

  “Maybe we should meet somewhere in six months, just to see what's happening in our lives.” She looked embarrassed for an instant, thinking of one of her favorite movies with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. It was a classic and she had cried over it a thousand times when she was younger. “Maybe we could meet at the Empire State Building,” she said only half jokingly, and he shook his head quickly.

  “That's no good. You'd never show up. I'd get mad about it, and you'd wind up in a wheelchair. Try another movie.” He smiled and she laughed at him.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, looking mournfully out the window.

  “Go back. Be strong. Go back to whatever it is we did before to make it all work. I think that's easier for me than for you. I was so stupid and blind, I didn't even realize how unhappy I was. I think you have a lot to sort out though. The trick for me is going to be making it look like nothing has happened, as though I haven't seen the truth during my week in Paris. How would I ever explain that?”

  “Maybe you won't have to.” She wondered how badly the Vicotec mess was going to rock his boat if it didn't do well in the tests. That remained to be seen, and Peter was getting increasingly worried about it.

  “Why don't you write to me, Olivia?” he said finally. “At least let me know where you are. I'll go crazy if I don't know. Will you promise me that?”

  “Of course.” She nodded.

  They talked as they drove through the night, and it was nearly four A.M. when they arrived in Paris. He stopped a few blocks from the hotel, and although they were both tired by then, he pulled over.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked, remembering his opening line in the Place de la Concorde, and she smiled sadly.

  “You can buy me anything you like, Peter Haskell.”

  “What I want to give you can't be bought, at any price,” he said, referring to all he felt for her and had from the first moment he saw her. “I love you. I probably will for the rest of my life. There's never going to be anyone like you. There never has been, never will be. Remember that, wherever you are. I love you.” He kissed her then, long and hard, and they clung to each other like two people drowning.

  “I love you too, Peter. I wish you could take me with you.”

  “I wish that too.” He knew that neither of them would ever forget what they had shared for the past two days, and what had passed between them that morning.

  He drove her back to the hotel then, and let her out at the far end of the Place Vendome. She had no bags with her, only the cotton skirt she wore. She had rolled up her jeans and T-shirt and was carrying them. She left nothing with him, except her heart, and she looked at him for a last time, and he kissed her again, and then she ran across the square, with tears streaming down her cheeks when she left him.

  He sat there for a long time, thinking of her, and watching the entrance to the hotel where he had last seen her. He knew she had to be in her room by then, and this time she had promised him she would go back and not disappear again. And if she did, he wanted her to come to him, or at least let him know where she was. He didn't want her wandering around France. Unlike her husband, Peter was far more concerned with her safety. He was worried about everything, about what they'd done
, about what would happen to her now when she went back, and whether or not she would once again be used and exploited, or if this time she would leave him. He worried about facing Kate again, when he went back to Connecticut, and if she would sense that something had changed between them. Or had it? Olivia had made him realize his success was his own, but he still felt he owed so much to Kate, in spite of what Olivia had said to him. He couldn't just let her down now. He had to go on as if nothing had happened. What had happened with Olivia had no past, no present, no future. It was simply a moment, a dream, an instant, a diamond they had found in the sand and held between them. But they both had other obligations which took precedence. It was Kate who was his past, his present, and his future. The only problem was the ache in his heart. And as he walked back into the Ritz, he thought his heart would break as he thought about Olivia. He wondered if he would ever see her again, and where she was at that exact moment. A life without her was beyond imagining, but that was all he had now.

  And when he opened the door to his room, he saw the small envelope waiting for him. Dr. Paul-Louis Suchard had called, and requested that Mr. Haskell call him at his earliest possible convenience.

  He was back to real life, to the things that mattered to him, his wife, his sons, his business. And somewhere in the distance, receding into the mists, was the woman he had found but could never have, the woman he was so desperately in love with.

  He stood at his balcony as the sun came up, thinking about her. It all seemed like a dream, and perhaps it was. Perhaps none of it was real. The Place de la Concorde …the café in Montmartre …the beach at La Favière … all of it. He knew that no matter what he felt for her, or how sweet it had been, he had to let it go now.

  Chapter Seven

  When the wake-up call came at eight, Peter was dead to the world, and as soon as he hung up the phone, he wondered why he felt so awful. He felt as though there were lead in his soul, and then just as suddenly, he remembered. She was gone from him. It was over. He had to call Suchard, and fly back to New York and face Frank, and Katie. And Olivia had gone back to her husband.

  It was hard to believe how miserable he felt as he stood in the shower, thinking of her, and forcing his mind back repeatedly to the business he had to deal with that morning.

  He called Suchard precisely at nine, and Paul-Louis refused to tell him what the results were. He insisted that Peter come directly to the laboratory. He said that all of the tests were complete now. He wanted an hour of Peter's time, and said he could easily catch a two o'clock plane. Peter was annoyed that he wouldn't at least give him a summary of their results on the phone, and agreed to come to his office at ten-thirty.

  He ordered coffee and croissants, but could eat none of it, and he left the hotel at ten, and arrived ten minutes early. Suchard was waiting for him, and his face was grim. But in the end, the results were not quite as bad as Peter had feared, or Paul-Louis had predicted. One of the essential substances of Vicotec was clearly dangerous, and it was possible they would have to find a substitute, but the entire product did not have to be abandoned. It had to be “reworked,” as Suchard said, and it could prove to be a lengthy process. When pressed, he admitted that the changes could be effected in six months or a year, perhaps less if a miracle occurred, though it was doubtful. More reasonably, the process would take about two years, which was pretty much what Peter had suspected after their first conversation. Perhaps, if they put extra teams on it, they could get Vicotec on its feet in less than a year, which wasn't the end of the world, though it was certainly disappointing. But the substance, as it existed now, and as they had planned to market it, was virtually a killer. It didn't have to be, and Suchard had several suggestions as to how to effect the necessary changes. But Peter knew that Frank would not consider any of this good news. He hated delays, and the extensive research that still had to be done would be costly. There was no hope of asking for early human trials now from the FDA, or attending the hearing they had set up for September in order to get it on the “Fast Track.” What Frank wanted, of course, was early release of the drug as quickly as possible, resulting in massive revenues, which was different from what Peter wanted out of it. But whatever their reasons or their goals, right now they had nothing to ask for.

  Peter thanked Paul-Louis for his input and his thorough research, and he sat lost in thought as he rode back to the hotel, trying to think of the right words to tell Frank. Paul-Louis's exact words still rang in his own ears uncomfortably: “Vicotec, as it stands now, is a killer.” It was certainly not what they had intended, or what he would have wanted for his mother and sister. But somehow Peter couldn't see Frank taking the news reasonably, or even Katie. She hated things that upset her father. But even she would have to understand this time. No one wanted a series of tragedies, or even one, they could not afford to let that happen.

  Peter closed his bags back at the hotel, and as he waited the last ten minutes for the car, he flipped on the news. And there she was. It was almost exactly what he had expected. The big news of the hour was that Olivia Douglas Thatcher had been found. And the tale they told was too strange to be true, and of course it wasn't. She had gone out to meet a friend, apparently, had a minor car accident, and had been suffering from mild amnesia for three days. Apparently no one in the small hospital where she was had recognized her or seen the news, and miraculously the night before, she had come to her senses again and was now happily reunited with her husband.

  “So much for honest reporting,” Peter said, shaking his head and looking disgusted. They ran all the same old, tired photographs of her, and then ran an interview with a neurologist speculating on lasting brain damage from a minor concussion. But they concluded with a statement wishing Mrs. Thatcher a complete and speedy recovery. “Amen,” he said, and flipped off the tube. He looked around the room for a last time, and picked up his briefcase. His bag was already gone, and there was nothing left to do but leave his hotel room.

  But it gave him an odd feeling of nostalgia this time leaving the room. So much had happened during this trip, and he wanted suddenly to run upstairs, just to see her. He would knock on the door of their suite, say he was an old friend …and Andy Thatcher would probably think he was crazy. Peter wondered if he suspected anything about the last three days, or if he didn't even care. It was hard to gauge and the story they had told the press was a thin tale at best. Peter thought it was ridiculous and wondered who had come up with that story.

  And when he went downstairs, the usual cast of characters was there, the Arabs, the Japanese. King Khaled had gone to London after the bomb scare. There seemed to be a whole flock of new arrivals checking in as Peter made his way past the desk, and there was a large group of men in suits with walkie-talkies and earpieces as he stepped through the revolving door, and then he saw her in the distance. She was just getting into a limousine, and Andy was already in it with two of his people. He was turned away from her, talking to them, and as though sensing Peter nearby, Olivia glanced over her shoulder. She stopped, mesmerized, and looked at him. Their eyes met and held for a long time, and Peter was worried that someone might have noticed. He nodded slightly at her, and then, as though she had to tear herself away from him again, she slipped into the limousine, and the door closed, and Peter stood staring after her on the sidewalk, unable to see in the darkened windows.

  “Tour car is waiting, monsieur,” the doorman said politely, anxious to avoid a traffic jam in front of the Ritz. Two models were trying to leave for a shoot and Peter's limousine was blocking them. And they were getting hysterical, shouting at him and waving.

  “Sorry.” He tipped the doorman and got in, and without another word, or even a last look at her, he looked straight ahead as the driver headed swiftly toward the airport.

  And in their car, Andy was taking Olivia to see two congressmen and the Ambassador at the embassy. It was a meeting he'd had planned all week, and he had insisted she go with him. He had been furious with her at first, over the
stir she'd caused, but within an hour of her safe return, he concluded that her disappearance was a bonus to him. He and his managers had worked out a series of possibilities, all of them designed to arouse sympathy, particularly in light of his current plans. He wanted to make her another Jackie Kennedy. She had the right looks for it, and that same waiflike quality, coupled with her natural style and elegance, and her courage in the face of adversity. His advisors had decided she was perfect. They were going to have to pay more attention to her than they had in the past, and groom her a little bit, but there was no question in their minds that she could do it.

  She'd have to stop pulling her little disappearing acts though. She had done things like that for a while after Alex died, taken off for a few hours, disappeared for a night somewhere, she was usually at her brother's or her parents'. This had gone on for longer than in the past, but he had never truly had a sense that she was in danger. He knew she'd turn up eventually, he just hoped she didn't do anything stupid in the meantime. And he told her just what he thought of it before they left for the embassy, and told her what was expected of her now. At first she had said she wasn't going with him. And she had objected vehemently to the story they were releasing to the press about her.

  “I sound like a complete moron,” she said, horrified. “A brain-damaged one at that,' she said, complaining bitterly about the story.

  “You didn't leave us much choice. What would you like us to say? That you were dead drunk in a hotel on the Left Bank for three days? Or should we tell the truth? What was the truth, by the way, or do I want to know it?”