by Bonnie Dee
Although what if he’d already found another warm body?
Nigel imagined that horror, because why not? He was in a mood to indulge in sorrow. Perhaps Jay had recalled the French expression: La nuit, tous les chats sont gris. At night, all cats are gray.
A brisk knock at the door roused him from the unpleasant musings. “Yes?”
“Monsieur Nigel Warren?” A deep voice with a thick French accent—M. Lamont, one of the managers of Chauve-Souris. “I am here for the express purpose of apologizing to you. I have learned of the mortifying and terrible joke played upon you by directing you to a cabaret most inappropriate.”
Nigel remembered his indignation as if it had belonged to another, sillier man.
He laughed. “Good heavens, how did you hear about it?”
“Messrs. Abelin and Pascal confessed that they had played a joke upon you when it was learned you were late and sent that cryptic message.”
He spoke through the door. “Really? How interesting. Hold on, please.”
Nigel adjusted his tie and pulled on his jacket. He took a fresh handkerchief from the drawer, hesitated, then grabbed the one he’d been using. He held it to his face and took a long, slow breath. Sweat, garlic, wine, sex, Jay, tobacco.
He folded the handkerchief and carefully tucked it away. All right, he’d banish sorrow. The greatest exhilaration of his life had ended—but what a miracle that it had even taken place. That fact was what he must recall if he felt despair or anger about his loss.
That stupid, hackneyed phrase rang like true poetry. Better to have loved and lost. Yes. So much better.
He opened the door to greet the worried, gray-haired M. Lamont.
Nigel took his hat from the rack and joined M. Lamont. His smile felt genuine. “Good morning. Thank you for your concern, but I assure you that the incident didn’t affect me.”
The manager stared at him. “You’re looking well today.” He sounded surprised.
No sleep to speak of, too much to drink, the sort of dissipation that he would have thought would injure a man…and yet Nigel thrived.
“Thank you. Kind of you to fetch me. Shall we go?” The faster he got to his numbers and the distraction of work, the better.
M. Lamont had come in a cab and the driver stood by his horse with its nose in a feedbag. Clearly they hadn’t expected him to be ready to leave the hotel so quickly.
“Shall we walk?” Nigel asked the manager. “It’s a balmy day.”
The manager stroked his well-groomed gray mustache. “Entirely up to you, monsieur. But I thought we might stop and have some coffee.”
He must have still been worried that Nigel would complain to someone in England about the prank.
But the reason for his diffidence and his extremely apologetic manner became clear over the coffee and croissants. “I think part of the reason my colleagues played that naughty trick on you is that they had expected someone from Weldon’s, the British firm we are courting, and you are from Herries Farquhar and Co.”
“No one would expect a bank to loan money if the purchase is suspect,” Nigel pointed out.
“Suspect. Such an odd word. Alas that you are so very…efficient.”
Nigel swallowed a crumb of croissant. “That is why I’m entrusted with the work.” Please, God, do not let him try to bribe me.
In the past, several men had slipped him envelopes of money, and Nigel had gone straight to the authorities at Herries Farquhar and Co. In fact, he knew he had a reputation for being something of a humorless hunting dog with the management. He knew this because he’d overheard a clever young son of a baron touring the London office describe him that way.
“If I find a discrepancy or two, I won’t draw them to the attention of my superiors. If the discrepancies are more numerous or more than a few francs have been lost, I will be forced to report what I’ve found. I shan’t only put the information in a letter but contact the director for whom I work,” Nigel explained to M. Lamont.
“I have no way to help you change your mind? Perhaps, say, an incentive to—”
“No. Please don’t,” he begged. Would Jay take the money? Nigel suspected he might. Another gulf between them. He pushed back from the table and stood.
M. Lamont gave a large shrug. “I don’t know if there’s anything to overlook, but I suppose I wanted to see if you were…malleable.”
“I’m not.” And perhaps that was both his strength and weakness.
“Will you report this conversation?”
Of course I will, you idiot. As soon as may be… But no, for once he felt disinterested in the matter. Why grow indignant about other people’s money or about a bribe that hadn’t actually been offered?
“No,” he said truthfully. “I will do my job, and that doesn’t include reporting the conversations I have with officials of the bank. I’m going to work now.”
The manager held up a hand. “Of course. Let me see to the bill, and I’ll join you on the walk.”
“Even though I’ve made it clear I won’t be suborned in any way?”
“Of course,” the manager said, and Nigel was mildly amused that the man seemed insulted.
They walked together toward the bank. The pavement was already crowded with pedestrians flocking toward the grounds of the Exposition Universelle, an extravaganza Nigel supposed he ought to view before leaving Paris. He had to duck aside to avoid knocking into a lady’s large hat.
As they stopped to allow a dray horse and wagon to pass, M. Lamont examined Nigel and then declared, “You seem different, monsieur. As if you’ve relaxed at last. You seemed quite tight, pardon if that isn’t the correct word.”
It seemed correct to Nigel, who felt looser in every way than he’d ever been. “No need to compliment me. I’m not going to report any issues that I don’t find in the books.”
The manager laughed. “I’m smart enough to know you’re not bought with compliments if money won’t do the trick. I’m speaking the truth. And since I’m being truthful, when it comes to the bank business, I’d do exactly as you describe—go straight to the directors if I suspected some wrongdoing, but also perhaps try to track down mistakes on my own. You are an honest man, and I am nearly as honest, I think. Nearly,” he added with a wicked grin and a wink. A second later, the bank manager cursed as he stepped in a dog mess, which got on his gleaming white spats.
He sighed and wiped his shoe on the iron railings surrounding a tree and then continued the walk. “To be honest, I thought my compatriots had judged you badly. After all, you might have a stiff demeanor but l’habit ne fait pas le moine.”
“And that means?”
“Literally the cloth doesn’t make the monk. One should not judge by appearances.”
Nigel had to wonder what impression he gave to these Frenchmen. He’d thought himself a regular sort of gentleman, hardly extreme in any sense. One always designates the label of moderate to oneself, though. “Apparently I’ve been a laughingstock,” he said. The pain of such a realization should have hit him then, but he realized that he barely cared.
“No, no, of course not, monsieur,” said M. Lamont far too quickly.
Nigel smiled. He didn’t care what these people thought of him. The amazing Jay had deemed him worthy of kisses and more, so much more. It would be hard to puncture his self-esteem at the moment.
Behind the marble columns of Chauve-Souris, he settled into the room they’d set aside for his use. They gave him a brass-and-wood Arithmomètre, but he preferred his own brain for addition and subtraction. He pulled the ledgers toward him and absently ran his hand over the black leather of the top book. He’d already waded through this one but that had been Before. His life, he suddenly understood, would be divided into Before and After.
Before Jay, the world had been gray and pale. He smiled again. Such nonsense… And Before Jay, he wouldn’t have
smiled, not nearly as often.
Someone gave a discreet knock at the door.
“Enter,” Nigel said and then wished he hadn’t when Abelin and Pascal filed into the room, heads bent like children coming to be scolded. Nigel almost greeted them with pleasure, before recalling his mortification and confusion last night and their huge grins as they issued the invitation to him to join them at a quaint establishment.
He could have turned his irritation on them. It took but a remembrance of Jay’s lazy smile on the roof to dissolve yesterday’s anger. All that was left behind was a small but strong resolution to not show his true feelings to these people.
“Well?” he said. “I’m working.”
They raised their heads but didn’t meet his eye. “We are so very sorry,” Abelin started. “We were playing a joke on you.” He rocked on his stylish polished shoes and looked at his partner in crime with a pleading gaze.
Nigel folded his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Not particularly funny,” he said. “If that’s how you treat guests to your place of business and your city.”
“We know. We are so sorry for sending you—”
“If you make arrangements to meet a person, you should show up,” Nigel continued.
One of them gasped. Good. He liked surprising them.
“But that cabaret…” Abelin began, then faltered.
“We assumed that once you saw, you would understand,” Pascal finished. “A gentleman such as yourself.” His turn to lose words.
Abelin jumped in. “You would leave immediately, of course.”
“Why? Because the drinks were overpriced?” Nigel said blandly.
“Did you not…?” Abelin said, then cleared his throat.
“Did you stay to see the entertainment?” Pascal no longer sounded contrite. He was fascinated.
“Yes. Singers and dancers,” Nigel said. He pulled out his watch and made a show of checking it, and looking up at the huge clock on the wall.
“And you did see that they were, ah…” Pascal licked his lips. “That they weren’t ladies?”
Nigel gave them a small closed-mouthed smile. He wanted to grin. “Of course. That was the point, wasn’t it?” He considered adding more but decided he’d said enough, judging from the way Abelin elbowed Pascal.
Nigel realized he was enjoying himself.
“M. Lamont says…that is to say, we hope you might join us? In a café that is more conducive, more…” Pascal’s words failed him again. He hunched his shoulders and stared down at his shoes.
“I won’t rule it out,” Nigel said. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I must work.”
They left him to work in the pleasant room, the tick of the clock and familiar leather bound volumes to keep him company.
He found the source of a larger discrepancy in the first hour and reported it to a relieved M. Lamont as probably a mistake. “It was entered in the wrong column in the daily book, see?”
He panicked when it seemed M. Lamont was going to kiss him, but the man merely shook his hand, vigorously, several times.
Nigel considered working through lunch, but the members of the firm were aghast at the thought.
M. Lamont whispered, “Please put Pascal out of his misery and say yes. He really is appalled with himself. Abelin, not so much—but do allow them to take you out for a meal. I’d come along, but then their apologies might be more effusive with less sincerity.”
Nigel reluctantly agreed, and Abelin and Pascal led him to a restaurant that probably would cost them more than a day’s combined salary. The music of a string quartet drifted from inside, and the polished brass and clean windows of the entrance gleamed in the sunlight.
As they approached the huge potted palms outside the restaurant, a cry went up. Three people—two men and a woman—spoke in a flurry of French as they rushed up to Nigel. One he recognized as the actress on the floor of Jay’s garret, the red-haired lady whose name Jay hadn’t been able to recall. Another was Merde, the artist. They lined up and gave him a kiss on each cheek. The actress pinched his cheek and gave him a startling pat on the bottom before babbling at him for a few seconds.
As fast as they’d rushed up, they scurried off again.
Pascal and Abelin stared after them. “That…that was La Coquelicot.” Their gazes shifted to Nigel. “And the other is the artist Mercier.”
“Your mouths are open,” he said genially.
“But she’s famous. She’s so glamorous,” Abelin said. “How on earth do you know Coquelicot?”
“Mercier is all the rage this year,” Pascal said in English that was almost impossible to understand. “Do you know his work?”
“I think so. Is he the one who paints muscular people?” Merde the bad artist might be actually a rather famous painter named Mercier. Nigel recalled reading an article about him in the Sunday Times.
“Yes, that’s him. But who is Jean Michel?” Abelin asked Nigel. He continued as if he couldn’t believe such a thing were possible. “La Coquelicot called you the adorable friend of Jean Michel. Adorable!”
“He’s someone I met once.” Nigel pulled his watch out again. “I would like to be back at work by two.”
They went into the restaurant. After they’d been seated, he asked, as calmly as possible, “The actress and the artist—what else did they say?” Did they say Jean Michel wanted him back? Did they say he’d been left brokenhearted? Did they invite him back to the apartment?
He allowed himself to ponder that solution. He could go back to the flat at the invitation of Merde-Mercier. A natural reentry into Jay’s life. One more visit before he must return home. What could be the harm?
“They said they would have recognized you anywhere and that they hoped to get to know you better, but that they must run.”
“Oh?” He waited.
“And Mercier said Jean Michel is in a bad mood.”
That made his heart leap. Perhaps Jay missed him. As Abelin and Pascal chattered, far more cordially now, Nigel picked at the excellent food and considered possibilities.
He had another day’s work to do in Paris and then he would cross the channel and return to his regular life. Perhaps after work, he could at least try to see Jay again and put off reality for another night?
He pondered ideas and scenarios for the thousandth time since leaving Jay behind, but the sensible part of himself had already reasserted control. What would be the point? Nigel was already re-entrenched in his reality, and the more he tried to run away, the drearier would be his eventual return. One must adjust to one’s circumstances or fail to prosper.
Chapter Seven
Since he’d woken up yesterday to find the little sparrow had flown from their rooftop nest, Jay couldn’t settle. He’d descended from his aerie in a foul mood and attacked cleaning the flat with a vengeance. Indolent, slovenly writers, painters and would-be artistes of all stripes fled like rats from a sinking ship, with an evil-tempered captain leaving a mess in their wake. Jay attempted to scrub and scour away his overwrought displeasure at Nigel’s disappearance. Not so much as a farewell and thank you for a lovely time. Bad form!
Never mind that he hated good-byes himself, he expected at least a note or kiss. But of course, by the light of day, the pedantic banker would cringe away in horror from what he’d done. Naturally, he’d run back to the familiar and try to erase the memories of one heavenly rooftop night from his mind.
Trouble was, Jay couldn’t.
He, who had indulged in dozens of illicit encounters and walked away from most of them without a backward glance, could not stop thinking about the sober Englishman with the surprising streak of poetry in him. This unexpected lover had made Jay feel fresh and wide-eyed again.
He sang that night at the club with little thought or feeling, because if he allowed himself to dive into the emotionalism of the music, he might burst
into bloody tears. If his performance was a bit flat, the audience didn’t seem to notice, rewarding him with the usual enthusiastic applause—which did little to lift his spirits.
The following afternoon, Jay was too restless and impatient to hang around the flat. He had a rare night off from the club, an opportunity to run several necessary errands and then to relax. Perhaps he’d take in the Exposition again before it closed. The World’s Fair was full of marvelous exhibitions, but such entertainments were best shared with friends. As he closed the gate of the building, Jay cursed in both English and French, for there was only one person he wanted to stroll the promenade with, and Nigel had made it clear he wanted to forget their association.
He may have already returned to London. I will never see him again. A pang of near panic shot through him at the thought. Outrageous to feel so strongly about a man he’d shared one night with. He was becoming as emotional as Roger, blowing the event far out of proportion to what it had been.
Jay turned his attention on accomplishing his goals: pick up his pay at Le Cabaret Michou, drop off some shirts and performance gowns at the laundry, purchase sundries like shaving soap, razors and rouge, stop at the barber for a trim and a close shave, and browse the new fabrics at his dressmaker’s. But today, even the luscious jewel box of bright colors and slippery, sensuous materials under his hand didn’t satisfy him. Satin only served to remind him of Nigel’s skin.
Shopping brought him near enough to the Champ de Mars that the shadow of Eiffel’s tower fell over him, the showpiece of the last grand Exposition in 1889. He considered walking to the Grand Palais and going in to see the exhibition of sculptures or the Motor Show like any good tourist. The lights outlining the tower were being lit early. When he twisted around to see, a miracle occurred. Nigel Warren in his dignified businessman’s suit, homburg and cane in hand, stood with his chin up, also studying the tower.
The sun cast a golden glow over the buildings and the throng of people bustling to and fro on the boulevard. It gilded Nigel’s profile: high forehead, perfectly straight nose, sculpted lips, chiseled chin, and caught in his black hair to bring out nearly coppery hues. Unaware of himself or his surroundings and with a dreamy gaze on his face, Nigel was handsome—not at all the dull mouse Jay had first taken him for.