We'll Always Have Paris

by Jessica Hart

  ‘It’s real, but it’s not real life,’ Clara struggled to explain. ‘The whole point about the places we’ve been is that they’re special. They’re places where we can step outside our normal existences for a while and do things differently, be different. That’s what makes them so romantic.’

  ‘Can’t London be romantic?’

  ‘For some people maybe, but not for us. London is where we both work. It’s real for us. There’s no way I could ever fit into your life there,’ she said. ‘I’d drive you crazy in five minutes.’

  ‘You’re driving me crazy now,’ said Simon with a rueful smile.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Clara said. ‘We’re too different. You want calmness and order, and I want music and dancing.’

  Simon’s heart sank. He let her hair fall and dropped his hand. She sounded so clear. We’re too different.

  What if she was right? He might have fallen in love, but he hadn’t lost his mind. He still believed that shared interests were a far better basis for a successful relationship in the long run. He did like order. Clara probably would drive him crazy, just as he would drive her crazy by not singing along or sweeping her off her feet with wildly romantic gestures.

  Perhaps, in the end, it was better to be sensible?

  ‘I’m waiting for someone who isn’t afraid to love me completely,’ said Clara, as if she could read his mind. Pulling up her legs, she hugged her knees as she looked dreamily into the fire.

  ‘I want someone who will take a risk for me,’ she said. ‘Someone who’ll dance for me, sing for me… Oh, I know it’s just a fantasy, I know I’ve probably watched too many musicals, but that’s what I want. To be the star of someone’s show, not an understudy or a walk-on part.’

  Simon watched her profile. ‘Do you really think it’s possible to find someone like that?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Her eyes were dark and huge and she turned to look at him again. ‘I don’t know, but I’m not prepared to settle for less than that now. I don’t want to be second best again.’

  Reaching out once more, Simon’s hand slid beneath her hair to caress the nape of her neck and ignored the crack in his heart. ‘So…it looks like we’re incompatible.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Clara, but he felt her shiver of response and she leant into his hand. ‘In real life, anyway.’

  ‘What about now? Didn’t you say this isn’t real life?’

  A smile tugged at the corners of that lush mouth. ‘No, it isn’t real. For now we’re both here, and we don’t have to be sensible. We don’t have to think about the future. We can just think about this place and this moment and the fact that there’s just the two of us.’

  ‘And that it’s very cold,’ Simon agreed, slowly drawing her closer. ‘It’s a well-established fact that the best way to keep warm is to share body heat.’

  ‘I’ve heard that.’ Clara smiled. ‘But I know you like to test the evidence,’ she said as she pulled free of his hand and clambered over him until she straddled him on the floor.

  ‘We should do a little experiment,’ she said, leaning forward to press little kisses along his jaw, and Simon’s senses reeled at the feel of her, at the tickle of her hair against his cheek, the scent of her, the way she fitted so perfectly against him.

  When she reached his mouth, she angled her face to kiss his lips. He tasted whisky and something that was instantly, unmistakably Clara and the tightness inside him unravelled as he sank into the heat and the piercing sweetness and the world came right at last.

  ‘You can tell me to stop any time you’re warm enough,’ she murmured against his mouth and he smiled as his arms came up to pull her tight where she belonged.

  ‘Don’t stop yet,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop at all.’

  * * *

  Ted, Steve and Peter arrived just before ten the next morning. ‘I’m so sorry, my dears,’ said Ted, hugging Clara. ‘The wretched van broke down.’

  ‘You poor things! You must have been frozen,’ she said in concern. At least she and Simon had had a fire to keep them warm.

  And each other.

  Inside the cottage, there was no evidence of the night before. Clara had taken the bedding back upstairs, while Simon relit the fire that had died in the early hours.

  Making love with him had been beyond anything Clara had ever experienced before. She told herself that it was because of the whisky and the firelight and the fact that they were marooned on a Scottish hillside, but deep down she knew that it was more than that.

  She loved him. No matter how hard she tried to persuade herself that it was just a fleeting, inexplicable physical thing, the way she told Simon it was, it made no difference. Lying in his arms in the firelight, her head on his chest, Clara had listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart and her own had turned inside out. She had felt her heart expanding, while a glorious, irrevocable sense of rightness had settled in the pit of her belly.

  It hadn’t been like that with Matt. She had adored him, but had always sensed that she was never really the one he wanted. The more she had clutched at him, the more Matt had held back, and Clara had been permanently tense. She’d been afraid to be herself in case he realised that he didn’t really love her, but in the end he had realised that anyway.

  Clara knew Simon couldn’t love her. She hadn’t wanted him to love her, and she hadn’t tried to be anything other than what she was. Perhaps that was why it felt so utterly right being with him, why she felt more herself than she had ever been before. When they had made love, the differences between them hadn’t mattered. They were just two people who fitted together perfectly.

  Now I understand, Clara had thought in the middle of the night. All those love songs she sang with such gusto weren’t just lovely tunes. They were true.

  But loving Simon didn’t change anything. They wanted different things. Needed different things. She would irritate Simon, and he would disappoint her. His father’s irresponsibility had scarred him, Clara understood that. It wasn’t that he was too stubborn to let go. He couldn’t. Letting go was too much of a risk for him, and she couldn’t spend her life being careful.

  So Clara told herself that this short time with him would be enough. That morning when they woke up tangled in the covers in front of the ashes in the fireplace, they had made love once more, but when they got up, they both knew that it was over.

  The power had come on in the middle of the night, startling them both with the glare of light bulbs. Clara had a hot shower, and mentally braced herself to hide the love that wanted to spill out of her. But it wouldn’t be fair to tell Simon. It would just make everything awkward. Already, she could see that he had withdrawn behind his defences. That was fine, Clara told herself. It would be easier to say goodbye that way.

  Now Ted and the crew were here, and she had a job to do.

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’ she asked Ted as Steve and Peter started unloading the van.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ted. ‘The mechanic fixed it, but by then it was so late, and it was snowing, so we stopped at the next pub and set off first thing this morning. It was surprisingly comfortable.’

  ‘I told you so,’ Simon said to Clara, who put her hands on her hips and glared at Ted.

  ‘I was imagining you’d skidded
off the road and were freezing to death on some isolated hillside, and all the while you were tucked up in a warm pub!’

  ‘I did try to ring you, but I couldn’t get through.’ Ted tucked his arm through hers. ‘How did you two get on?’

  ‘We were starving,’ said Clara lightly, ‘but otherwise we survived, didn’t we, Simon?’

  She thought they both looked perfectly normal, but Ted’s eyes sharpened as he looked from one to the other. ‘So, are you ready to shoot?’ was all he said though.

  ‘Not until we’ve had breakfast.’

  It was a strange day. The snow had cleared overnight, leaving a dusting of white on the heather. Having arrived in the dark, Clara was unprepared for the sight of the massive hills looming around the cottage, and she had actually gasped when she’d stepped out of the cottage that morning. The photos on the Internet hadn’t done the scenery justice, and it made a spectacular backdrop for the outside shots Ted wanted.

  Clara and Simon sat on a great granite boulder with the hills behind them, while Peter struggled to keep the boom in place above their heads in the bitter wind. They stuck to the arguments that they had played out in Paris and on Paradise Island, but all the time Clara was remembering the feel of Simon’s body, the wicked pleasure of his hands, the darkness and the heat that had burned between them.

  She knew Simon was remembering too. Sometimes she would catch his eye and a crackle of awareness passed between them. The stern line of his mouth would soften then, and he would cough and raise his hand to hide the hint of a smile, until Ted yelled at him that he was spoiling the shot and they would have to do that bit again.

  ‘Sorry, Ted.’

  It was so cold that they were all glad when Ted decreed some fireside shots, but it was even harder then to maintain a professional distance. They were sitting in exactly the same spot where they had made love the night before, and it was impossible not to remember how it had been, impossible not to wish that it could be just the two of them again.

  Clara was afraid that Ted would make some comment about them not concentrating—he could be very cutting when he wanted—but when he said nothing, she presumed that she and Simon had brushed through it without giving themselves away.

  At last it was over. ‘And…it’s a wrap!’ Ted spread his arms in his best Hollywood movie mogul mode. ‘Well done, my dears. Let’s all have an enormous drink!’

  Now that filming was over, they could relax. The power stayed on, so they cooked all the food and drank all the wine Clara had packed for two nights.

  Clara refused to think about the fact that there would be no reason to see Simon again. Roland had been lukewarm, to say the least, about the idea of follow-up documentaries on Simon’s micro-finance projects. ‘Not exactly a sexy subject, is it?’ he had said.

  When Clara had steeled herself to tell Simon, he had been phlegmatic. ‘It was worth a try,’ he said.

  If only Roland had leapt on the idea! He could make things happen when he wanted them to, and they could have had a commission lined up already. Then this wouldn’t have been the end. She could have driven back to London with Simon and, instead of saying goodbye, she would have had the perfect excuse to call him. I’ll be in touch, she could have said, and then they would have been working together again and then—

  And then what? Clara interrupted herself. Nothing would really have changed. Everything she had said the night before was true. She and Simon were too different to make it work. Astrid might not be the right one for him, but there would be someone else, someone more sensible and suitable than Clara.

  Better to accept it now. Simon would drive her back to London the next day and that would be it. Oh, perhaps they would have a polite chat over a screening of the preview, or a stilted phone call to inform him of the release date, but there would be no more trips, no more times alone.

  No more making love.

  But she had known all along that it would end, Clara reminded herself. There was only ever the moment, and she would live for it now. So she tucked her feelings away, the way she had always done, and smiled brightly and probably drank more than she should.

  OK, she definitely drank more than she should. All she really remembered the next day was standing on the table and using a wooden spoon as a microphone as she belted out show tunes, cheered on by Steve and Peter. Simon hadn’t encouraged her, but she knew that his eyes were on her and, although he shook his head in mock despair, he was smiling.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Simon was unsympathetic about her hangover the next morning. ‘It serves you right,’ he said. ‘Does this mean no singing down the motorway?’

  Clara held her aching head. ‘No anything,’ she croaked.

  It was a very quiet journey. They listened to Radio 4 the whole way, just as Simon had wanted to do when they drove up. Except he couldn’t appreciate it as much as he should have done.

  This time there was no incessant singing and humming, no tapping of the feet or dancing of the hands. No chomping of crisps. No low, wicked laugh, no teasing smile. It wasn’t the same when she was quiet. He even began to wish that she would sing again, and who would ever have thought that?

  Simon glanced across to where she was huddled in the seat, her face wan and her eyes closed, and he had to suppress a grin at the thought of her the night before, up on that table, singing into the wooden spoon and kicking her legs.

  God, he was going to miss her.

  Simon held grimly onto the wheel and tried not to think about how empty his life was going to be from now on. He couldn’t regret their night together but how long was it going to be before he stopped aching for what he was missing? How long before he forgot the heat and the wildness of losing control? The moment he had that sweet, luscious body under his hands, he had been lost, all sensible thought obliterated as his mind went blank and black with desire, and his heart shifted at the memory.

  One night, that was what they had agreed. It was sensible. It was practical. It was better for both of them.

  Clara was a very special person, and she deserved to be happy, thought Simon. She had made it clear that one night was all that she had wanted. He couldn’t give her the fantasy she craved, and she didn’t want to settle for less.

  So she would go her way, and he would get back to his nice, ordered life and that would be that. There was no point in telling her how he felt. It would just make things more difficult.

  Simon told himself that it was all for the best. He liked it quiet, didn’t he? There would be no more singing, none of those smiles that made his heart lurch alarmingly. No illogical arguments, no rolling of the eyes, no fear that any moment she would break into a dance routine.

  No Clara.

  There was a space right outside her flat. Simon parked and switched off the engine. On that busy London street, the silence was suffocating.

  ‘Well,’ said Clara.

  ‘Well,’ said Simon.

  The air was clogged with tension. He undid his seat belt for want of anything else to do. ‘I suppose this is it,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was strained. ‘At least, there’s no more filming. Ted will edit it now, and we’ll record the voice-over. Obviously we’ll let you know when it’s done, and let you ha
ve a preview copy.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘But you’ve done your bit.’ Clara cleared her throat. ‘I know you didn’t want to do it, but I’m really grateful to you, Simon. We would never have been able to make the programme without you.’

  Simon shifted round in his seat so that he could look at her. ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ he said slowly.

  The truth was that it had been the most fun he could remember having since before his father died.

  And look how that had turned out.

  The heat and sweetness and the need that had engulfed him at the cottage had blotted out all else, but now the reminder of where too much fun could lead jerked Simon back to reality just as he was on the point of begging to see her again.

  Better to call an end to this—whatever this was—now. It would just get complicated and end in Clara being disappointed, and he couldn’t bear to do that to her.

  Clara would always have a good time. She had a zest for life that Simon both yearned for and feared. She needed someone who could enjoy the good times with her and not spoil things by pointing out the practicalities or considering the consequences.

  Someone who wasn’t him.

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Clara’s smile was uneven as she unclipped her seat belt and reached for the door. ‘I’d better go.’

  He didn’t want to let her go. ‘Clara…’

  She turned back, still holding the door handle.

  ‘I did enjoy it,’ he said as if she had said she didn’t believe him. ‘And that night—’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she interrupted him. ‘That night was fantastic, but we both know it wouldn’t be like that again.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I mean, look at us,’ she said, gesturing from Simon’s neat navy Guernsey to her layers of mismatched colours and patterns, topped off with the vividly striped scarf she always wore. ‘We couldn’t be more different.’