Paris for One and Other Stories

by Jojo Moyes

  "You want to go for a walk?" he says. He is peering through the French windows. "Grounds look nice."

  He has made all this effort, has shown that after all this time he can be generous, impulsive, unpredictable. Shouldn't she at least do the same?

  She sits on the bed, leans back in a position that could possibly be construed as seductive, and tries not to feel self-conscious.

  "We could . . . just stay here," she says, stretching a leg. She realizes she is blushing.

  He turns toward her. "Great idea. Let's get a DVD," he says. "You can rent them from the front desk. They've got Snakes on a Plane--I've wanted to see that for ages."

  It is four fifteen, and she is lying on the oversize bed, watching a film about snakes on a plane. Her husband is beside her, his socked feet twitching as he laughs. She stares out the window at the blue sky. When had they become like this? Not after their eldest son's birth. She remembered the visiting nurse telling them baldly to get intimate as soon as possible. "Go to bed when he sleeps," she had advised as they stared, whey-faced, felled by the first weeks of new parenthood. "His afternoon nap. Enjoy each other." They had looked at this woman and then at each other as if confirming that she was indeed mad. Go to bed? When the flat was drowning in nappies and soiled baby clothes? When her body still leaked unpredictably from unmentionable places? But they had, and now, she realizes, it had been glorious. They had giggled at the naughtiness of it, exultant at the existence of their son and of their part in creating him.

  "What time are we going home tomorrow?"

  "What?" He drags his attention from the screen.

  "I just remembered--we need to pick up Seth's violin from the Thomases. He left it there on Friday. And his violin lesson is on Monday morning."

  "Do we have to think about that now?" he says irritably.

  "It's better than thinking about pythons." She has not shaved her legs or her armpits. She realizes that she actually hates surprises.

  "You don't like this film?"

  "It's fine."

  He studies her face. "I knew it. You did want the one with Kate Winslet."

  "No . . . I just need to sort things before I can relax."

  He speaks with exaggerated patience. "Can you . . . forget . . . the . . . kids . . . for . . . five . . . minutes?"

  "You can't simply parachute me out of our life and expect me to pretend that nothing needs doing."

  He pauses the DVD and hoists himself up onto one elbow.

  "Why?" he demands. "Why can't you switch off?"

  "Because someone has to remember this stuff, Doug, and it isn't usually you."

  He pulls a face. "Oh. That's nice. . . ."

  "I'm only stating a fact."

  "Well, what do I have to do?" he says. "You moan that I take you for granted, and when I finally do the thing you say you want, give you a bit of romance, you witter on about music lessons and have a go at me."

  "Romance? You call watching a DVD about snakes romance? Jeez, Doug. I'd hate to see what you'd come up with when you weren't in a romantic mood."

  He stares at her, admits the first sign of awkwardness. "Okay. Well, what do you want to do?"

  "I thought . . ." she begins. She sighs, picks at the silky bedcover. "I thought . . ."

  He is gazing at her intently. "Oh. You thought we would be . . ."

  She bridles. "You make it sound like I was expecting something bizarre."

  "You want to make love, fine." He shrugs. "We can watch the end of the film later."

  "Oh, last of the great romantics."

  "Bloody hell, Sara. What am I supposed to say?"

  "Nothing," she says furiously. "Nothing."

  "No, that's right. Because I can't say anything bloody right. Or do anything right."

  He switches off the DVD as if under protest, and they sit in silence, absorbing the distant sounds of the hotel, the sporadic footfalls in the corridor, the muffled clatter of a room-service tray being removed. She observes, surreptitiously, the way his stomach strains against his waistband. He will not buy the next size up in trousers, even though he plainly needs them. The children call him "Muffin Top" behind his back.

  "We're booked for dinner at eight," he says finally. "The food is meant to be fantastic."

  "Good."

  "I asked Tess to pack that blue dress of yours. The one I like."

  "It doesn't actually fit me very well," she says tentatively. "Do you know if she packed anything else?" She suspects she will not be able to eat anything at all if she is not to split that dress at the seams.

  "Don't know. We could go downstairs for a bit," he says. "I think they do a nice tea. You can have it on the lawn."

  She shakes her head, picturing calorie-laden cake, doilied eclairs.

  Straining seams.

  "Not if we've got a big supper."

  "Well . . ." He pats the bed, smiles tentatively. "Do you want to . . . ?"

  There is a long silence.

  She hugs her knees. "To be honest, not really. Not right now."

  He rolls his eyes. "Well, what do you want to do?"

  "Don't make that face," she says.

  "What face?"

  "For years, Doug, you have forgotten my birthday. And our anniversary. And Valentine's Day. And now you make one grand gesture, and suddenly it's all just supposed to be okay? One DVD on a queen-size bed and I'm to forget it all?"

  He is sitting up now, swinging his legs around so that his back is to her. "Oh, there's always something wrong. I can never get it right. I come home every night, I earn a good salary, I help with our kids. I book us a romantic break. But no. It still isn't enough."

  "I am grateful," she protests. "But it's daytime. It feels . . . awkward. It's like going . . . from naught to sixty."

  "But we don't have a two-week holiday! What the hell do I do, Sara? I feel like nothing is enough for you."

  "Don't lay this all on me," she snaps. "Don't blame me if I've completely forgotten the art of seduction. It takes two not to tango, you know."

  "Fine!" he yells. "Let's forget it. Let's just bloody well pack up and go home. I'm going to use the bathroom," he says, and slams the door.

  "You forgot your crossword!" she retorts, and hurls the newspaper after him.

  There is silence.

  She stares at her reflection, this cross, tired-looking woman in a pale blue shirt. She stares, and slowly she pictures a different kind of woman: tousle-haired, voracious, happy to pounce on her beloved in any tiny window of lascivious opportunity. Her neighbor Kath once confided that she and her husband often had a "quickie" after getting the kids off to school. "We've got it down to six minutes," she said. "So he doesn't miss the 8:40."

  Sara stares, then pouts tentatively at her reflection, feeling immediately foolish. Then she flinches as she hears the knock on the door.

  "Room service."

  Doug cannot hear over the vent fan in the bathroom. She opens the door, and a man wheels in a trolley bearing a champagne bucket and glasses.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls," he says.

  "Oh," she says as the man begins to open the bottle, humming under his breath. "Gosh. That's . . . very kind." She is not sure what to do. She gazes out the French windows, as Doug had done. She feels guilty and horrible. She wonders briefly if she should be trying to find a tip.

  "Great these corporate jollies, aren't they?" the man says cheerfully.

  "Sorry?"

  "The free trips. You're the fourth lot we've done for Trethick-Johnson this week. Your husband management, is he? All the management are getting the free champagne as well. Think some of them would have preferred cash bonuses, though."

  She stares at him for a moment, then accepts the glass he proffers.

  "Yes," she says, staring at it. "Yes, I suppose they would."

  "Still, champagne is champagne, right?" He salutes as he leaves the room. "Enjoy."

  She is sitting on the bed when Doug eventually emerges. He glances at the champagne bucket, then
at her. He looks burdened, beaten. She thinks about how hard he has worked these last few months.

  "What's this?"

  She considers this for a moment. "Special offer," she says finally. "I think it comes with the room."

  He nods, accepting this, then glances up at her again. "Sorry," he mutters.

  She holds out a glass. "And me," she says.

  "You're right. It's all a bit--"

  There are new, deep grooves that cut from his nose halfway down his chin.

  "Doug. Don't." She raises a smile. "Champagne is champagne, right?"

  They sit beside each other on the bed. Slowly, they move their feet so that they are touching. He tilts his glass to hers. The bubbles are like little lead shots disappearing down her throat, like ammunition.

  "I was thinking. I'll fix that bathroom light when we get back," he says. "Shouldn't take long."

  She has another long sip of her champagne and closes her eyes.

  Outside, she can hear people taking tea on the lawn, the hiss of tires on a gravel drive. Laughter ripples its way up to their window. She opens her eyes and leans her head gently against his shoulder.

  It is twenty to five in the afternoon.

  "You know," she says, "it's still several hours until suppertime. . . ."

  A Bird in the Hand

  They always argued on the way to parties. She never could just relax, Simon would claim as he started the car. Not when they were already half an hour late, she couldn't, no, she retorted, still fixing her hair in the passenger mirror.

  It might have been the fact that she always seemed to be seated next to the bore. (She occasionally timed how long it took for a man to ask her what she did; her current record was a little under two hours.) It might have been the fact that she always seemed to be the designated driver. (This was never up for discussion--she would ask him, Who's driving? And be met, inevitably, with a jokey look of horror and a confession that he'd already had several large ones.) But worse, this party was taking place in a tent, a fact she had remembered fifteen minutes after she finally left home. In gray satin stilettos.

  "You okay if I drink?" Simon said as they pulled up in the gravel car park. "I drove last time, if you remember."

  Krista Nightingale (Beth always suspected she'd made up her name) was a life coach and former neighbor. No mundane dinner parties for her; her "gatherings" took place in disused fire stations or candlelit churches. She was always investigating new methods of detoxification or disappearing on freebie trips with rich clients. Simon had urged Beth to ask her how she might do the same ("You're good at bossing people"), but Beth had never been any good at networking. It all seemed so calculating somehow, complimenting someone on her handbag while trying to plunder her address book.

  "Wow," said Simon, eyeing the crimson maharaja-style tent that spanned the length of Krista's garden. Around it flower beds sat in full-blooming glory, wafting scent into the warm evening air. Chinese lanterns dangled from the trees, sending a soft red glow into the sunset.

  "Burlap flooring," Beth said despairingly.

  "Oh, come on, love. Look on the bright side. It's gorgeous!"

  "Gorgeous if your heels aren't going to sink into that ground like meat skewers."

  "Well, wear different shoes."

  "That might have been useful advice an hour ago."

  "You can borrow my shoes."

  "Funny."

  "Beth! Don't you look gorgeous!" Krista picked her way across the matting. She was one of those women who moved effortlessly among people, collecting pieces of information that she then redistributed in perfectly appropriate parcels, like some kind of social Robin Hood.

  "Everyone else is here. No, don't worry! Don't worry!" She waved a hand as Beth began to apologize. Beth stared at that perfectly untroubled brow and wondered about Botox. "The food is running late anyway. Here, let me get you both a drink."

  "I'll sort us out. This looks absolutely amazing, Krista. Just point me toward the bar." Simon kissed Krista's cheek and disappeared. He would be there for a good half an hour, Beth thought. Picking at snacks.

  And waiting for her bad mood to evaporate.

  Krista was steering her into the tent. "You know the Chisholms, don't you? And the McCarthys? Hmm. Oh, look," she said. "Let me introduce you to Ben. He's in the same line of work as you."

  And there he was, standing in front of her, slowly lifting a hand.

  "Actually," he said, as Beth's mouth dried to powder, "we've already met."

  Her gaze slid sideways to where her husband was standing, picking his way through the Bombay mix. "Yes." She looked at Krista and swallowed, recovering her smile. "We . . . we used to work together."

  Krista looked delighted. "Oh, really? What a coincidence! What did you do?"

  "We used to put brochures together. I wrote the words, Ben did the images."

  "Until Beth left."

  "Yes. Until I left."

  They stared at each other for a moment. He looked exactly the same, she thought, no--better, damn it--and then she was suddenly aware of the redheaded woman beaming at her.

  Ben's gaze dropped briefly to his feet. "And this is my wife, Lisa."

  "Congratulations." Her smile was swift and seamless. "When did you get married?"

  "Eighteen months ago."

  "That was quick. I mean . . . you weren't married when we worked together."

  "It was a whirlwind romance, wasn't it, sweetie?" The woman slid her arm across his shoulder, just a hint of possession in the way her hand lingered on his collar.

  Ben nodded. "And your husband? Are you . . ."

  "Am I what? Still with him?" It was snappier than she'd intended. She half laughed, trying to make it seem like a joke.

  ". . . here with him?"

  She recovered. "Yes. Of course! He's just over there. By the bar."

  His gaze landed just a little too long, assessing. "I don't believe I ever met him."

  "No, I don't believe you did."

  She felt Krista's hand on her back. "We'll be sitting down in two minutes. Will you excuse me while I see how the pakoras are doing? Beth, you're not vegan, are you? I'm sure somebody said they were vegan. Because we have some curried tofu."

  "Nice to see you, Beth." Ben was already turning away.

  "You, too." She kept her smile on her face the whole way across the room to Simon.

  "I've got a headache."

  Simon threw a peanut into his mouth. "But I haven't even got my pants off."

  "Funny. Do we really have to stay? I'd much rather go home." She glanced around the crowded tent. As night fell, the smells of roses and freshly cut grass mingled with those of Indian spices. From his cross-legged position on a cushion in the corner, a man picked lush tunes on an ancient sitar. English people were no good at sitting on the floor, she thought absently. Not bendy enough. Across the room a man was wrapping a napkin around his head in a feeble facsimile of a turban, and she winced for him.

  "I really have got a headache."

  Simon allowed the barman to refill his glass. "You're just tired. We can't walk out even before the food." He gave her a squeeze and a quizzical look. "Just hang on another couple of hours. You'll feel better once we eat."

  There was an empty seat on her left. She knew as soon as she saw the name carefully inscribed beside it that it had been inevitable.

  "Oh," he said when he saw it.

  "Yes," she said. "Lucky you."

  "Lucky both of us."

  Why had she agreed to come tonight? There'd been eighty-nine excuses she could have made, including the fact that she had rare medical conditions to investigate on Google, perhaps an afghan to crochet out of the cat's sheddings. But how had she ended up within inches of this man--a man who not even two years earlier had turned her life inside out?

  The man who had transformed her from invisible, unappreciated wife to sex goddess, flirtatious fox. Adulterer.

  She swiveled determinedly toward the florid man on her right. "So
," she began, "what is it that you do? Tell me everything about yourself. Everything!"

  Even before she finished her starter, Beth knew everything she was ever going to need to know about damp-proofing, about polymer-modified plastering and water ingress. Not that she had really registered much that the large man said anyway; her every sense was trained on Ben on her left, on Ben laughing, talking to the woman beside him.

  But then, after a series of involved observations about ultramembranes and cavity walls, Henry the Damp-Proof Consultant decamped to have a cigarette in the garden, and it was just the two of them, marooned on their part of the table.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the flower arrangements.

  "Lovely party."

  "Yes."

  "You look well," he said.

  "Thank you." She wished she had worn the red dress. Why hadn't she worn the red dress?

  "Are you working?" he asked.

  "Yes. A small marketing company in town. You?"

  "I'm still at Farnsworth's."

  "I see."

  They lapsed back into silence while a teenage waitress self-consciously handed them fresh plates.

  Beth refilled her glass. "Congratulations. On getting married."

  "Thank you. It was unexpected."

  "You make it sound like an accident." She took a large slug of wine.

  "No. Just unexpected, as I said. I didn't think I was going to get involved with anyone. Not for a long time."

  "No. You never were a big one for commitment, were you?"

  She felt his eyes on her and flushed. Shut up, she told herself. Simon is only a matter of feet away.

  His voice dropped to a murmur. "Are we really going to do this?"

  Beth felt a kind of recklessness building within her. How many times had she wanted to have this conversation? How many times had she rehearsed all the things she wanted to say to him? When they had sat down at the table, she'd half expected him to simply get up and leave. How could he sit there eating and drinking and behave as if nothing had happened after all?

  "You really want to get into this now, Beth?"

  She lifted her glass. Her husband was laughing at something Krista was saying. He looked over and winked at her.

  "Why not?" she said, waving back. "It's only been two years. I figure that's a pretty decent period of time to put off an argument."