by Jessica Ayre
'Let me tempt you with something inexpensive,' the woman looked at her maternally. 'I like my customers to come back!'
She brought out two dresses for Lynda to look at. One was a softly feminine terra-cotta jersey with a tiny waist and loosely-gathered flowing skirt. Its delicate scalloped collar ended just short of a demure V-shaped neckline. The other was a slightly more extravagant affair of deep blue crepe-de-chine with widely flowing sleeves which then deceptively finished in a tight band around the wrist.
Lynda tried both and was helpless to choose.
'Take both, my dear. You look so well in them.'
Lynda finally dared to ask what the bill would come to. Tricia had been right; the prices were quite reasonable.
Why not? she thought to herself. I won't be going to Paris again in a hurry. And then, as if apologising to her mother, I haven't bought any clothes in donkey's years.
She walked out of the shop swinging her various bags and feeling altogether elated.
Tricia was just walking in the front door when Lynda arrived home.
'You've done well, by the look of things,' she said, taking in Lynda's various packages.
'I'm afraid I've been terribly extravagant,' Lynda beamed happily. 'Wait till you see it all!' They hurried upstairs and before Tricia had had a chance to take her jacket off, Lynda displayed her various purchases.
'Wonderful! Did Madame Buffet help you, the small dark Frenchwoman? I think I can detect her hand in all this.'
Lynda nodded.
'She's quite amazing. She used to work for an haute couture boutique before she came to London. Go on, try them on for me.'
Lynda did, and Tricia murmured her enthusiasm. 'You'll wow the Frenchmen,' she said wryly.
Lynda wasn't sure about the Frenchmen, but certainly Paul's look of frank admiration when he came to pick her up promptly at four the next day rid her of any qualms she might have had. As she adjusted the new hat over her freshly washed coiled hair, and turned to face him, he murmured, 'Perfect! Too good, in fact. I'll have to beat Rees away from you.' He chuckled as she coloured slightly and reached for her travel bag. He took it from her, squeezing her hand in passing. Then he met her eyes and gave her a long warm smile.
'Shall we try to be amicable, Lynda? I do promise to be on my best behaviour.'
She returned his look and nodded, made a little breathless by the rugged beauty of his face when he determined to be charming.
Paul seemed to be in rare good humour as they drove to the airport, and she soon learned the secret of it.
'If these meetings go well—and with you looking as you do, we can't go wrong,' he murmured a joking aside, 'the project's sewn up. Two years of preliminary work and battling finished with. And at last, we can get on to the real thing—the houses. Rees on the telephone promised support, so we're eighty per cent there…'
Lynda suddenly realised the pressure Paul must have been under all this time. He had always seemed so sure, so confident, it had never occurred to her that he might be deeply worried, that all the energy he had invested in the project might come to nothing. She suddenly felt petty, childish. No wonder he had berated her about her lack of professionalism!
'I'll help all I can,' she said with feeling.
He glanced at her briefly, surprised at the warmth in her tone.
'And I'm not,' he emphasised it, 'asking you to sell yourself.'
They arrived at the airport in good time and in high spirits. Paul parked the car and a little shuttle bus took them to their terminal.
'Plenty of time for a drink,' he said, ushering her towards a corner seat and then moving off towards the bar. He seemed to know the terminal inside out. Lynda, as she watched him returning with the drinks, drew in a sharp breath. He walked with the grace of a cat, effortlessly covering the space between them. She saw women, looking up to watch him, the movement of his broad shoulders encased in the tawny leather jacket she so liked, his trim waist, the long tweed-clad legs. It came to her that she was very fortunate to be in the company of such a man.
He handed her her drink and sat down beside her. She moved her eyes into the vague distance, unable to trust herself to meet his.
'Do you travel much?' she asked, working to keep her voice steady.
'Too much,' he chuckled, 'but I'm still thrilled by it. Every time I get into an aeroplane, I feel I'm in a special capsule, quite shielded from time. And you?'
She hesitated to say it. It would only be the second time she had ever flown. The first had been on a college trip when a group of students had been taken to Rome to look at paintings. She shook her head.
'Well, I hope it's a good flight. It will be brief in any case. Do you know Paris well?'
This time she laughed. 'I've only been once— when I was twelve, on a school trip. We took the ferry from Dover.'
'I can show you the sights, then,' he chuckled, 'between work hours, that is.'
Their flight was called and he took her arm and led her towards their gate. The stewardess, eyeing Paul admiringly, guided them towards their seats.
'I thought that since we had important business to attend to this evening, we'd travel first class,' Paul said, winking at Lynda as he made room for her to move into the window seat.
'Business?' she asked, stiffening slightly.
He chuckled again. 'Don't panic! Rees is coming to have dinner with us to brief us on the state of affairs. Or perhaps just to have a look at his favourite Englishwoman.'
Lynda flushed and played with her seat-belt, unable to do the clasp in her nervousness.
'Here, let me help.' He reached over to fasten it for her, his long fingers trailing over her thighs as he did so. She shuddered slightly. Then, remembering her resolve to be coolly poised, she thanked him, removed her hat and turned her flushed face towards the window.
London receded beneath them. Lynda's excitement mounted with the plane's ascent. She closed her eyes, imagining what she remembered of Paris, the regal boulevards, the cobbled climbing streets of Montmartre.
Suddenly she felt a pair of lips coolly brushing her cheeks. She opened her eyes wide and let out an involuntary gasp.
'Sorry. I can't resist sleeping women,' Paul murmured in her ear, his tone still half-jocular.
'And I can't resist men when I'm asleep,' she found herself retorting, not realising quite what she had said until it was out.
Paul looked at her unnervingly for a brief moment, and then with steady coolness said, 'I'll have to see you more often when you're asleep then.'
The stewardess saved her from having to reply by offering drinks. Before Lynda had quite finished hers, the seat-belt and No Smoking sign lit up. She pulled her hat on, trying to glimpse a reflection of herself in the darkening window.
They landed smoothly in Charles de Gaulle airport. Lynda was thrilled by the giant bubble with its intimate corners and maze of space fiction escalators. She almost forgot Paul's presence at her side until she heard him telling her a story about the aeroport's architect. She tried not to let her little girl amazement show too much as she followed him towards the taxi exit.
'We'll take a cab,' he said, 'otherwise there won't be time to settle in before Rees arrives.'
As she heard Paul giving instructions to the driver, Lynda was amazed at the faultless fluency of his French.
'Where did you learn that?' she queried, hoping the driver wouldn't hear.
He shrugged. 'I lived here for a while, but then I can't remember ever not speaking French. How about you?'
'Faltering schoolgirl variety, and God knows if I even remember that,' Lynda grimaced. A worry occurred to her. 'Will the meeting take place in French?'
'Partly, I imagine. But don't worry, it will all be translated if necessary. Shaw always thinks he's missing some cagey detail, though his French is quite good enough.'
The taxi took them over the Seine, its waters swift and silvery in the fading pink light of the setting sun. Lynda tingled with excitement as the beauty of the city came home to her.
To her left, the intricate facade of Notre-Dame reached towards the sky; to her right, graceful bridges arched the curves of the river. She breathed a sigh of pure pleasure.
Paul reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Unaware, she returned the pressure of his fingers.
'The beauty of it all never ceases to amaze me,' he said quietly, and Lynda nodded agreement, her eyes glowing.
They pulled up in front of a small hotel on one of the narrow streets which wound its way south from the river into the Latin Quarter, rue des Saints-Peres. The street of the saintly fathers, Lynda translated freely, and smiled wryly to herself, thinking of her own saintly father.
The hotel had a discreet air. Its milky white facade blended unobtrusively with those of the antique shops, galleries, and boutiques which surrounded it. Yet its blue plaque bore four stars, and as its doors were opened for them, she could see why. The hushed interior was a model of quiet elegance. The intimacy of the softly lit lobby gave way into a glass-covered courtyard where plants burgeoned around small tables. Amidst the muted voices, she could hear the receptionist welcoming Paul warmly by name and then the cultivated resonance of Paul's voice. A strange ache drew her towards him.
As she approached, he turned. Their eyes met with a searing intensity which made them both look away. Paul introduced her to Monsieur Verdoux, the manager, as 'ma collegue', my colleague. Lynda felt nattered at the description and she brought out her best, 'Enchantee, monsieur,' as she shook the manager's outstretched hand. She noticed a brief approving look passing between him and Paul. It gave her an added confidence as she followed the dark-eyed attendant towards the lift.
Their rooms were on the top floor, rooms which, as Lynda later discovered, were regularly reserved for Paul. She gasped with delight when she saw hers—a bed, covered in lush Bordeaux satin, a small walnut secretaire and dressing table, two well-cushioned armchairs positioned around a circular coffee table, and best of all, large French windows opening on to a small terrace from which one could see the river and the cathedral of Notre-Dame. The walls were papered in a delicate cream embossed with silver stripes and tiny fleur-de-lys. The bathroom, Lynda noted with relief, had no adjoining door and all the amenities associated with the privileged French toilette, numerous thick towels, scented soap, a beautiful oval-shaped mirror, a marble floor, ornate tap fittings.
'I could stay here for ever,' she whispered to Paul.
He smiled at her delight.
'You take your time and enjoy it. I'll meet you at the bar in a little while.'
He closed the door quietly behind him. Lynda arranged her clothes and then was unable to resist going out on the terrace. The city stretched before her in the dusky light, roofs playfully edging into one another following the shapes of the streets. Notre Dame, now illuminated, looked even grander. Twinkling lights bounced off the waters of the Seine. Lynda stood there lost in time and then mentally pinched herself. She must get ready for dinner.
It was too late to shower, but she did want to change, so she washed quickly and considered her new clothes. She decided on the blue crepe-de-chine. The way its loosely gathered skirt and flowing sleeves caught the light and reflected it, its rustling sound as she moved, made Lynda feel quite extraordinarily glamorous. She made up her eyes with a luminescent blue and added a hint of sparkle to her lips. Then, carrying Tricia's loose wrap over her arm, she made her way to the lift. She felt ready for anything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In her best French Lynda asked the receptionist the way to the bar and he pointed her in the proper direction. She entered a darkly-lit room. It took a few moments for her eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness. Then she made out Stanford Rees and Paul sitting in a corner, deep in conversation. They didn't notice her, and in those few unobserved seconds she indulged herself in the sight of Paul, his brow furrowed in concentration, the straight pure line of his Grecian nose. He looked devastating in a dark charcoal suit, deep blue shirt and loosely knotted crimson tie. How could she protect herself against his vitality?
Suddenly he spotted her and rose. She was grateful for the half light which hid her embarrassment as she walked towards their table, her silky dress caressing her legs. Stanford Rees rose too and moved forward to meet her. He embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks, whispering into her ear, 'When in France…'
She laughed, finding herself very glad indeed to see him, the curly mass of salt and pepper hair, the odour of pipe tobacco about his clothes, the crisp tones of his mid-Atlantic English.
'You look even more ravishing than I remember,' he said, and she heard Paul drawl almost inaudibly, 'if not ravishable.'
The two men were drinking tall glasses of a pale milky-yellow liquid.
'Can I get you a Pernod?' Stanford Rees offered.
'Or something else?'
'A Pernod, please,' said Lynda, the word sounding glamorous on her tongue. She gave him a deliberately wide-eyed look and whispered conspiratorially, 'I've never had one.'
He chuckled. 'An authentic English hick we've got here, Overton,' and as he sensed Lynda bristling, added seriously, 'Wish I were one still. It allows you to enjoy things all the more!'
The slender moustachioed waiter placed a glass of colourless liquid in front of Lynda and poured some water into it. The glass turned milky yellow. She sipped the heavily scented drink and made a funny face. 'Liquorice,' she said.
'Anise,' Paul corrected her. 'Pernod is the legitimate offspring of Absinthe. Remember those early Picassos and the pale green glass in front of the cadaverous figures? When all of Paris was drinking it at the turn of the century, the poets and bohemians dubbed seven o'clock, the green hour. I've never been too sure whether it was to do with the colour of the drink or the haze through which you saw life afterwards. Luckily, Pernod doesn't have the same corrosive effect on the brain… or my trips to France would be numbered,' he laughed, taking a large sip from his glass.
'It grows on you,' said Lynda, joining him.
'Not too fast, I hope,' Stanford Rees quipped. 'I want to take you out of here to one of my favourite restaurants. I've booked a table for us.'
The restaurant was only a few minutes away on the Quai Voltaire, overlooking the Seine, and they walked the distance through the crisp, clear night air. It occupied the top floor of a corner building. Two of its walls were glass and offered a breathtaking view of Paris. It was strangely like being both in the sky and on the river at the same time.
Lynda felt herself floating, slightly giddy from the drink and from the many excitements of the day. Her eyes sparkled as she sat down between the two handsome men at a table covered in brilliant white and heavy silver. She couldn't quite believe it was she who was sitting here.
Paul leaned towards her to help her with the menu's French. His nearness made her pulse quicken and on an impulse she let her hand brush his. He looked at her intently, questioningly and, colouring, she drew away and turned towards Stanford.
'I feel like Cinderella. Do you think all this will vanish at midnight?' She swept the room with her gaze.
'Not a chance, young lady. It's been here for over a hundred years. And I'll keep a firm grip on you so you don't vanish before the meeting either.' He took hold of her hand to emphasise his words.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lynda could see Paul's face darkening, but he simply cleared his throat and said in a husky voice, 'Shall we order now?'
Stanford nodded and Lynda buried her face in the menu. There was simply too much to choose from and she felt greedily that she wanted it all. She voiced her plight.
Paul laughed. 'We'll both let you taste all of ours, but why don't you start with some escargots, in garlic butter?'
'And the tournedos here is marvellous,' Stanford suggested. 'There's nothing comparable in England, if I remember.'
'It all sounds wonderful,' Lynda murmured.
Stanford ordered a bottle of champagne to set the mood and then discussed the menu in detail with the waiter. The two men s
eemed equally versed in the intricacies of sauces and seasonings, and Lynda was content to let them get on with it while she allowed the dry bubbly champagne to tickle her nose.
The waiter, immaculate in tails and starched white, served the various courses, brought dishes filled with terrine, moules, escargots, then gigots and tournedos cooked to perfection, potato croquettes, buttered spinach, endive and scarole salad. Meanwhile conversation flowed, randomly, gaily.
By the time Lynda bit into the delectable tiny wild strawberries and crumbly pastry of her sweet, the world had been transformed into a rosy, trouble-free spectacle. The mellow but inaudible tones of La Vie en Rose filled her ears.
She leaned carelessly, lightly against Paul as they walked back to the hotel, matching her steps exactly to his. At the door, Stanford kissed her on both cheeks.
'Make sure you're in top form tomorrow evening when we meet the French crew,' he said to her. And shaking hands with Paul, he added, 'Take good care of our young lady.'
As if obeying an order, Paul put his arm protectively around her and guided her into the hotel. She glided along beside him, thrilled by the sense of his hard body against hers. In the solitude of the lift, she lifted her eyes to his and met their full impact.
Then abruptly Paul withdrew his eyes, his arm, his body. A chill shook her, a coldness which pervaded her every fibre. She forced herself to walk out of the lift, to move her legs towards her room. At her door, Paul murmured, his voice rough with an edge of anger, 'If you behave like that, I can't guarantee that you'll spend your nights alone—I'm not made of steel. Goodnight.' He turned on his heel and strode off swiftly.
Lynda wanted to run after him, to entreat him, but her feet refused to move. After what seemed an eternity, she put her key into the lock and let herself into the room. Without turning on a light she sat at the edge of the bed, numbed by her conflicting emotions. One part of her mind listened for movements from the room next door. Suddenly she made out the sound of a door closing. She listened breathlessly, half hoping that the footsteps would stop at her door. But they moved softly down the corridor and away without stopping.