by Jessica Ayre
She paced round her room, an abyss opening at the pit of her stomach. Not altogether aware of her actions, she made her way downstairs. Like a sleepwalker she moved towards the bar and entered it.
What she saw bolted her into wakefulness. There sat Paul with a beautifully groomed dark-haired woman. She was gazing at him with sultry eyes as he stroked her hand rhythmically. Obviously not a recent acquaintance, Lynda thought bitterly. She turned and ran, almost knocking over the man behind her.
In her room, she tore off her clothes and lay naked on the bed staring at the intricate mouldings in the ceiling. I have no right to feel like this, I have no right to feel like this, she repeated to herself ceaselessly, trying to stay her mounting jealousy. And if I'd wanted to be with him now, I could have been. She was by now quite sure of that. Yet the thought did occur to her that Paul's nocturnal meeting must have been prearranged.
She got up to douse herself with cold water. I don't care, was her last waking thought. I don't want to be just another meaningless fling away from Vanessa.
The morning dawned bright and clear. Standing out on the terrace, Lynda let the magic of the city still her fraught emotions. A knock at the door brought in a pretty maid who explained that Monsieur had left instructions that breakfast was to be brought up to the room.
Lynda broke off a piece of the flaky croissant, dunked it in her cafe-au-lait and savoured the taste, She considered; she had promised herself that she would enjoy this trip, not allow herself to be affected by Paul and already she had broken her vow. It was madness to feel miserable amidst all this beauty… and for a man who couldn't care less about her to boot. She looked out on the buttresses and spires of Notre-Dame and repeated her vow. 'After all, two can play at this game,' she said aloud, defying the spires and not altogether sure what she meant by it.
She dressed hurriedly. Paul had told her he had business to attend to in the morning (Some business! she now scoffed) and would meet her for lunch. Well, she wouldn't waste a second of the morning. She strode through the lobby and out on to the street, only to find herself being called.
'Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!' the receptionist hailed her, and gave her an envelope. Lynda tore it open, a little surprised. It contained a brief note from Paul saying he hoped she had slept well and giving the address of the restaurant they would meet in at one. He had drawn her a detailed map.
Lynda smiled. Obviously he didn't want her to stray away altogether.
She walked along the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, browsing through numerous art galleries and bookshops, gazing longingly into the many boutiques displaying sometimes outlandish, sometimes classical fashions. As she stared into one, she saw Paul's reflection walking towards her, next to him the woman she seemed to recognise from yesterday evening. She veered round impulsively to look over the road, but a van was passing and by the time it had moved away, they seemed to have disappeared.
Lynda crossed the street to look into the shop she was certain she had seen them emerging from. It was a boutique filled with delicate lingerie and on a whim she went in and began fingering the satin negligees and silk petticoats. She saw a beautiful pair of oyster pink silk camiknickers, delicately embroidered with hearts and flowers and trimmed with soft lace, and still on a whim and feeling decidedly naughty, she bought them. Why not? she thought to herself. Perhaps I can charge these to expenses!
The sheer wickedness of the thought gave her pleasure and she smiled widely as she handed the money over to the shop attendant. Turning the corner where she thought Paul must have gone, she found herself in a market street. Barrows full of wonderfully displayed fruit and vegetables jostled with flower merchants, butchers and bakers. It all made her desperately hungry and she walked into a boulangerie to buy one of those chocolate-filled pastries which she remembered nostalgically from her girlhood.
Munching away, she glanced at her watch and realised she only had fifteen minutes in which to get to the restaurant. No time to change. She reached for the map Paul had drawn, got her bearings and breathed a sigh of relief. The restaurant was just at the other end of the Boulevard St Germain.
She walked briskly and arrived at the brasserie only a few minutes late. She looked round, but there was no sight of Paul in the glassed-in terrasse. She found him sitting at a back table, his face buried in a French newspaper and sipping a drink.
'Hello,' he looked up at her and smiled. 'Have a good morning?'
'Wonderful,' Lynda nodded, crossing one long leg over another and leaning back into a chair. 'But I'm exhausted.'
'Drink? Campari and soda?'
She nodded again and placed the bag from the lingerie shop conspicuously on the table.' He glanced at it and she thought she could detect a hint of embarrassment in his face.
Lynda looked up at him provocatively. 'You look pretty tired. Hard night?'
His blue eyes glinted and the gracious smile left his face. But he didn't take her up on it. Instead, he turned to catch the waiter's eye.
'What are the plans for today?' she asked, taking a long sip of the bittersweet drink.
'I thought I'd brief you over lunch on the various people we're to see. Then, if there's time, we could catch the Picasso retrospective before going on to Debray's at six.'
'You don't have to take me round, you know, if you have better things to do.'
He took a long puff of his cigarette. 'If I felt I had better things to do, Lynda Harrow,' his tone was scathing and he separated the syllables in her name as he had done when they first met, 'I would do them. So stop taunting me.' His eyes flashed.
She glanced at him archly and then burst into a giggle.
He looked nonplussed.
'Sorry,' she said trying to stop her laughter. 'It's just that… well, you have this wonderful way of speaking when you're angry. I think I'm beginning to enjoy it.'
A wide smile spread over his face, bringing out the single dimple in his cheek. 'And here I thought I was terrifying you!' He gestured for the waiter and the bill. 'Let's go upstairs and eat. The food's very good here.'
Upstairs the brasserie contained a long-mirrored room with gay chequered tablecloths. They were given a table overlooking the Boulevard where the lunchtime crowds milled through the streets or sat in the many cafes.
Lynda looked at the busy spectacle of the streets while Paul ordered the speciality of the day, a navarin. They chattered amicably over the delicious food and Lynda took in what it was important to know about each of the members of the consortium she had not yet met: two Frenchmen and a German.
'You are quick to learn, aren't you?' Paul commented at one point.
'Have I led you to believe otherwise?' she taunted him.
He shook his head and looked at her admiringly, his eyes mellow. 'Quite a lady, Lynda Harrow.'
The warmth of his tone, his gaze, brought a flush to her face. All the contradictory feelings she had managed to put to one side invaded her again. Her pulse beat faster and she cast down her eyes, mumbling, 'Excuse me for a moment,' and walked off in search of a W.C.
Lynda scrutinised herself in the small dusky mirror. 'Control yourself,' she chided her image. 'You were doing just fine.' Her fingers touched the ring and locket around her neck. 'After all, you and Paul are equals now… in a way.' She grimaced as she admitted the lie of it to herself.
Paul was waiting for her by the stairs. 'I thought we'd better get moving if we wanted to make the exhibit.'
He hailed a taxi. It took them round to the Seine and over to the majestic grandeur of the Place de la Concorde and then along the Champs Elysees to the Grand Palais.
Linda felt blissful with the sheer beauty of it all. 'If my French were better, I think I'd just transport myself here and look for work.'
Paul looked at her curiously, focusing his eyes on her neck. 'I thought you had other commitments,' he said mildly.
She turned away from him, letting the comment pass, relieved as they entered the Grand Palais that the sheer power of the paintings
would deflect them from anything personal.
Punctually at six that evening, they arrived at the wrought iron gates of the Debray's hotel particulier, their private residence bordering the graceful Bois de Vincennes. On Tricia's insistence, Lynda had at the last minute borrowed an extra bit of party gear and when Paul had casually mentioned that he was going to don a dinner jacket, Lynda had taken the hint and dressed with care.
Now as they entered Debray's lavish Louis XV interior, she was thankful for Tricia's generosity. The outfit had seemed too extravagant for words in the London flat. But now it was quite at home—a lavender satin blazer with silver-grey facings fitting loosely over tapering trousers and a silver silk chiffon halter top. 'A left-over from my modelling days,' Tricia had winked. Lynda had also remembered Tricia's way of doing her hair and had pulled the thick mass rakishly back over one ear and daringly put on some crocus-coloured lip-gloss.
Paul's stunned silence when he had seen her enter the hotel lobby had made it all worthwhile. Looking her up and down, he had reached protectively for her arm. 'I shall have to work hard to defend you from the wolves,' he had said.
And he had not been wrong, she realised now as she felt the gaze of several pairs of male eyes on her in Monsieur Debray's large delicately gilded drawing-room. It was almost as if the only thing which remained between her and stark nudity were her new camiknickers.
Monsieur Debray, a suave man with iron-grey hair and piercing eyes beneath a prominent brow, shook her hand warmly and murmured an emphatic, 'Enchantee, Mademoiselle Harrow. Mr Rees has spoken to me of you.' Then turning to Paul, he said with a hint of irony, 'Your Mr Dunlop seems to choose his staff with an eye to structure, n'est-ce pas?'
'And to talent,' she heard Paul reply in deep tones as she turned to greet Stanford Rees, who kissed her companionably and murmured, 'I think I will take you back to America with me.'
She smiled. Monsieur Debray led her and Paul away to meet his wife, a tall elegant woman clothed in black with black hair drawn softly back from a strong-featured face. She had a remote air about her, as if she would much rather be alone in her room than in this company, but she welcomed Lynda politely in perfect English.
Then Lynda found herself looking into satin-dark eyes in a deeply bronzed face and being greeted by a flash of perfect white teeth.
'My son and partner, Claude,' Monsieur Debray said. 'I shall leave him to introduce you to the others.'
Lynda was startled. She had been told nothing of a son, and certainly nothing of a son like this. Claude was almost too perfect, his trim body clad in a satin-lapelled dinner jacket over a silky white shirt open at the neck to give the whole a casual air.
'I thought this was going to be a dull business dinner, but I was obviously mistaken,' he said in French, turning the full attention of his good looks on her. 'You do speak French?' he queried.
'A little. A little more if you speak slowly.'
He smiled at her, his dark eyes crinkling with charm as he handed her a drink from the tray the maid had brought round. 'I suppose I have to introduce you to the others, but then I shall steal you for myself.'
He presented her to a tall, gleamingly bald-headed German with a ferocious tilt to his nose, Herr Spengler; and to a round jocular Frenchman, the incarnation of a bon-vivant, and his daintily pretty wife, Monsieur and Madame Resnais. Then she spied Northrop Shaw, who had just entered the room, and went to greet him. It seemed this was the sum total of the party. She noticed Paul in animated conversation with Monsieur Debray, so she followed Claude to a quiet corner of the room.
They were still talking when dinner was announced. At the long, highly polished dining table, Lynda found herself between Stanford and Claude, both of whom showered her with attention and vied for her conversation. By the time they had reached the main course, a delicately-sauced quail on a bed of wild rice, she was quipping gaily with both of them. Flushed and warmed by the seemingly endless succession of wines, she moved to take off her jacket, something she hadn't quite dared to do before. Claude reached to help and handed it to the maid.
Suddenly Lynda caught an angry glare from Paul, sitting at the opposite end of the table. She automatically crossed her arms to cover her exposed shoulders with her hands. But then, thinking better of it, she smiled at him brazenly, lowered her arms slowly and turned to Claude. Two can play, old grump, she thought to herself.
After dinner Monsieur Debray took her off for a short chat. They were joined by the jocular Frenchman and the German. Little snippets of business talk were interspersed with more general conversation. Lynda felt she wasn't handling things too badly, but she was relieved when Claude came to draw her away.
'Perhaps you would like to go now and see a little of Parisian night life?' She was tempted, but the sight of Paul approaching them determinedly made her shake her head.
'Tomorrow, then, I could show you some sights and perhaps we could even take a little drive to our country house.'
Paul loomed behind him. 'Miss Harrow has a rather important meeting to attend tomorrow. It is in fact why she's here.' His tone was abrasive, and Lynda bristled.
'Perhaps I could give you a ring after the meeting,' she said, looking at Claude archly.
'Wonderful, I'll get you my number.'
As Claude went in search of his card, Paul gripped her arm fiercely. She remembered the pressure of that grip and shivered imperceptibly. He manoeuvred her towards their host.
'It's time we left. I want you awake for that meeting tomorrow.'
She wrenched her arm away from him. 'You're hurting me!' She looked up into the blackness of his eyes, dizzied by the rage she read there. Then she turned to try and smile politely and offer thanks to their host.
As they walked towards the door, Claude handed her his card and uttered a low, 'Until tomorrow, then.'
Lynda smiled and nodded.
The gate had only just shut behind them when Paul gripped her arm again.
'Enjoy yourself flirting outrageously with that coxcomb?'
'More than I enjoy you growling at me,' she parried.
Brusquely he let go of her arm. There was silence between them as they walked, Lynda almost running to keep up with his long strides.
When they came to a main road, Paul hailed a taxi. Still he said nothing to her. They sat at opposite ends of the seat, both looking out of their windows. She felt desolate in her separateness.
Suddenly she sensed him moving towards her, felt an arm weave its way round her waist, a mouth searching hungrily for hers. She trembled and met his lips. Their heat scalded every pore in her body, making her limply tremulous. He buried his face in her hair.
'If you're going to flirt with anyone, it's going to be me,' she heard him say as if from a great distance.
With no awareness of how she had got there, Lynda found herself in Paul's room at the hotel. She was standing on the terrace looking out on the twinkling lights of the city and balancing a glass of champagne which had miraculously appeared in her hand. From somewhere below came the pulsing strains of a jazz guitar.
She sensed Paul behind her, felt the caress of his fingertips as he took the glass from her hand. A second later he was behind her again, his long arms encircling her waist, his strong fingers gently stroking the rise of her satin-clad bosom. She felt her limbs turning liquid, incapable of movement.
He pressed his taut body firmly to hers, moulding his shape against her. His breath echoed in her ear. Above it, she could just make out a hoarse murmur, 'Beautiful, so beautiful.'
She swayed helplessly against him. He lifted her gently, tenderly in his arms and carried her into the dim light of the room. As if remembering her fear of the bed, he led them to the deep velvet armchair. She snuggled into his lap, curling her face against his chest, afraid to look at him.
He urged her face to his and looked deeply into her eyes, and she was frightened of the smouldering passion she read on his face. But before she could turn away, he pressed his lips to hers, first sof
tly, then with an increasing intensity. She responded, unable to resist, found her arms enfolding his broad back, her fingers stroking the thick electric hair she had so often wanted to touch.
Paul uttered a low moan and moved his head to follow her touch.
'I've dreamt of you doing that,' he said huskily, almost inaudibly and brought his mouth down on hers with a new pressure. She shuddered with a pleasure which seemed to tense each part of her body. Her skin grew almost painfully sensitive to his touch.
With one expert movement he released her halter top and moved his lips down the length of her neck to her bosom. She arched her body to meet the descent of his lips, each pore thrilling at the stroke of his hand.
But as his fingers began to caress her stomach, reaching below the satin of her trousers, Lynda's mind suddenly came to life and she stopped his hand.
He looked into her eyes, his face so utterly beautiful in its mixture of concern and desire that she felt her breath stop.
'What is it, Lynda? You do want me, don't you? Are you… is it the first time?' he asked in a voice husky with tenderness.
She felt half tempted to shake her head, to throw over this burden of virginity.
He watched her silence attentively.
'I won't hurt you,' he said in a whisper, stroking the length of her thigh. 'I'll be gentle, very gentle.' He enveloped her hand in his and pressed a searching kiss on her lips, and she opened to him.
But suddenly she shuddered and pushing him away, jumped up. Her mind's eye had presented her with a full-blown picture of Vanessa slithering over the television screen and then with equal suddenness an image of the dark woman she had seen with Paul. Instinctively her hand reached to touch her mother's locket.
'So that's it,' he said, misinterpreting her gesture, his eyes blazing. He towered to his full height, and looked down on her with scathing contempt. 'It's a little late in the day to play faithful Miss. And if you're going to, don't go around taunting everyone like a brazen hussy!' He brought the last two words out with a cutting clarity, throwing her jacket at her and turning his back to face the terrace.