The Last Dress from Paris(63)
“Her name is Emma. She’s English too.”
I feel the lump in my throat swell, and for one awful moment I think I’m going to cry.
“She’s also the reason I’ve tried to stay away from women for a while. But it’s been much harder with you.” His face is searching mine, trying to read my thoughts.
“I don’t understand.” I don’t want to say any more because the tears are threatening to fall, and I’m having to blink furiously to stop them.
“We were together for two years. She was studying here at the Sorbonne when we were introduced by a good friend of mine. We connected straightaway, and about a month later we were living together.” He scans my face for a reaction, and I work hard to hide the fact that it hurts to know he could fall for someone else that quickly.
“I couldn’t see how anything would ever break us apart.” I don’t know how he can say all this with such ease. Maybe, if he’s not emotional about it, I don’t need to be either? I stamp down on that thought.
“About six months ago, I came home early from a job one afternoon and caught her in bed with the same friend who had introduced us. I just stood there like an idiot, staring at them. Not believing what I was seeing.” It’s reassuring that he hasn’t lowered his voice to tell me any of this.
“Turns out, she had been seeing him since the very beginning. All that time and I never realized. So, I lost what I thought was my soul mate and a good friend the same day.” I feel myself let out the breath I had been holding in.
“Blimey. Leon, I’m so sorry.” But then I can’t help but smile because, despite his initial reticence, he didn’t hide this from me. He was open and honest.
He smiles back. “Well, it’s taken a while, but I am beyond it now. The first few months weren’t fun, but I have some great friends, genuine ones, who have pulled me through. It was the deception more than anything. Once I realized all the lies it had taken for her to do that, well, that’s the bit that really knocked a hole in me.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when you asked, but I didn’t want you to think I make a habit of collecting English women.” He leans in closer, like he’s thinking of kissing me.
“Well then, I’m even more glad I met you now and not six months ago when you might not have wanted to spend time together,” I gently tease.
“You’re different, Lucille. I can see that. I doubt you could hide your true feelings from anyone for long.”
I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. There is a beautiful hotel suite upstairs, one I apparently don’t even have to pay for, with a minibar and an unopened bottle of champagne in it. We could, if we wanted to, head up there now and spend the next six hours or so doing what I’ve been imagining us doing for too long since I arrived here, with no need to feel embarrassed, because he’s just not like that—and I might not be, either, now. I hope he is thinking it. I hope he is imagining me that way. Although the fact he doesn’t suggest it could be a very good thing. I think he knows I’m worth more than a fumbled quickie before he trots off to work and I crack on with my travel admin. And, more importantly, so do I.
“I wish we had more time together, Lucille.” He takes my hand under the table. “I wish I was going with you back to London.”
“So do I.” The suite is still there.
“Will you call me and let me know how it all ends? I mean it, Lucille, I really do want to know.”
“I . . . I’ll tell you. In person. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.” There, I said it.
His smile is blinding as he says, “Well then, it won’t be. Goodbyes are awful, so I’m going to leave now. But it was truly wonderful to meet you, lovely Lucille. Thank you for letting me show you Paris.” He places some euros on the table, gathers his things, and stands. “Please keep your promise. Come back and see me, won’t you?”
“I will.” And then I kiss him, not caring in the slightest that we’re in the middle of a bustling hotel lobby. It doesn’t matter that our teeth clash a bit and our lips are not quite aligned as they should be. It’s not a perfect kiss, but it’s our kiss. And I happen to think it’s better than any those models shared in this same lobby on my first night.
Our kiss is real.
16
Alice
NOVEMBER 1953, PARIS
THE MEXICO
Daylight is creeping through the thin, partially drawn drapes at the window before sleep finally begins to cradle her. Completely exhausted by Antoine and the unavoidable truth that she is past the point of no return, Alice can’t fight the fatigue any longer. As she is drifting further from the tangible world around her—the one where her dress and fur still lie crumpled on the floor and the candles on either side of the fire have burned down to almost nothing—and deeper into a dreamy detachment from reality, she wonders when the moment of fear will come. When she wakes? When she sees Albert? Will it come at all? It’s hard to imagine, when she is still warm from Antoine’s body.
Her eyes feel as though they have barely closed, her cheek just softening into the safety of Antoine’s chest, when she is startled by someone hammering on the door downstairs that leads directly into the apartment. She can’t move and is happy to ignore it. Antoine isn’t.