by Liz Fielding
He looked as if he was about to say something about the world and how it had ended for them once before, but he let it go.
‘I’m just about done here, but a cup of tea would be very welcome.’
She put the kettle on, cut brioche to make toast while it boiled, and added a pot of marmalade James had bought in the food hall at Galeries Lafayette to the tray.
He smiled appreciatively when she carried it through and joined her when she climbed back into the warmth of the bed.
‘Midnight snacks. It’s like being back at school.’
‘More like four in the morning snacks. And you still have homework, apparently.’
‘There’s a saying, Chloe, that a man who loves his job never works a day in his life.’
‘Confucius.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was Confucius who said it.’ She bit into the toast, relishing the mingled warmth of brioche, butter and the sharp orange tang of the conserve. ‘I need to find something that I love that much.’
‘Not bedmaking?’ he teased. But then he said, ‘I didn’t realise it at the time, but you never talked about what career you had in mind after school, university. But maybe university wasn’t in the plan?’
‘I’ve no idea. It wasn’t something I ever discussed with my father. I didn’t actually go to school until I was eleven years old, when my mother insisted that I needed a social group.’
‘I never knew that. I assumed you’d always been at St Mary’s. You were a straight-A student.’
‘I had tutors. My mother was brought up to run a country house, be the perfect hostess, but no one had cared much about her education and her ignorance used to irritate my father. He was determined that I would be able to hold my own in every aspect of life.’
‘Hence the gallery tours,’ he said, lifting the tray to the floor before rolling onto his side so that he was looking at her.
‘Among other things. As my father’s only heir, it would be my responsibility to keep his legacy intact. I had to account for every penny I spent from the moment I was given an allowance. He fined me if I couldn’t balance my books.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘It only happened once,’ she said. ‘I’m a fast learner. And I’m grateful for that lesson every day of my life.’
‘You could have done anything, Chloe. You still can. You could take a degree now, as a mature student. I’d support you.’
‘There’s only one thing I want from you, James, and you don’t have to do a thing.’ She ostentatiously sucked a smear of marmalade off her thumb.
‘A lady would have left that to me.’
‘If I’d wanted to be a lady, I would have married the earl-in-waiting,’ she said, pushing him onto his back and straddling him. ‘Right now, all you have to do is lie back and think of England.’
* * *
‘Where’s your coat?’ Chloe asked as they prepared to leave the apartment.
‘Last night I gave it to a man who didn’t have a home, let alone a coat.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You gave a homeless man your cashmere coat?’
‘It only takes one thing to throw us off balance, a single missed step.’
‘And you thought how easily it could have been you?’ she asked. Then, ‘No. Me. You thought it could be me.’
‘We’re all one step away from the park bench.’
‘That was a seriously head-clearing walk.’
‘I take it your father would not approve?’
‘He has a charitable foundation, but I imagine he would have thought such a gesture quixotic.’
‘Quixotic?’
‘Romantic, then.’
‘A coat is just a coat, Chloe, and I promise you, my head was never clearer.’
She linked her arm with his. ‘I’m fine with romantic. It was a good thing to do but we are going to have to make a stop and replace it or you are going to freeze to death on top of that bus.’
Half an hour later, suitably coated, scarfed and gloved, they were waiting for the hop-on/hop-off bus at the stop near the Sorbonne.
‘Are we crazy doing this?’ Chloe asked, stamping her feet and looking up at the low clouds. Then, realising that James was engrossed in something on his phone, she made an irritated growling noise. ‘I’m sorry. Am I disturbing you?’
‘What?’ He looked up. ‘How do you feel about getting out of Paris for a day or two, Chloe?’
‘Somewhere warm?’ she asked, hopefully.
‘No warmer than here but, since you’re getting picky about the more obvious tourist venues, I thought we could hire a car tomorrow and take a trip out to Thoiry to see the light show at the zoo.’
‘Oh...’ She’d thought he was working, but he’d been looking at places to take her.
‘Oh, great? Or, oh, that’s the dumbest idea I’ve heard this week?’ he asked.
‘Oh, this holiday thing could get addictive.’ This James thing could get dangerously addictive...
‘So that’s a yes?’ he prompted, when her head was stuck on that thought...
‘Yes, please. I’ve heard it’s absolutely magical.’
‘Right answer. I’ve booked tickets for tomorrow evening and a suite in a nearby château, so we won’t have to drive back at night.’
Once again only asking her after he’d gone ahead and booked, but before she could say anything, he showed her the picture of a hotel suite furnished in French provincial style.
‘Ohmigod, that’s gorgeous.’
‘Again, right answer.’ He smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘The place even has its own vineyard.’
‘Er... You do know it’s the wrong time of year to visit a vineyard?’
‘But not to talk to the vigneron or taste the wine. If it lives up to the notes on their website and you like it, I might buy some for the restaurant.’
‘What does my opinion have to do with anything?’
He frowned. ‘Your opinion has to do with everything. You are part of my life, Chloe.’
She wanted to be part of his life but a cold spot in the pit of her stomach warned her that this was going way too fast.
She wanted to say hold on, wait, but the bus appeared, and they climbed aboard.
James flashed the ticket on his phone over the scanner while she grabbed a couple of earpieces and by the time he joined her on the top deck she was plugging them in, finding the right language, adjusting the sound.
‘Do we need these?’ he asked.
She ignored his frown. ‘Totally. If I’m doing the tour I want to know who did what and when.’
They toured the Île de la Cité, sighed over the damage to Notre Dame, took selfies of themselves with the Arc de Triomphe in the background, but neither of them mentioned the family album.
There was a brief flurry of snow as they reached the high spot at the Trocadero. The few people who’d braved the top of the bus with them scrambled off at that point, to go and take photographs of the Eiffel Tower.
Alone, they abandoned the headphones and held out for a few more stops before Chloe said, ‘I can’t feel my cheeks.’
‘I can,’ James said, holding his gloved hands, still warm from the cup he’d been holding, against them. Thawing her lips with a lingering kiss that heated her in a way that the brandy-laced coffee had signally failed to do. She clutched at his coat, wanting to hold onto the moment, but then a couple of hardy souls joined them on the top deck and James pulled back a little and she laughed.
‘What?’
‘Your hair...’ It was dusted with snowflakes that, as a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, sparkled like diamonds and she took a snap before, self-consciously, he raised a hand and vigorously brushed it over his head. It came away wet.
‘You were right, chérie. I should have bought a hat.’
<
br /> ‘No. It was perfect, but right now I’m done with this. I need soup. Something spicy with beans,’ she said. ‘Actually, make that anything as long as it’s steaming hot.’
‘Good call.’
Later, thoroughly defrosted, they wandered along the Seine near Notre Dame, browsing the bouquinites. The booksellers had been a feature of the area since the middle of the sixteenth century, but had taken up permanent residence, with their green boxes, in the late nineteenth century and now, as well as vintage books, sold prints and magnets to the tourists.
‘What are you looking for?’ Chloe asked.
‘I collect old cookery books, but I’m also hoping to find something for Sally for Christmas.’
A chat with one of the stallholders produced an early copy of The Memoirs of Alexis Soyer that he was excited to find and, while he was haggling over that, Chloe found a beautiful book with colour plates of art deco interiors and handed it to him.
‘That’s perfect,’ he said. ‘Sally will love it.’
‘What about Hugo?’ she asked, putting down a print before he noticed her interest.
‘I have no idea. He’s my brother but I was just a kid when he disappeared,’ he said as they moved on. ‘I know he’s been a hugely successful hotelier in the States, but I have no idea what interests him.’
‘Give it time, James.’
‘Time is the one thing we never have. He’s been so wrapped up in restoring the hotel, and I have so much on myself. There hasn’t been much time to get close.’
‘You should organise something that you can do together. Is he into sport?’
‘He used to play cricket at school, but they don’t play a lot of that in New York.’
‘Or in the winter in England. What about football? Can you get tickets to a match?’
‘I could, but actually he and Dad were big rugby fans. I remember Dad taking him to watch England play France just before he died. Mum tried to persuade Nick to take him to a match, but it never happened.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve found, not only the perfect gift, but a chance to connect outside work.’
‘That is a brilliant idea. I’ll get tickets for one of the Six Nations matches at Twickenham.’ He checked the fixture list on his phone. ‘There is nothing like the sound of fifty thousand voices singing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” to remind a man that he’s English.’ He removed his gloves, propped his elbows on the Pont Neuf bridge and clicked away for a minute. ‘All done.’
‘Wonderful. You’ll have a lovely day.’
‘It’ll be better if England win, but I heard what you said about talking to him, Chloe.’ He turned and leaned back against the curve of the ancient stone. ‘I called him yesterday and opened up to him about what happened to us.’ He glanced at her. ‘I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course it is. It’s your story, too... What did he say?’
‘Not much, to be honest. He just listened.’
‘I like the sound of Hugo. The world needs more people who know how to listen,’ she said, straightening and signalling to a taxi that was dropping people off. ‘You’ll get there, but right now I think it’s time for a little fun.’
He opened the car door. ‘Fun?’
‘You can wipe that smile off your face, James Harrington,’ she said, ducking into the warmth of the cab. ‘We’re going to be out of Paris for a couple of days and after that you have to go back to London.’ The cab driver looked back. ‘Rue Coquillière,’ she told him. ‘DeHillerin.’
‘Oh, kitchen fun!’ The grin splitting James’s face was so wide that he looked exactly like the boy she’d fallen in love with. The boy who’d treated food as if he were an artist, his ingredients the palette he used to create his masterpieces.
Not that they had all been masterpieces. There had been some spectacular disasters, but his passion, his enthusiasm had never been dented by failure. He’d gone for it one hundred per cent.
‘Have I said how much I love you?’
‘What you’re feeling isn’t love,’ she told him. ‘It’s anticipation of the culinary equivalent of a trip to Disney.’
‘We should do that, too.’ The grin, impossibly, widened. ‘I’ll wake you with a kiss in Sleeping Beauty’s castle and we’ll live happily ever after.’ He reached across the seat to take her hand. ‘What do you say, Chloe?’
‘I’d say no, thank you, and if you’d read the original story, you might not be so keen on that scenario, either.’
‘Is it one of the gruesome ones?’
‘They are all pretty gruesome. That one is just plain nasty.’ Right down to the stolen babies.
She shivered and James, assuming that she was cold, put an arm around her. Clearly he hadn’t heard the clear no, and she felt guilty as she leaned into him, accepting the comfort.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘IT’S NOT GOING to snow,’ Jay said.
They were headed out of Paris on the A14, planning to book into the château first, have lunch and then head out to the zoo later for the light show.
‘The forecast says snow.’
‘The forecast said that any snow is going to fall east of Paris. We’re heading west.’
‘The sky says different.’
Jay looked across at her, not bothering to hide his amusement. ‘Are we having our first argument over the weather forecast?’
‘I’m not arguing,’ she said. ‘I’m merely stating the obvious.’
‘I’d forgotten how stubborn you can be,’ he said.’
‘Only when I’m right.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you may have a point, but this is a major road and we’re not in England where half an inch of snow brings the country to a halt and you know what?’
‘Never met him.’
He grimaced. ‘I can imagine a lot worse things than being snowed in with you, Smarty-Pants, but for now the road is dry and we should soon be at the turning for the château. Forget the weather and look out for that.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She threw a mock salute and, when he rolled his eyes, she said, ‘I haven’t forgotten how bossy you can be.’
Before he could object, they reached the turning and, since it was a while since he’d driven on the right-hand side of the road, he had to concentrate on exiting the dual carriageway.
‘This is so pretty,’ Chloe said as the road narrowed, and they travelled through countryside dotted with small vineyards. Twisting and turning to look at the farmhouses they passed until they reached the outskirts of a large village.
He edged the car through the busy square where a market was in progress.
‘Oh, look, it’s a brocante, James. Can we stop?’
It wasn’t what he’d planned, and he had no idea what she thought she’d find in a village flea market, but until now he was the one coming up with all the suggestions. This was the first time she’d asked him for anything.
‘Of course we can stop, just promise not to buy anything that won’t fit in the car.’
‘Spoilsport.’
‘Okay, you can buy whatever you like, but you’re going to have to figure out how to get it home.’
Home. The word brought a smile to his face. He was living in a one-bedroomed flat on top of the restaurant. It would do as a temporary measure, but he’d find somewhere bigger for them as soon as they were married. Somewhere with a garden.
He found a place to park on the edge of the village and as they walked back, hand in hand, he felt as if they were finally putting the tensions left over from the past behind them. Moving on.
It was a Christmas brocante, with a lot of decorations on sale. Willow wreaths, hand-made wooden and felt tree decorations. Boxes of old glass baubles—the kind that smashed if you dropped them.
On one stall he found a snow globe with some age to it.
‘My mother had one of these,
’ he said. ‘I wonder if it’s still at the house, or if Nick got rid of everything.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t sell it. The house.’
‘It’s in the hotel grounds. It would have been the estate manager’s house in the days when the hotel was a private mansion. I assume that Hugo will live there. Or maybe a manager if he decides to put one in. The chances are he’ll go back to New York.’
‘You, Sally and Hugo should get together and go through everything. There will be photographs, old school reports, birthday cards and maybe even your mother’s snow globe.’
‘Maybe, but I’ll buy this anyway.’ He gave it a shake so that the snow swirled around the wintry scene. ‘I’ll keep it on my desk to remind me of the day it didn’t snow.’ He held out his hand as if to demonstrate. ‘Oh, look, I think that’s the sun,’ he said, looking up at the sky where there was a glimmer of light behind the clouds.
‘Barely,’ she said, before turning to examine a huge old mirror in a gilded frame that had seen better days. ‘If I had a mantelpiece, I’d buy this.’
‘It would have to be a big mantelpiece,’ he said, ‘and I’d need a bigger hire car.’
‘True. This is more my size,’ she said, picking up an old art deco cup and saucer and examining the pottery mark stamped on the bottom.
‘What use is one cup?’ he asked.
‘It’s pretty and vintage cups and saucers are collectible, James. This is probably the last of a set that has been in someone’s family for generations. They would only have been brought out on special occasions.’
She haggled with the man running the stall and then, when it was safe in bubble wrap, she handed the bag to him.
‘Give it to Sally. It will go with the book you bought her.’
About to protest that he should have paid for it, he had a better thought. ‘You can give it to her yourself at the Christmas party.’
‘I don’t want to come to London, James.’
‘Because your parents will be there?’ He took her arm. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Once we’re married, they won’t be able to touch you.’
Her answer was drowned out by a brass band striking up close by them, playing carols. He put a note in the collecting tin and, as they wandered on, he began to see things through Chloe’s eyes.
