Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  It had taken Maria not quite three months to lose forty-eight pounds, two pounds short of her goal. She had accomplished this with the help of a doctor, a nutritionist, a personal trainer, and her brother—and a focus so intense it took over her life.

  During this time she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into a brutal regimen severely comprised of punishing workouts, a diet totally free of fat, sugar, and restricted in carbohydrates; wine and alcohol of any kind were forbidden, as were chocolates, candy, and most desserts.

  If she was hungry, more often than not the very visible results of the dieting were worth it and kept her going, and were actually inspiring to her. Through most of February, March, and April she thought of nothing else but going to Paris to Anya’s party, and it was this incentive and her extraordinary willpower that enabled her to continue. She even surprised herself at times.

  One day, halfway through her program, there was a sudden and remarkable change in her face. She had always been good-looking, she was well aware of that, but now her face had become dramatically beautiful. There was not an ounce of excess fat on it, and the high cheekbones were more apparent than ever. Her neck was thinner, and therefore looked longer and more elegant, added to the shapeliness of her head.

  It soon became apparent to Maria that she was mostly losing weight in her upper torso first. Her shoulders, arms, and back were growing more slender by the day, and her breasts were not so large anymore. What disappointed her was the slowness of the weight loss on her hips. But her trainer had assured her that the weight would eventually drop off, most probably when she least expected it. All she had to do was keep strictly to her regime. And this she did. Vanity was the goad, and it kept her going.

  Very simply, Maria Franconi was beginning to like herself, and she could hardly believe her incredible transformation. She also discovered that being beautiful was really quite addictive.

  Through her nutritionist, Maria learned all about behavior modification, as well as gained an understanding of the right foods to eat, ones that would keep her healthy. And thin.

  And so there was no more cooking for her brother, no more dinner parties for her friends. She virtually locked the doors of her fancy modern kitchen, took her friends to lunch or dinner in restaurants, where she herself ate frugally and stayed away from wine.

  Several weeks before she left Milan for Paris, Maria visited a well-known dressmaker recommended by her brother Sergio, who had innumerable women friends who went there. The dressmaker instantly understood the problems and created several well-tailored pantsuits, skirt suits, and a few elegant, simply cut dresses, all in beautiful fabrics.

  The clothes were designed to specifically play up her good points, and also conceal certain parts of her body. The secrets were the longer jackets that stopped just below the thigh, cut edge-to-edge without buttons; the narrower trouser legs; and the pencil-thin skirts on the dresses and suits.

  These styles helped to slim her lower body, by illusion gave her a leaner and more elongated look. The dark colors she chose, mostly black and various tones of gray, played into this camouflage, and also suited her dark coloring and olive-tinted complexion. In a very short time she had acquired a certain kind of chic, and this, along with her glowing health and lovely looks, made heads turn. She felt gratified. All of her hard work and focus had paid off admirably.

  ————

  EVEN THOUGH SHE WAS now in Paris, Maria did not let up on her regime. She knew she would have to follow it for the rest of her life if she was to remain thin. At the moment it was less arduous, but nonetheless she was very disciplined and dedicated. She visited the spa in the hotel every day, swam, did exercises, and worked on the treadmill. All this gave her extra strength and muscle tone, which pleased her.

  She also remained on her strict diet despite the tempting French food she had always enjoyed ever since her days here as a student.

  Although Fabrizio had been supportive, and had helped her to achieve her goal, he had been against her spending the better part of June in Paris, which she had originally planned to do.

  The entire Franconi family went to their spectacular villa in Capri at the beginning of June, where they spent most of the summer. Fabrizio was insistent that she accompany the family, and after a great deal of discussion, sometimes heated, she had finally agreed.

  But she was determined to spend three weeks in Paris, which she had promised herself, having that much-needed vacation on her own, doing exactly as she pleased.

  And so she had arrived on the third of May, and she planned to stay until the fifth of June, when she would join the family in Capri, traveling via Milan.

  Maria had been busy since she had arrived. She had been to visit her beloved Anya several times, had lunched at the house with her and taken her out to dinner at Chez Benoît. She had gone shopping, spent time in art galleries, and been to Versailles, a favorite place of hers.

  And she had enjoyed every minute of her freedom, far away from her job and her domineering family.

  I escaped, she thought now as she slowly began to approach the painting she had come to see. If only I didn’t have to go back … if only I could stay in Paris. Always. She instantly pushed these longings to one side, not wishing to fall down into unhappy thoughts.

  ————

  THE PAINTING WAS SUBLIME. Incomparable.

  Maria stood in front of it for a very long time, gazing at it as if in a trance. It usually had this effect on her … held her spellbound.

  The Mona Lisa.

  Painted hundreds of years ago by Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest artist there had ever been on this planet, with the exception of Michelangelo, in her opinion anyway.

  To be able to paint like that was the greatest gift in the world, she marveled, mesmerized by the woman’s face captured so beautifully on canvas … how eloquently it spoke to her.

  And how truly gifted Leonardo da Vinci had been, one of the world’s greatest geniuses, and in so many different fields. She had known a lot about him before she had attended Anya’s school. Coming as she did from Milan, she was familiar with the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where in its refectory Leonardo had painted The Last Supper. It was more than likely the most famous Last Supper in the world.

  It was Anya Sedgwick who had taught Maria much, much more about da Vinci in her classical art classes—her master class. And Maria had never ceased to marvel at his extraordinary achievements in so many other fields. He had been an architect as well as a painter and sculptor, an expert in the art of weaponry, hydraulics, optics, anatomy, and mechanics.

  What an amazing man he was, Maria thought. A man of the Renaissance who was perhaps the Renaissance man of all time.

  To be able to paint like that, she thought, a small sigh escaping her. It was a sigh of absolute yearning … she stepped closer in order to look more intently at the Mona Lisa.

  As she did so, out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a woman heading her way. Her heart dropped. But she swung her head to make sure she was not mistaken, then swiftly turned back to face the painting.

  After one last look at the da Vinci, Maria hurried off in the opposite direction.

  ————

  HIS TABLE IN L’ESPADON faced the door, and he saw her the minute she arrived. He pushed back his chair and rose long before she reached the table, a broad smile of welcome on his face.

  When she came to a standstill, he took hold of her arm almost possessively, kissed her cheek, and then stared at her intently for a moment.

  Maria smiled at him and said as she slid into the chair, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  He sat down opposite her and shook his head. “But you’re not late, and even if you were, you’re certainly worth waiting for. You look very beautiful, Maria.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, dipping her head slightly.

  “I ordered grapefruit juice for you,” he went on, “I hope that’s all right.”

  “It’s perfect, thanks.�
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  Lifting his wineglass, he said, “Santé.”

  “Santé,” she responded, lifting her glass, touching it to his.

  “So what did you do this morning?”

  “I went to the Louvre. To see the Mona Lisa in particular. I’m always mesmerized by that painting.”

  As I am mesmerized by you, he thought, but said, “What a genius Leonardo was. He was lucky enough to be born with a brain fully equipped to explore and comprehend all human knowledge.”

  The maître d’ arrived with the luncheon menus, and they studied them for a few moments. He knew what he was going to order; he assumed Maria did also. Since he was usually on a strict diet, as she was, they seemed to choose the same dishes. The other evening she had told him all about her strenuous dieting, and her exercise program, had confided a great deal about herself over their second dinner. He had listened attentively, been impressed with her honesty, and sympathetic.

  He had seen quite a lot of her since her arrival in Paris, and he wanted to continue seeing her. He was smitten with her, and in a way he had not been taken with a woman for years. But he was aware that at this moment in time caution was in order.

  “You are staring at me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just can’t help it. Your face is quite … sublime. That’s the only word to describe it.”

  Maria laughed lightly and shook her head. “I don’t know about that … I use that word only when I think of the Mona Lisa … now, that truly is a beautiful face.”

  “Yes, it is, and actually you should be painted by a great artist, a modern-day da Vinci.”

  The waiter arrived at the table before she could respond. She ordered oysters on the half shell and steamed turbot, and so did he. That they had decided on the same food amused him.

  When they were alone, Maria volunteered, “I saw Alexandra Gordon at the Louvre this morning.”

  His eyes narrowed; he glanced at her alertly. “How was she? She must have been pleased to see you.”

  Maria sighed. “I didn’t speak to her. I suddenly felt shy, a little nervous, and I slipped away before she spotted me. At least, I don’t think she did.” Maria shook her head, added, “It was foolish perhaps. After seven years, I would like to spend time with her and the others.”

  “Was it such a bad rift between the four of you?” he asked, riddled with curiosity.

  “It seemed like it then. But now it all seems somewhat childish, even silly.… ” Her voice trailed off lamely.

  Understanding that she did not wish to pursue the subject, he moved on. “You’re enjoying Paris enormously, aren’t you, Maria?”

  “Yes, I am. Thanks to you. You’ve been so wonderful to me. I was so thrilled to come to Paris, to be on my own, away from the family. But, you know, I do think I might have been lonely if you hadn’t been around and taken pity on me.”

  “Anya would have taken you under her wing.”

  “I like being under your wing, you—” She stopped abruptly, cut her sentence off, looked abashed.

  He saw the faint pink blush rising on her neck to flood her face, and he exclaimed quietly, “Don’t be embarrassed.” Reaching out, he took hold of her hand on the table, squeezed it. After clearing his throat several times, he said in a low voice, “I’m very smitten with you, Maria. And I was hoping you felt the same way.”

  After a moment’s silence, she said, “I do. Oh, Nicky, I do.”

  He tightened his fingers on hers. “I’m so very glad this is not a one-way street.”

  She merely laughed and looked at him, her dark eyes holding his.

  They sat holding hands across the table, staring at each other in silence and with great intensity until the oysters were served.

  Finally releasing her hand, he picked up his oyster fork and wondered to himself what was happening to him. Here he was, thirty-eight years old, an experienced man of the world, and feeling like a schoolboy. Daft, he thought, I’m daft. But he knew exactly what was happening to him, and he discovered he was glad.

  After eating several oysters, Maria put her fork down and leaned across the table, leveling her gaze at him again. “When I came to Paris over a week ago, I thought

  I’d take the train to London for a day. To see Riccardo. As I told you, he’s working there. But I don’t want to do that, not now, Nicky.”

  “Because of me?” he ventured carefully.

  “Yes.” She lifted her eyes to his, stared back at him.

  Nicky saw desire reflected there, a yearning for him, and his chest tightened. Slowly, he warned himself. Take this very, very slowly. Don’t frighten her off. He wanted to possess her, he could not wait to take her to bed, but he knew he must pick the right time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  COMING BACK TO PARIS HAS BEEN A MISTAKE, JESSICA thought as she walked up the narrow street that ran alongside the Plaza-Athénée hotel, where she was staying. Just as she had always known, there were too many memories here, and obviously most of them were associated with Lucien Girard.

  They evoked in her an immense sadness for what might have been … a marriage that had never happened, children that were never born, a life not lived with the man she had truly loved.

  Now she wished she had not phoned Alain Bonnal from Los Angeles last week to make this date for lunch today. She had done so because she had become nervous about being in Paris alone after an absence of seven years. Afraid of memories, she supposed, and recurring sorrow, and the pain of old wounds opening up.

  Alain Bonnal and she were friends because of Lucien, but he was not someone she was close to anymore. She had seen him only twice in the last few years, when he had been in California on business. On the other hand, in the past he had been kind, considerate, and helpful, and she had never forgotten his compassion for her when she was full of sorrow, and perturbed.

  He was a connection to the past, a past she had not been able to let go of apparently, if she was honest with herself. Lucien, and their intense love affair, had haunted her ever since he had disappeared. And haunted any other relationship she had attempted to have. She truly understood that now. Gary Stennis had been a casualty of her past in certain ways, even though his behavior had been deplorable. Ultimately, he had given her plenty of reasons to end it. Not one regret, she thought, I don’t have one regret about saying good-bye to Gary.

  Of all the men she had known, Lucien had had the most impact on her. It’s not a question of unrequited love, she said to herself as she hurried on, but of an unrequited life. Lucien and I made so many plans, sketched out a future for ourselves together, we even chose names for the children we planned to have. All of those nights we dreamed our dreams and built our future …

  But it wasn’t meant to happen, she thought, heading in the direction of Chez André, where she was meeting Alain. Even his choice of restaurant was a nod to nostalgia, to their shared past with Lucien, since the three of them had frequently gone there together when she was a student at Anya’s school.

  She had not had a chance to visit Anya yet, but they had spoken on the phone several times. Perhaps tomorrow she would be able to run over to the house to have tea or drinks, as Anya had suggested. Jessica realized how much she wanted to see her old teacher and mentor; despite her misgivings about making the trip, she had come to Paris, after all, in order to honor Anya.

  Jessica had arrived in Paris three days earlier, but her work had taken up all her time. She had accepted an assignment some weeks earlier, a redecorating job for a valued client who wanted her Bel Air house to be redone. Jessica had suggested a theme built around French Provincial antiques and fabrics, and the client had agreed.

  For the last couple of days she had been seeing the best of the antiques dealers, seeking out fabrics in keeping with French country style, scouring the leading rug dealers for Aubusson and Savonnerie carpets. That very morning she had accidentally fallen on a collection of antique toile de Jouy fabrics and had purchased them immediately, along with an extraordinary ta
pestry she knew would make an elegant wall hanging in the entrance foyer of the house.

  Well pleased with her success, she had returned to the hotel to drop off her briefcase, retouch her makeup, and brush her hair. After changing into a lighter weight navy blue gabardine pantsuit, she had raced out, realizing she was running late.

  But within a few minutes she was pushing open the door of Chez André and hurrying into the noisy, bustling bistro, which had a typical old-fashioned Parisian charm with its marble-topped bar, polished brass, and air of bygone days. It was full of patrons at this hour, but as she glanced around swiftly, she spotted Alain at once.

  He waved when he saw her, pushed himself to his feet, and came around the table to greet her. He made a big fuss over her, and after they had embraced and kissed affectionately, they sat down together on the banquette.

  Alain exclaimed, “You are more beautiful than ever, Jessica!” He shook his head wonderingly. “You never age. Unlike me.”

  “Thank you, Alain, for those kind words, but you’ve always been prejudiced. Anyway, you look pretty good to me.”

  “A few gray hairs these days, chérie.”

  “But a young face nevertheless,” she shot back, smiling at him, thinking he was just as attractive as ever.

  “An aperitif, perhaps?”

  “Thanks, that would be nice. I’ll have the same as you,” she answered, eyeing his kir royale.

  After he had beckoned the waiter and ordered her drink, Alain turned to face her and went on. “I know you’ve come to celebrate your former teacher’s birthday, but you said something about buying antiques, carpets, and art for a client’s house. How can I be of help?” A dark brow lifted questioningly as he fastened his pale gray eyes on her. Alain Bonnal had always admired Jessica; he was genuinely interested in her life. He had also shared her great sense of loss after Lucien Girard had disappeared, and had been as baffled as she by that strange and mysterious tragedy.