Three Weeks in Paris

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “It’s a house in Bel Air, actually,” Jessica replied. “A beautiful house, Alain, and one I believe should have been decorated with French country antiques originally. Now the owner has finally decided to go that route.” She laughed lightly. “Sometimes when clients ask me to redecorate, they want exactly the same thing they’ve been living with for years, except newer.”

  “I know what you mean. People do seem to hate change.”

  Jessica lifted her glass, which had materialized in front of her while they had been talking. “Cheers, Alain, it’s nice to see you after all this time.”

  “Two years. And à votre santé, Jessica. Welcome to Paris.”

  “So you’re still not married,” she remarked after taking a sip of champagne mixed with kir liqueur.

  He chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m a confirmed bachelor. Never found the right woman, I suppose.”

  She smiled at him, shook her head. “I have a lot of beautiful women I could introduce you to when you come to Los Angeles again,” she teased.

  He merely smiled, sipped his drink. After a moment, he continued. “You asked me if I had any really interesting paintings, and fortuitously we just received a collection from an estate that is being sold because of the death of the owner. His son wants to sell some of the truly good art, and I think you ought to see the collection. It is most unusual, and I believe you would make some good purchases.”

  “I’d love to do that … come to see them.”

  “Would you like to visit the gallery after lunch today?”

  Jessica thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so, Alain, but only because I’m running out of steam. Jet lag, I guess.”

  “Then I must feed you immediately.” He motioned to the waiter hovering nearby, who brought them the menus, recited the day’s specials, then left them to make their choices.

  “Oh, my goodness, my favorite!” Jessica exclaimed as she stared at the menu. “Cervelle au beurre. That’s what I’m going to have.”

  “I recall how you and Lucien used to love brains. But not for me, I shall have a steak. And what would you like to start with? I see they already have white asparagus.”

  “That’s for me, Alain. Thank you.”

  Once the food had been ordered, Alain asked for two more kir royales and the wine card.

  “Oh, no wine for me, thanks. I’m afraid I can’t drink too much during the day,” Jessica explained.

  “I will order a dry white wine, a Pouilly-Fumé, and if you wish you can have a glass later.”

  “I’ll see how I feel. Are you available tomorrow, Alain? Or perhaps the gallery is closed on Saturday?”

  “No, we are open. I will be happy to see you then, and I do think you will be impressed by some of the paintings.”

  ————

  AS THEY SIPPED their aperitifs, waiting for the first course, Jessica talked to Alain about art and her own preferences, which he enjoyed, since she was so knowledgeable. Madame Sedgwick’s art classes had been worthwhile, he decided as he listened to her hold forth with confidence.

  Alain Bonnal worked with his father and brother in their family-owned gallery, which had been founded by Alain’s grandfather, Pierre Bonnal, before the Second World War. It was one of the best in Paris, and was particularly well known and highly thought of, since it specialized in Impressionist and Postimpressionist paintings, holding a good inventory.

  As she talked, Alain studied her, thinking how well she looked. It seemed to him that she had hardly aged at all. At least, as far as her appearance was concerned. Of course she was much more mature and sophisticated in her mannerisms and attitudes these days, but it would have been odd if she had not changed over the years. Her face was unlined, and she wore her pale blond hair in the same style, long and straight, falling to her shoulders. And she was slender, had kept her lovely figure.

  For a moment, he felt as though time had stood still. But it was only a fleeting thought, and then it was gone.

  Their orders of white asparagus arrived, and Alain murmured, “Aren’t we lucky it’s in season right now?”

  Jessica nodded, and began to eat, saying between mouthfuls, “I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.”

  When the waiter arrived with the wine, Jessica agreed to have a glass, and later, once their empty plates were removed, she sat back against the banquette. A reflective look settled on her face.

  After a moment or two of growing silence between them, Alain said, “You’re looking pensive, Jessica.”

  “Am I? Well, to tell you the truth, there’s something I want to talk to you about. To do with Lucien.”

  He nodded, looked at her attentively, his eyes alert, questioning.

  She went on. “Recently, I was telling a friend about Lucien’s disappearance, and he presented a whole new scenario to me. I’d like to pass it by you.”

  “What do you mean by a whole new scenario?” he asked, frowning, obviously puzzled.

  “You and I came up with every possibility all those years ago. But we never considered one thing … that Lucien might have disappeared of his own accord. You know, on purpose.”

  Alain gaped at her, a look of astonishment crossing his pale face. “Mais non, non, c’est pas possible!” he cried, reverting to French. He shook his head vehemently, and his eyes widened as the astonishment intensified. “He was not that kind of man, Jessica. He would not disappear on purpose. What possible reason had he to do that?”

  “He might have wanted to start a new life.”

  “Ah, non, non! That is ridiculous! You and he had so many wonderful plans. And you knew him so well, he had such … integrity. He was an honorable man. No, no, he wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

  Jessica sat very still, staring at Alain.

  It was quite obvious to her that he was startled and dismayed by her suggestion, just as she herself had been when Mark Sylvester had presented this theory to her months earlier.

  Ever since then, from time to time, she had wondered about Alain Bonnal, wondered if he had known more about the disappearance of Lucien Girard than he had admitted. Yet he had just proved to her, by his stunned reaction, that he knew only what she knew. Alain had never been very good when it came to dissembling. Only Lucien had been a good actor.

  She frowned. A vague half-memory stirred at the back of her mind … she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was something that had lain dormant for years. She struggled, but she could not make it come to life. She gave up, let it go.

  Alain, his eyes on her, said in a somewhat concerned tone, “What is it, Jessica? What is wrong? You have the most peculiar expression …” He did not finish his sentence.

  Slowly, she answered, “You know, Alain, I’ve always had this weird feeling, deep down inside me … a gut feeling … that Lucien is still alive. Somewhere out there. And I just can’t shake it.”

  Alain Bonnal had turned white, and he sat staring at her speechlessly, completely dumbfounded.

  ————

  A LITTLE LATER, when she was back at her hotel, sorting through the samples of the fabrics she had found earlier, Jessica thought about Alain Bonnal’s stunned disbelief, his total negation of the theory she had put forward.

  Was it an act? Did Alain know more than he was saying? He had turned so white, looked so … afraid. Yes, that was it, he had suddenly looked terrified. Had she hit the nail on the head? Did he know for a fact that Lucien had staged his own disappearing act? Would a person need help in order to vanish without a trace? Maybe. But then again, maybe not.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he’s dead!” she cried out loud to the empty room. Something really terrible happened to Lucien when he was in Monte Carlo, she added silently to herself. She was determined to stop dwelling on this most tragic event in her life. It was stalling her, suddenly.

  Move on, she instructed herself, you’ve got to move on. You’ve got to get a life. You can’t live in the past, or—

  The shrill ringing of the telephone cut off
her thoughts, startled her. Reaching for it, she exclaimed, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jess, it’s me. Mark Sylvester.”

  “Mark, hello! How are you?”

  “I’m great. How’re you doing?”

  “A bit jet-lagged, but okay. Hey, it’s wonderful to hear your voice. Are you in L.A.? Or London?”

  He laughed. “I’m in Paris.”

  He had taken her by surprise, and there was a brief silence on her part. Then she said, “Where are you staying?”

  “Next door. Well, I’m not exactly next door, but down the corridor. I’m at the Plaza-Athénée,” he answered, suddenly chuckling.

  She laughed with him but said nothing.

  Mark asked, after a split second, “How about dinner tonight? Are you free?”

  “Well, yes, I am, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then we’ve got a date. Would you like to go to Tour d’Argent?”

  “I’d love it.”

  “Then I’ll knock on your door at eight. Is that okay with you, Jess?”

  “Yes, it is. I can’t wait to see you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THEY SAT TOGETHER IN THE GARDEN, UNDER THE ANCIENT cherry tree, the old woman and her younger companion. The renowned teacher and her favorite former student.

  Anya and Alexandra.

  Two peas in a pod, Nicky Sedgwick called them because he thought they were so alike. Two women of such disparate backgrounds and upbringing, and yet, if he hadn’t known otherwise, he would have said they were of the same blood, the same family. But then, most people thought he was a blood relative of Anya’s, not her great-nephew by marriage.

  In a way, this was understandable, as she had worked her magic on him since the day he was born. He was her creature just as Alexandra was.

  Nicky was standing inside Anya’s house, staring through the window at the two women. They were drinking their after-lunch coffee at the wrought-iron table, and chatting as animatedly as they always did. They look so comfortable with each other, he thought. Alexa was just like a young woman confiding in her grandmother.

  His former assistant was as lovely looking as ever, he noticed, although her dark hair was cut shorter. It was chic, and she was certainly smartly turned out in her man-tailored gray pinstripe jacket and matching short skirt. All the better to see those gorgeous legs, he thought, his eyes sweeping over her. He liked the sleek hairstyle; it showed off her long neck and pretty ears. She wore gold earrings and a gold chain around her neck. As always, she was understated during the day. Alexa had always had perfect style in his book.

  Next to Alexandra Gordon, Anya was the grande dame personified, so regal in her bearing, and as good-looking as ever with her stylish blond hair and perfect makeup. Anya was dressed in what she called her working uniform: gray flannel slacks, a white silk shirt, and a navy blue blazer. It makes her look so English, Nicky decided, but then, she is very English in so many things, even though she has lived in France since her mid-twenties. When she spoke English she sounded like an upper-class Englishwoman; once she launched into her perfect French she could easily be mistaken for a Parisienne; and, naturally, when she spoke her native language, learned at her father’s knee, she was as Russian-sounding as the prince had been. That was a special talent, being able to speak foreign languages well. His uncle Hugo had been equally as adept at them as Anya.

  Glancing at his watch, realizing that the time was ticking away, Nicky now stepped out into the garden, exclaiming, “Good afternoon, ladies!”

  They both stopped talking and looked across at him. Then Alexa leapt to her feet, ran to greet him, threw her arms around his neck. After their long, smoochy embrace, he held her away. “Well, ain’t you looking great, laidy,” he said in his best Cockney accent.

  She laughed. He had sounded just like Jack did when he spoke Cockney.

  Nicky said, “I’m sorry I arrived a bit earlier than expected, and interrupted your time with Anya.” He now glanced across at his aunt. “Sorry, old thing.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, Nicky dear, we’d more or less finished our lovely, long discussion anyway, hadn’t we, Alexa?”

  “I suppose so, although you know I can go on listening to you forever,” Alexa responded, going back to her chair under the cherry tree.

  Anya smiled. “Let’s listen to Nicky instead. And, Nicholas darling, please do sit down. I can’t stand you hovering there like an anxious waiter in a half-empty bistro nervously waiting to take an order.”

  Nicky began to laugh as he strode over to one of the wrought-iron chairs arranged around the table and sat down.

  Turning to face Alexandra, touching her arm with a loving hand, Anya felt it was necessary to give the young woman an explanation.

  She said, “I asked Nicky to do something for me last week, and it has to do with you, Alexa. But I do take full responsibility, I just want you to know that, to understand it was not Nicky’s idea, but mine. Now I think he’s here to report to me.”

  Looking puzzled, Alexa frowned, then glanced from Anya to Nicky, but she made no comment.

  “A few weeks ago, Anya had the feeling you probably wouldn’t come to her birthday party because of Tom Conners,” Nicky began. “She felt you might be uncomfortable in Paris because of your past with him, and how you parted. She suggested I make a few inquiries about Tom to ascertain what he was doing, what his status was in general.”

  “I see,” Alexa murmured, sounding noncommittal, but she felt herself tensing in the chair. She crossed her legs, then sat very still.

  “Then almost in the same breath I told Nicky not to do it,” Anya interjected, looking at Alexa carefully. “Because I felt that for him to poke around in Tom’s life was like playing God, and in effect it was being a megalomaniac.”

  “So I didn’t do anything,” Nicky remarked. “Until this past week, when Anya used her woman’s prerogative and changed her mind.”

  “He’s still in Paris, that I do know,” Alexa announced.

  She surprised them both, and they exchanged quick, knowing glances.

  Alexa noticed this, and went on. “When I received your invitation to the party, I called him at his office, on his private line, actually. Then I hung up when he answered. I guess I lost my nerve.”

  “So he has been on your mind,” Anya muttered. “I thought as much.” She felt justified for enlisting Nicky’s help.

  “Yes, Anya, he has. You see, I want to get rid of this unfinished business of mine. Then perhaps I can move on with my life.”

  “Good girl!” Anya exclaimed, beaming at her in approval. “Well, I suppose we’ve done your legwork for you. Or Nicky has, at any rate. He’s probably saved you some time, actually.”

  Alexa nodded. She was now eager to hear what he had to say.

  “I made a few calls, spoke to several people I know who know him,” Nicky began, leaning forward slightly, giving Alexa a very direct look. “Basically, nothing’s changed in Tom’s life, Alex. He’s not married, nor is he seeing anyone special as far as I’ve been able to ascertain. Although I do hear there are a few women circling him, so to speak. But that’s normal, under the circumstances. He’s very good-looking, charming, successful, and a bachelor. It’s to be expected. He’s still with the same law firm, but then, you already know that. I guess I have to say that everything seems to be status quo.” Nicky sat back in the chair, and then turned his head, glanced at Anya.

  “And that’s all you found out?” Anya asked with a frown. “Nothing more, Nick?”

  He shook his head. “Not very much, really. Tom even lives in the same apartment. But one of the chaps I know at Clee Donovan’s photo news agency is an old buddy of Tom’s and—”

  “That’s got to be Charles Dugdale,” Alexa swiftly cut in, “they’re good friends.”

  “Correct.” Nicky gave her a faint smile, and added, “Charlie told me that Tom inherited money from a relative recently, and that he’s bought a property in Provence. A farm or an estate, I’m not sure.�
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  Anya’s face lit up. “Oh, really, how very interesting! I wonder if he’s anywhere near me?”

  Nicky burst out laughing. “Anya, you’re incorrigible! Always looking for dinner and luncheon guests, eh, old thing? Always wanting interesting company.”

  “And why ever not? Interesting company’s much better than the bores, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Nicky smiled at her lovingly. “You’ll be happy to know then that Tom’s place is near your house. He’s just outside Aix-en-Provence.”

  “Lovely,” Anya replied, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

  “Does this mean Tom is leaving Paris? Leaving the law firm?” Alexa ventured, her eyes questioning.

  “I don’t know,” Nicky answered her. “Charlie wasn’t sure about that. I’m afraid you have the sum total of everything I found out, Alex, except that he’s fit and well and, according to my friend Angelique, the famous casting director, he’s still as good-looking as ever.” He grinned at her. “A taller version of the other Tom.”

  Anya frowned and repeated, “The other Tom? Of whom are you speaking, Nicky?”

  “Cruise. Tom Cruise.”

  “Oh, Nicky, you are such a pest with all of these infernal film references of yours!” Anya mildly chastised him. “Half the time I never know who you’re talking about.” Reaching out, she now took hold of Alexa’s hand and went on softly. “Well, darling, you now know which way the land lies. Why don’t you call Tom this weekend? But this time, if a machine answers, please leave a message, for heaven’s sake, otherwise we’ll get nowhere very fast.”

  Alexa laughed, suddenly feeling lighter than she had in ages, as if a weight had been lifted off her chest. “Thanks for doing the legwork, Nicky. I owe you one. And in the meantime, when are we going to get together to discuss the movie? Later today?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Nicky exclaimed, and glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, Alexa, but I have to leave. My apologies, Anya, for this … hit-and-run visit, but I have to go home to change. I have a special dinner date tonight.” Rising, he went over to Anya, bent over his aunt, and kissed her cheek. “I’m taking Maria to dinner, you’ll be glad to hear.”