“Oh, Ash, I’m so excited. It’s quite a feather in my cap,” he said, holding her tight.
Ashling fetched two champagne glasses as he opened the champagne. Pop!
“My favourite sound,” she sighed happily.
“Let’s take these inside,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
When they were seated on the comfy leather sofa, he raised his glass to her.
“To Paris!”
“To Paris and to my wonderful husband for making it all happen!” She smiled as she touched her glass to his.
“Besides the promotion for me, Ash, I was thinking of how much you would love living there for a year.” He smiled at her above the rim of his glass as he took a sip of champagne.
“It’s a dream come true. You know I always wanted to live there but . . .”
“Don’t remind me. I know how I scuppered that plan. Maybe this will make up for it.” He reached over and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Oh, it will,” she said, nodding her head vigorously.
It was true. She’d been in her last year of journalism at college and had started making plans to spend a year in Paris, to perfect her French, when she’d met Kieran at a U2 concert. It was love at first sight. He was ten years older than her and already making waves in the banking world where, aged only thirty-two, he had already been promoted to branch manager. He’d swept her off her feet with his rugged good looks and his easy-going sense of fun. He was tall with light-brown hair and laughing hazel eyes and the muscular body of the rugby player he was. A gorgeous hunk, her sister Fiona had called him the first time she’d met him. He was her perfect Prince Charming and she’d known instantly that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. By the time her exams came around, she realised that she couldn’t bear to be away from him for a week, let alone a whole year, and so she had abandoned all thoughts of moving to Paris. Instead she’d got a job as a junior reporter with the Sunday Independent. Two years later they’d had a dream wedding and three years after that Orna was born, followed eighteen months later by Ciara. All thoughts of Paris had flown out the door by that stage.
And now this! Her dream of living in Paris was going to be realised, albeit a little late. The girls were now almost six and four-and-a-half years old, the perfect age for this move. She had no doubt that they would pick up the language in no time and she would make sure she nurtured it in them.
Luckily she had continued with her French and had even gained her diploma from the Alliance Française in Dublin. Now it would certainly pay off. Speaking French in Paris is a must, she’d been told – otherwise the locals would just ignore you.
“Lucky you kept up your French,” Kieran remarked, accurately reading her thoughts.
“I know. I should be as fluent as any Frenchwoman by the time I come home,” she grinned, taking a big gulp of champagne, spluttering as the bubbles went up her nose.
“You sure you won’t have a problem taking a year’s sabbatical from the job?” he asked, as he handed her his handkerchief.
“Not at all – people do it all the time. I will need to give one month’s notice so that they can find my replacement, of course. When do we leave?”
“I start work at the end of August so we need to be there before that.”
“That gives us just over two months. I’ll hand in my notice tomorrow so I’ll be free from the end of July to prepare for the move. What about a school for the girls?”
“That will be no problem. Mr O’Reilly tells me that there are very good international schools in Paris and we will have someone there to help us find one, and a house too.” He patted her knee reassuringly.
“Oh, I’m so excited,” she cried, her bright green eyes sparkling. “Paris! I can’t wait!”
“I’m pretty excited too,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “What do you say we take this champagne and excitement up to bed right now?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she grinned back at him, feeling the lovely familiar passion rising inside her. “Je te désire passionément,” she whispered huskily, moving towards the door. “That means I want you very, very much,” she laughed at him, seeing the bewilderment on his face.
“Let me just call Frères Jacques and book a table for later,” he said, giving her a pat on the behind.
“Quel derrière!” he said, in a quite diabolical accent. “That does mean ‘lovely bum’, doesn’t it?” he asked, grinning at her as he dialled. This was something he’d heard at the Moulin Rouge nightclub on one of his many rugby trips to Paris.
She wiggled her backside – just like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot – all the way up the stairs as he followed her, trying to concentrate on his phone conversation.
After they’d made love, Ashling lay propped up in bed, sipping champagne, and feeling blissfully happy. She laughed as she heard Kieran singing loudly in the shower. It was a long time since he’d done that. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember when they’d last made love either. He was always too tired or stressed, because of work, and it was beginning to worry her. Their sex life had always been fantastic but lately it had become a non-event. She hoped that this move to Paris would be good for them both and bring them close together again. Lying back on the pillows she took another sip of champagne, smiling secretly to herself.
3
Meanwhile in New York, Taylor was lounging in the bath, taking care not to wet her newly coiffed blonde hair. She frowned in irritation when she heard the knock on the bathroom door.
“Maria, I told you I did not want to be disturbed,” she snapped at her Mexican housekeeper, who wouldn’t have dreamt of disturbing her at this time, not even if her life depended on it.
“It’s not Maria, it’s me.” Her husband, Brandon, poked his blond head around the door.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Brandon, you know better than to disturb me in my bath,” she said irritably, lifting up the cooling eye-mask she was wearing.
“I need to talk to you, Taylor,” he replied.
“Yes, well, it will keep till I’m finished, I’m sure,” she said, replacing the mask and sinking her size-zero body lower in the tub.
“I suppose,” he sighed, closing the door.
He stood sipping a whisky, gazing out the living-room window of their Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment, feeling very alone. Looking out over Central Park he watched a young couple stop and kiss, their arms wrapped around each other and he thought how lucky they were. Next, he saw an elderly couple walking hand in hand, the old man gently guiding his wife, and he envied them too.
Sinking onto the large comfortable sofa, he kicked off his shoes and stretched his long legs as he thought about his marriage. Sadly, he’d accepted a long time ago that theirs was a loveless relationship. He longed for some TLC and affection but he didn’t even get that. As for sex – that had become obsolete years ago! He knew it was no way to live. He was going to give this Paris job a chance in the hope that the change would do them both good – City of Love and all that! Secretly, he had his doubts that anything could save their marriage. If things didn’t improve between them in Paris, he would definitely have to do something about it.
Sighing, he hit the remote and began to flick through the channels.
An hour later, his wife breezed in and headed straight for the drinks cabinet.
He turned down the TV volume. “Taylor, you must be the only woman in New York who can bathe three times a day and still not have enough,” he remarked, his eyes taking in her new hairdo. He reckoned it was a shade blonder than before, achieved no doubt at enormous expense. Everything about Taylor was achieved at enormous expense. She had to be the most high-maintenance woman in the city, he thought.
“What is it you wanted to talk about, Brandon?” she asked coldly, as she mixed herself a martini.
“I’m being sent to Paris to head up a new project.” He watched her face closely for her reaction.
“So?” she queried, raising one perfectly thr
eaded eyebrow.
“So – it’s for a year and I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany me as there will be a lot of entertaining to be done.”
“Accompany you? To Paris?” she asked, her composure deserting her as she digested this news.
“Yes, dear, that’s what executive wives do – unless they have a career of their own, that is.”
“But what about the children?”
“Oh come off it, Taylor,” he said irritably, getting up and going to pour another whisky for himself. “Mike and Mia are not exactly children. They’re in their twenties, for God’s sake, and they have their own lives in California now. They don’t need you here.”
He smiled grimly, thinking that she had never seen much of the twins anyhow, not even when they’d been little. Taylor was not exactly the maternal type. Once she’d presented him with the required son and daughter, she’d declared that that was that. They’d had separate bedrooms ever since. The whole process of pregnancy and birth had disgusted her. The children had been raised mostly by nannies and it was his one regret that he’d been so busy climbing the corporate ladder that he’d missed a lot of their childhood. Lately he’d been trying to make up for that. They’d both graduated from college in Los Angeles where Mike was now working with one of the major television companies. Mia, who had qualified in oenology, was working with a winemaker in Sonoma. Brandon made a point of travelling there every two months or so to visit them but Taylor steadfastly refused to travel with him to “that trashy movie place” as she called it. As a result she’d seen hardly anything of the twins during the past four years.
“And what about all my charity work?” she demanded, breaking into his thoughts.
“I’m sure they’ll survive without you for a year,” he replied with some satisfaction.
Taylor’s whole life was a whirlwind of charity lunches, dinners and meetings. Not that the charities themselves were ever foremost in Taylor’s mind. It was what New York socialites did with their time. Besides the endless preparation for these events, mainly at Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa – there were the endless shopping trips to Bergdorf’s and Saks and occasionally to Europe, looking for that perfect dress.
“Think of the designer shopping, my dear,” he added, watching the flicker of greed in her eyes. “You’ll be right on their doorstep.”
“And I can fly back for the Sweet Charity Ball in November?”
“Of course, if you wish.”
“Business class?”
“But of course,” he sighed, knowing damn well she wouldn’t consider travelling any other way.
“First class?” She was really pushing it now. Luckily Concorde was gone or she’d be insisting on that!
“No, Taylor,” he replied, looking at her with distaste. “Business class is quite comfortable enough. We don’t want to bankrupt the project before we even start.”
“Huh!” she snorted. She’d see about that!
Brandon could see that she was taking care not to frown and perhaps cause a wrinkle. Not that she could, he thought wickedly, with all that botox in her forehead!
“Well, I suppose I don’t have a choice but to go, do I?” she pouted.
“No, actually, you don’t.”
Taylor knew when she was beaten. “Let me warn you, it will cost you,” she shot back at him, her cold grey eyes glittering.
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied dryly. He could almost feel his credit card heating up as he spoke. God, but he was married to a bitch!
4
“Jazz, we have to talk,” Hans said, pouring two beers.
Jazz knew that they were heading for a showdown. She guessed what was coming and felt a knot forming in her stomach.
She’d met him thirteen years before when she’d joined the bank where he worked. She’d just returned from Paris at the time, on the rebound from her first big love and Hans had made her feel good about herself again. Somehow they’d drifted into a relationship. They’d moved in together and it had worked out perfectly well but over the years they’d become more like good friends than lovers. There was no magic in their relationship and Jazz wondered if she could have done something to make it happen. Maybe, but in any case it was now much too late. It wasn’t anything major that had gone wrong – they’d just grown further and further apart over the years.
Jazz was absorbed in her career, quickly making her way to the top of the banking ladder, leaving Hans on the bottom rung. Perhaps things might have been different if she’d made the commitment to start a family but she hadn’t wanted that. She hadn’t been prepared to give up her exciting job to settle into motherhood. If she couldn’t have given it one hundred per cent then she wasn’t prepared to do it at all. She’d seen too many colleagues trying to juggle motherhood and a career and was convinced it didn’t work.
Like Jazz, Hans had been happy enough to plod along as they were but now something had changed. She couldn’t figure out why he’d chosen today to confront her about their relationship. He’d had a few drinks after work which had perhaps given him Dutch courage, or maybe it was something else. She’d been offered a fantastic job in Paris which she desperately wanted to take but he wanted her to turn it down. This was causing tension between them. She’d been mulling it over for a week now and still hadn’t made a decision.
Carrying two glasses of beer out to the terrace of their Frankfurt apartment, he sat down opposite her as the late evening sun shone down.
“I think you’ll agree with me that we’re at a crossroads,” he started, stumbling over the words.
She nodded her agreement, her glossy dark hair catching the sun as she moved her head.
“Sweetheart, we can’t go on like this. It is decision time,” he continued, staring into his glass.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked, wondering for a moment if he’d met someone else. She could hardly blame him. She’d been very preoccupied with work lately, working overtime and at weekends too. Still, the thought of being on her own filled her with fear. She was comfortable with him. She looked at him, her anxiety showing in her smoky brown eyes.
“I think it’s time we got married and had a baby,” he said, shocking her into silence. “Neither of us is getting any younger, you know.”
Jazz didn’t need to be told that. Every time she went back to her home in Munich, her mother, her aunts and even some of the neighbours who’d known her from the time she’d been a baby, reminded her that her biological clock was ticking.
“When are you going to make me a grandmother, Jasmin?” Mami constantly asked. Jasmin was her real name. It was Hans who had started calling her Jazz. The name suited her, he’d said, as jazz music was all about improvisation and she was constantly improvising in life. She’d been secretly pleased by this.
“Your mother keeps hoping you’ll have some good news for her soon, Jasmin,” her aunts and neighbours were fond of saying.
Her mother had long ago given up any hope of being the mother-of-the-bride and would happily settle now for being a grandmother.
“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” was her refrain and now here was Hans reminding her of that same fact.
If she was honest, it had been preying on her mind lately. She would be thirty-six next birthday – pushing the big four oh, which she dreaded. Then her biological clock would wind down, for sure. The last thing she wanted was to be like those celebrities ‘thinking’ about having a baby, although well into their forties. She felt they should be thinking about being a grandmother – not an old mother. But did she want a baby right now? She wasn’t sure. In her heart she knew that what she didn’t want was a baby with Hans. He was not really father material and she knew that deep down she didn’t truly love him. Maybe if she’d met the right man . . . well, it was a bit too late to be thinking of that now. She sighed.
“I’m sorry, Hans,” she replied sadly, “but I think marriage would be a dreadful mistake right now.”
He looked crestfallen. “Well,
I guess that’s that then,” he said, gulping his beer and licking his upper lip with his tongue. “I think it best then if I move out as soon as possible.”
“No, there’s no need for you to do that,” she told him, reaching over for his hand and making a quick decision of her own. “I’ve decided to take the Paris job, so you can stay on here. I think a temporary break from each other might be a good idea. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she smiled, wondering if that was really true.
“I suppose, but I can’t wait forever,” he said, looking soulfully into her eyes, relieved that she wasn’t giving up on them completely.
“No, no, of course not. Please let’s take this year out to see how we feel,” she said, running her perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her glass.
“Okay, whatever you say. I’ll go along with that,” he agreed, not wanting to lose her completely. “Paris it is.”
Filled with guilt at the excitement she was feeling, now that she’d decided to go to Paris, she got up and wrapped her arms around him, cuddling him like a child.
5
Sophie Durbuis lay in bed, snug in the crook of her husband’s arm, her head on his shoulder as they discussed the exciting project that they were about to embark on.
Yves had been surprised and delighted to be asked by Bank National de Paris to lead the international group that would be based in Paris for the coming year. Because of his previous international banking experience they’d felt he was the right man for the job. It would be a very big and important project and he was incredibly excited by it. He would need someone to help the families of the bankers involved to relocate, and who better to do this than his wife, Sophie, a born and bred Parisienne, who knew the city like the back of her hand. She had worked in real estate and like him, had perfect English, thanks to the four years they’d lived in Washington. She was the obvious choice for the job. She hadn’t worked for five years since the birth of their son, Pierre, but now that the little fellow was well settled in school, Sophie was ready to get back into the workforce. This would be a good way to start.
A Year Like No Other Page 2
