A Year Like No Other

by Pauline Lawless

  Yves sniffed his wife’s short dark hair, loving the scent of coconut that always clung to it.

  Sophie’s mind was racing with ideas.

  “I’ll email all the wives today,” she told him, reaching for her Blackberry to take notes. “I have to get started right away and find out what they require for accommodation and which area they would like to live in,” she said, tapping away on the keys.

  Yves laughed aloud at her enthusiasm. “So much for any hope I had of a romantic morning,” he cried, kissing her upturned nose. She grinned back at him.

  “You brought me into this,” she replied, kissing him back. “Unfortunately, all of Paris decamps to the south of France for the month of August so I have to work fast.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said, taking the Blackberry from her and pulling her into his arms. “But I think it can wait for half an hour,” he added, his voice husky.

  “Only half an hour?” she asked coquettishly, feeling herself getting aroused.

  “That depends,” he replied, starting to caress her.

  She sighed happily.

  What a lovely message, Ashling thought as she read the email. Sophie said how much she was looking forward to meeting them and helping to make their stay in Paris a happy one. She had enclosed a questionnaire asking for information about them and their families and what their needs might be in relation to accommodation. She also enclosed a map of Paris explaining the different areas which were known as arrondissements and, seeing it, it hit home to Ashling that her dream really was about to become a reality.

  Looking at the map, Ashling felt a frisson of excitement. She knew exactly where she’d like to live – St-Germain-des-Prés, on the left bank. Although she’d only been to Paris once before, to celebrate their second wedding anniversary, she felt she knew it intimately from all she’d read about it. In fact, she had conceived Orna on that trip and when Kieran had suggested that maybe they should call her Paris, she’d quickly vetoed it. Thanks be to God she had. Can you imagine it? To name your child after that awful tacky Hilton woman – unthinkable!

  This area where she wanted to live was where writers like James Joyce, Sartre and Hemingway had hung out in the Les Deux Magots and Café de Flore. The thought that these same cafés might soon be her locals filled her with anticipation. It would all depend, of course, on where the girls would be going to school and she hoped that she could find one within walking distance of this area. The wonderful Paris Metro would take Kieran to his office every day and take her to explore this magical city. Without hesitation, she requested Sophie to try and find a good school and apartment in this 6th arrondissement or as close as possible to it.

  Felicity read the email with interest. Thank goodness there was someone there to help her. She had dreaded the thought that she might have to drag around Paris looking for accommodation. She could never have coped with that. She had no idea where she wanted to live and was in a tizzy about it. Finally, it was her sister, Penelope, who showed her the way. ‘As close as possible to the Ritz and Rue Saint-Honoré,’ she wrote on the questionnaire, taking her sister’s advice. She didn’t worry too much about how Maxwell would get to and from work. That would be his problem. After all, he was the one dragging her to Paris.

  Taylor read the email wondering who the hell this woman thought she was, to be organising her life for her. On second thoughts, she realised that, as she didn’t speak French, it would probably be necessary to have someone do this kind of thing for her. She could look on her as a kind of personal assistant. Yes, her friends would be very impressed when she dropped that into the conversation. She rang around some of the girls who had been to Paris and told them that her personal assistant there wished to know where she wanted to live. She finally spoke to the wife of an ex-ambassador who said that the Avenue de la Grande Armée was the only possible address but it was frightfully difficult to get a place there. That wouldn’t stop Taylor.

  She sent off a reply to Sophie, with a long, long list of her requirements in an apartment on the Grande Armée. Looking at the map she saw that it was actually a continuation of the Champs-Élysées. How great was that! She hoped Brandon appreciated all that she was doing for him.

  All of this had brought on a headache so she popped a Vicodin and washed it down with a vodka and soda and waited for the lovely feeling that she knew would follow.

  Jazz read the email with mixed emotions. She’d spent a year in Paris when she’d been twenty-one and just out of university. There, she’d fallen in love for the very first time. She’d lost her virginity in the Hôtel de Lutèce on the Île Saint-Louis – that little island in the centre of the Seine. She’d been certain, at the time, that the charming sophisticated Frenchman was her Mr Right and had dreamt of living happily ever after with him, in Paris. The shock when she discovered, after nine months, that he had a wife and two kids out in the suburbs, had broken her heart and she’d never returned to the city. Since then, Paris had held bitter-sweet memories for her. Now, her heartbreak buried, she thought that the Île Saint-Louis would be the perfect place to live – just across from Notre Dame and surrounded by terrific restaurants and bars.

  Sophie read the replies she received with interest. It was funny, she mused, but she could tell from just a simple email what these women would be like. Ashling – what a lovely name – was sweet and obviously cultured and intelligent.

  Felicity, well, she was something else! A bundle of nerves – Sophie guessed, from the numerous emails she received from her – and a snob too, from the sound of it. Wanting to live close to the Ritz, indeed! Did she expect to be having tea there every afternoon? She obviously had no notion of the cost of it. €45 the last time Sophie was there. And as for shopping on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and the Rue de Rivoli! Only pop stars could afford it nowadays. She seemed to be very English and Sophie, reading between the lines, could sense that she was extremely apprehensive about coming to live in Paris.

  As for Taylor, Sophie knew instinctively that she would not like this woman. She was the one that irked her the most. Such a long list of demands! She wanted a four-bedroom apartment on the Avenue de la Grande Armée, with three reception rooms and five bathrooms. What was it about Americans and bathrooms? Had Taylor any idea how much property in that area cost? Well, Sophie sighed, I’ll see what I can do for her but I don’t hold out much hope. Taylor had also requested a housekeeper and cook. Her husband, Brandon, was obviously very wealthy and Sophie had a premonition that she would have a lot of trouble with this obnoxious woman.

  As for Jazz – well, she was a dark horse. A complete mystery. Jazz hadn’t given much information about herself or her husband in her email. She’d requested a bijou flat on the Île Saint-Louis, so she obviously knew Paris well. Sophie knew what to expect from the other three women but not from Jazz. What a strange name, she thought.

  She spent every moment of the next few weeks looking at properties which might suit each woman. As she’d expected, she’d had no joy on the Grande Armée but had found a nice place close by on Avenue Kléber which she hoped would meet with Taylor’s approval.

  The closest she could get to the Ritz for Felicity was actually closer to the Opéra but when she pointed out that it was in the most sought-after area of Paris, Felicity nervously emailed back that she supposed it would have to do. Later, however, having studied photos of the apartment, she said she was more than happy and that it was almost as nice as their Holland Park house in London.

  Ashling from Ireland had thanked Sophie for her help and was obviously very excited about coming to live in Paris. She sounded lovely and was very concerned about finding a good bilingual school for her daughters. Sophie knew just the school for them. Her own son, Pierre, was a pupil there and she could highly recommend it. She’d found a darling town house for them, not far from her own, and although it wasn’t in the 6th arrondissement it was bordering on it and within walking distance of the school and the Luxembourg Gardens. She guessed that Ashling wou
ld be delighted with it.

  She’d had no response from Jazz except a curt ‘thank you’.

  Sipping a kir before dinner, she recounted all this for Yves.

  “What do you know of Jazz’s husband?” she asked him.

  “Don’t even know if she has one,” he replied, busy reading the financial pages of the New York Post.

  “What do you mean? Surely, he’s coming to work for you?” She looked perplexed.

  He looked up from his paper. “No, darling, Jazz is coming to work on the project,” he explained, smiling. “She’s a banker with Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt.”

  “Oh my God!” Sophie cried. “I thought she was an accompanying spouse. She must think I’m an idiot talking of things to do when the men are working.” She looked crestfallen. “I feel such a fool.”

  “You’re never that, chérie,” he replied, patting her knee. “It’s my fault entirely. I should have told you.” He got up and brought her a file with information on the people involved.

  Reading it, she felt even more foolish when she read of Jazz’s achievements. She would have to apologise for her mistake. Reading the files of the others involved, she saw that they were all very high-powered achievers in the banking world. This was obviously a very important project and she was proud to be a part of it.

  Felicity and Max were sitting having breakfast in their beautiful London home when she broached the subject.

  “We’ll take the car to Paris,” she announced calmly, sipping her green tea.

  “Of course we won’t,” he said emphatically, looking up from his paper to see if she was serious. She was. “Nobody in their right mind drives in Paris.”

  “We absolutely have to have a car in France,” she insisted.

  “In the name of God, why?” he demanded. “Where would we park it? You want to live right in the city centre. There is no garage with the apartment.” He was trying to keep cool, but it was difficult.

  “I’m sure Sophie will find a garage to rent close by,” she said petulantly.

  “Why on earth do we need a car in Paris?”

  She looked at him nervously, wringing her hands. “Maxwell, you know I’m terrified of flying and I’ll need to come back here frequently to see the girls and check up on things.” Her voice was wobbling and her eyes starting to fill with tears.

  As always, they softened him and he felt like a cad. He relented. He realised that he was asking a lot of her – to leave her family and all of her friends. She would be right out of her comfort zone, on her own all week, in a strange city, with nothing to do and no friends. The fact that she had hardly any French would be a huge drawback. He knew she’d never have the confidence to use the schoolgirl French that she had now mostly forgotten. Of course she would need to know that she could travel back to London frequently and flying truly did terrify her.

  He remembered the time they’d been on holiday in Cuba. The airline that was due to take them home collapsed the day before they were due to fly. They were stranded in Havana for three days, which was no hardship for Max, but poor Felicity had suffered panic attacks and palpitations. She thought she’d never get home, and when they finally landed at Heathrow she’d declared, “That’s it. I’m never flying anywhere again.” That pretty much put paid to exotic holidays! The idea of travelling from India or South Africa by car was a little daunting, even for Max.

  So, now, against his better judgement, he kind-heartedly agreed. “Okay,” he told her, wanting to assuage her fears, “we’ll take the car to Paris.”

  She smiled at him, relief flooding her face.

  6

  On the 28th of August they were all en route to Paris.

  Taylor sipped the champagne that had been offered to her as soon as she’d taken her seat on board the flight from JFK. Brandon was immersed in the Wall Street Journal, as usual. She’d already taken two Vicodin before leaving the house and now she washed down a Valium with the second glass of champagne, wishing that they would hurry and serve dinner so that she could settle down for a good night’s sleep. Thank goodness for first class!

  Taylor wasn’t happy with the seat they’d been allotted on the flight.

  “How come people are allowed to take children in first class?” she hissed at Brandon, scowling at the little boy seated near them.

  “They can take them to the moon if they’re willing to pay for them,” he replied disinterestedly.

  In fact, the little boy was extremely well-behaved and the stewardess informed Taylor, when she complained, “Actually, his father is chairman of the company.”

  Brandon smiled to himself. He hoped that might shut her up for a while. Miffed, she put on her eye mask, reclined her seat into a bed and slept for the remainder of the flight.

  There was a chauffeur waiting for them at the airport in Paris, holding a placard with their name on it. He whisked them to their apartment on Avenue Kléber where Sophie was waiting for them in the lobby.

  Brandon saw her first and let out a long low whistle.

  “That can’t be Yves’s wife, surely,” he remarked. “She’s much too young.” He didn’t add ‘and beautiful and sexy’, which is what he was secretly thinking. My God, she had the face of an angel! He had met Yves in New York at business meetings a couple of times and had taken him to be in his late forties. This lovely girl wasn’t a day over thirty.

  Taylor frowned at him. “Probably some insignificant little secretary,” she snorted, looking jealously at the lovely young woman approaching them.

  “Welcome to Paris. I’m Sophie, Yves’s wife,” she smiled and kissed Brandon on both cheeks.

  Taylor shrank back as Sophie turned to kiss her but seeing her husband frowning, she succumbed to the kiss.

  “Yves will be here in a . . . Oh, here he comes,” Sophie said, smiling at the handsome man coming towards them.

  Taylor understood what Brandon had meant. Yves was certainly older than Sophie but his tall figure exuded an energy and youthfulness that made him appear younger. His jet-black curly hair was quite long with a just-got-out-of-bed look that matched his sleepy, smouldering dark-brown eyes. He oozed sex appeal. Taylor caught her breath. He was the most divine man she’d ever seen. She, who had not been attracted to any man for as long as she could remember, found herself blushing. A true Latin lover, she thought, as he took her hand and brought it to his lips. Paris was looking more attractive by the moment – if all the men were like this!

  He and Sophie showed them up to their apartment which was on the third floor of the beautiful old building, and even Taylor had to admit that it was impressive. Yves explained that it had been built in the mid 19th century, during the famous Baron Haussmann’s renovation of Paris, which had given them the beautiful city of today. It was an exquisitely elegant house with high ceilings and beautiful antique French furniture. As she went from room to room Taylor could just imagine herself entertaining here. She had invited all her friends from New York to visit and she had no doubt that they would come. They would be green with envy, she thought smugly. She naturally nabbed the largest bedroom for herself leaving Brandon with a smaller one.

  There were fresh flowers everywhere and bowls of fruit. The fridge – an American one, thank God – was chock full of food, all the staples that Sophie had thought they would need. She hadn’t known that Taylor didn’t do cooking. There was champagne in the fridge and the bar was also well stocked.

  Taylor immediately excused herself, without so much as a thank-you, and headed for the shower, throwing what she thought was a seductive glance at Yves on the way. All in all, Paris was looking promising, she thought, as she enjoyed the hot streams of water which flowed over her body from the many jets of the Jacuzzi.

  Meanwhile, Sophie made coffee while Brandon and Yves discussed business.

  “Thank you so much for arranging all this,” Brandon said to Sophie, waving his arm around the apartment. “It was very kind of you.”

  She blushed at the compliment. He was utterly charmi
ng. All her Paris friends would just adore him. She sensed that he genuinely liked women and wasn’t just interested in getting them into bed – which was what most Frenchmen wanted. He was also very attractive and exuded an inner strength. The kind of man one could always depend on. She flashed a brilliant smile at him.

  Shortly afterwards Yves excused them. “I’m sorry, but we must go. I spend Saturdays with my son Pierre and I can’t be late. Today I am taking him to see an American football match!” He shook hands with Brandon. “We’d like you and your wife to come to lunch tomorrow so that everyone can get to meet each other. We will send a car for you at noon. Is that all right with you?”

  “Wonderful, I look forward to it,” said Brandon.

  “À demain – until tomorrow,” Sophie said, kissing him on both cheeks.

  As he kissed her he recognised the wonderful scent of Hermès Vetiver Tonka. God, she was a beauty!

  Although he was only five years old, Yves had already taken Pierre to the Stade de France to see France play rugby, to Roland Garros for the French Open Tennis and to Le Mans for the Formula One racing. Yves worshipped his little son and treasured his Saturdays with him.

  Pierre was ready and waiting and in a state of high excitement when his parents arrived home.

  “He was worried that you’d be late, Monsieur,” his nanny, Cosette, told them, putting on the little boy’s jacket.