Never to Love

by Anne Weale

  The night sky was bright with stars and in the street below a boy and girl were walking home, lingering beneath the shadows of the trees. Andrea wondered if Justin was also at his window or already asleep.

  She climbed into bed and slid her tired limbs between, the cool silk sheets. Then, as she lay still in the darkness, she knew a loneliness more acute than any that had gone before.

  When she awoke the room was flooded with sunlight and her traveling clock on the bedside cabinet showed that it was nearly nine o’clock. Scrambling out of bed, she hurried into the bathroom and turned on both bath taps, cleaning her teeth while they were running.

  Having bathed and made up her face, she put on a cream silk shirt and a pleated skirt of coral-colored Welsh tweed.

  By the time she was ready it was ten minutes past nine and, refreshed and steadied by the night’s sleep, she was hungry for breakfast.

  When she entered the sitting room she found Justin reading a newspaper at the breakfast table by the balcony windows.

  “Good morning. Did you have a good night?” He rose and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Yes, thank you. Did you?”

  He nodded, spreading a napkin over his legs. “I like my coffee white at breakfast and black for the rest of the day.”

  “Oh, have you been waiting for me? I’m sorry.” She seized the coffeepot and poured out two cups.

  “You smell very nice.” He smiled at her, noting the crisply tailored silk shirt and the wide suede belt clasping her narrow waist.

  “Thank you. So does this.” She sniffed the fragrant tendrils of steam rising from her cup and buttered a freshly baked croissant.

  “Mmm. What delicious bread.”

  “I can order an English breakfast if you wish, but I thought you would probably rather concentrate on lunch and dinner while we’re here. You don’t diet, I hope.”

  Andrea laughed and shook her head. “I have a most unladylike appetite. Fortunately it doesn’t affect my weight.”

  “Good. French food deserves a wholehearted approach, but on the other hand an attractive figure is worth a certain amount of self-denial, I suppose.”

  “Do you dislike plump women?”

  He shrugged. “There are several forms of beauty. It’s not just a matter of size or shape.” He passed a basket of ripe peaches to her. “I prefer plump women to scraggy ones.”

  “Then if I have to do one or the other, I’ll try to get fat,” she said with a smile.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Are you so anxious to please me?”

  To her chagrin a wave of color suffused her face, and she made a complication of peeling the peach to try to hide it.

  “Well ... naturally I’d like you to think I looked nice.”

  “ ‘Nice’ is not a word I would ever apply to you,” he said in an amused tone. “However, I don’t think this is the moment to list the more suitable ones. Is there anything you particularly want to do today? I thought we might cross the chief attractions off our itinerary before we start to explore the byways. How about going up the Eiffel Tower, as it’s a fine morning?”

  “Oh, but won’t that be dull for you? I mean, you’ve already seen all the main sights.”

  “I’ll see them again through your eyes. The view from the top is worth a second look.”

  So they went to the top of the famous landmark with a score of other tourists and saw the whole of Paris, spread out below them, glitteringly lovely beneath the translucent April sky.

  “It’s breathtaking!” Andrea said, leaning against the high safety rail around the topmost platform and surveying the magnificent panorama with shining eyes.

  “Yes, it’s a fine view,” Justin agreed.

  Two Italian students standing on the other side of Andrea exchanged grins. It was typical of an Englishman, they thought, to be more interested in a view than in the enchanting face of the woman beside him. An Italian in his place would have replied that no scenery could compare with the lambent beauty of her eyes, the exquisite curve of her lips. But of course the English were renowned for their coldness. Beauty was wasted on them.

  One student said as much to his friend and they laughed, unaware that Justin had understood the derisive remark.

  “Is something the matter?” Andrea asked, glancing up at him and catching the flicker of anger on his face.

  “No. Why should there be? Have you seen enough? Shall we return to earth?”

  They lunched on a terrace by the Seine and watched three or four old men fishing from the cobbled quay on the opposite side of the lazily flowing water. An artist was sketching one of the anglers and two cyclists were having a picnic in the dappled green shade of a tree. It was a peaceful scene, embodying the placid atmosphere of Paris at noon when for an hour or two work is forgotten and everyone is free to bask in the spring sunshine and enjoy the simple pleasure of being alive and at leisure for a while.

  The tables on the terrace were shaded by gaily striped umbrellas and the cane chairs invited relaxation. The murmur of conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter from a group of American visitors, and watching their merry faces, Andrea thought of the expression “golden youth.” Something she had never known.

  Perhaps it was the effect of the champagne that Justin had ordered, but suddenly, all her senses seemed to have sharpened. Or was it true that the very air of the city was intoxicating to strangers, making them feel more vital and more reckless?

  In the afternoon they strolled through the cool spacious galleries of the Louvre and then drove back to the hotel in a fiacre drawn by a horse that looked almost as ancient as the wrinkled old driver.

  In the evening they dined at a boite on the Left Bank. The floor was scattered with sawdust and the tables had crimped paper cloths, but the food was fit for royalty.

  Justin had hired a car for the duration of their stay and the next morning they drove out to Versailles, having arranged to dine with some friends of his in the evening.

  The day went well. After touring the vast palace with its relics of the past and its faded splendor, they had lunch by the lake and spent a lazy afternoon walking in the grounds. Justin seemed to put himself out to be entertaining, and as they drove back to Paris Andrea realized that the day had not been marred by any sudden tension or thoughtless remark.

  They were to dine at La Tour d’Argent, one of the most famous and exclusive restaurants in the city, so she was anxious to look her best and decided to wear a short evening dress of misty gray chiffon with a long stole of amber satin and matching slippers with topaz buckles.

  Justin was looking at a copy of Paris-Soir when she went into the sitting room a few minutes before his friends were due to call for them. At the rustle of her stole he tossed the newspaper aside and stood up, his glance traveling from the top of her head to the toes of her slippers.

  “Will I do?” she asked.

  “Your mirror should have told you that,” he said dryly, offering her a cigarette.

  She shook her head and moved past him to the balcony, smoothing the fingers of her long pale gray gloves. Outside dusk was falling in soft shadows and the first stars were winking in the deepening indigo of the sky.

  “Parisians call that l’heure bleue—the blue hour,” he said quietly from just behind her.

  “Oh, there’s a scent called that. I’ve often wondered why.”

  She leaned her elbows on the balcony rail, cupping her chin in her hands and looking down at the dusky street.

  Although the rush hour had passed, there were still a number of people going home to the suburbs, some hurrying along with string bags of groceries and sticks of bread under their arms, others walking more leisurely as if savoring the twilit calm between the business of the working day and the gaiety of the night. Later the subway would be busy again and the Champs-Elysees bright with neon lights and crimson winkers, but just now, for the blue hour, a peacefulness had descended on the city.

  “Don’t get cold out here,” Justin said. “Would
you like a drink before the Bechets arrive?”

  “No, thank you.” Andrea’s eyes were on a young couple standing on the opposite side of the road below and evidently saying goodbye. The girl, her dark hair tied in a ponytail, half turned to leave, and the boy caught her arm and drew her against him. In London passersby would have looked disapproving at this public demonstration, but here in Paris no one seemed to notice, or if they did they appeared to think it natural that young lovers should exchange a farewell kiss.

  Suddenly she became aware that Justin’s hands were on the rail a few inches from her elbows so that, although he was not touching her, she was encircled by his arms. For a fraction of a second she had an extraordinary impulse to lean back so that her head rested against his shoulder. Afterward she decided that being enclosed in his arms must have aroused some fundamental feminine instinct to seek protection that was normally quite foreign to her nature.

  Fortunately she was saved from making a fool of herself by a knock at the door of the suite. She turned, expecting Justin to move aside. But for perhaps half a minute, although it seemed much longer, he stood still and barred her way.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said softly.

  The next instant he was striding toward the door. Madame Bechet was a small vivacious woman in her middle thirties. Her first words to Andrea after Justin had introduced them were, “But surely you are not English?”

  “She certainly is,” said Justin.

  The Frenchwoman threw up her tiny bejeweled hands in a gesture of amazement.

  “C’est incroyable!” she exclaimed excitedly. “As soon as I see you I think that Justin has married an American. Ah, now I understand. You have a French couturier, n’est-ce pas?”

  “No, I bought this dress in London,” Andrea said, rather bewilderedly.

  Madame Bechet looked even more astonished as, with the Parisienne’s candid appreciation of dress, she appraised the elegantly draped gray chiffon and the subtle contrast of the lustrous amber satin stole.

  “Extraordinaire!” she murmured. “No, it is of no use for you to pinch my arm, Jacques. I like to say what I think, and to learn that such a toilette is not French, or possibly American, is very hard to believe.”

  Jacques Bechet, a stockily built man of about forty-five with thick gray hair cut en brosse and crinkly brown eyes, smiled apologetically at Andrea and said, “You must forgive Leonie, madame. She has the reputation of being the most indiscreet woman in Paris, eh, Justin?”

  “And also the best cook,” said Justin.

  Leonie darted a pleased glance at him and made a little moue of reproof at her husband.

  “It is true that I am sometimes indiscreet. You must forgive me if I have offended you, petite,” she said, laying a friendly hand on Andrea’s arm. “But Englishwomen are so fond of the pink tulle and the little bows here and another trimming there—” she waved her hands to suggest , a dress liberally adorned with unnecessary furbelows “—that I am astonished to find this lovely dress.”

  Andrea had had time to recover her poise after the odd incident on the balcony. She laughed. “I am not a bit offended, Madame Bechet. I know what you mean about the bows and frills, but I'm afraid that many Englishwomen have not the confidence to wear plain clothes, although I they envy the Frenchwoman her soigne looks.”

  “Ah, that is a very charming compliment, is it not, Jacques? Now, tell me, from which of the London maisons de couture did you buy this dress with the color of smoke?”

  “Before you two embark on a fashion gossip, do you I think we might go to dinner?” Justin inquired dryly.

  “Oh, men! Always they are so concerned with their stomachs,” Leonie said disdainfully, but with a twinkle lurking in her shrewd brown eyes. “Very well, we will leave our discussion of the couture and other matters of importance until later when these gourmands are satisfied.”

  La Tour d’Argent is one of the oldest and most celebrated of Paris restaurants. It is on the top floor of a building on the Quai de la Tournelle and commands a magnificent view of the Seine and the massive towers of Notre Dame.

  As they entered the handsome tapestry-hung dining room and were ushered to a table, Andrea recognized a Hollywood film star, a distinguished British playwright and several other celebrities. While the other three studied the menu and wine list with the serious concentration of true gourmets, her eyes strayed around the room, absorbing the luxurious harmony of the appointments and the atmosphere of supreme comfort and service.

  “It is your first visit here?” Leonie asked, seeing her expression.

  “Yes, I’ve never been to Paris before.”

  “Then you must come very often. Justin says you are here for two weeks only. That is a short time to see our city, and on a honeymoon one has little attention for one’s surroundings.”

  Andrea colored and flickered a quick glance at Justin, but he was still discussing their choice of wines with Jacques Bechet and the attentive chef-caviste and had not heard this last remark.

  “In the summer one dines on the terrace outside, and when Notre Dame is floodlit it is a very beautiful sight,” Leonie went on, explaining some of the restaurant’s history. The chef, she said, was a pupil of the great Chatelin who cooked for the last czar of Russia, and the wine cellar was one of the finest in all France, with champagne and liqueurs put down more than one hundred years ago and reserved for only the most favored customers. Andrea had heard about the speciality de la maison, a delectable pressed duck dish, and Jacques explained that every duck was numbered.

  The meal was a lively one and Andrea soon forgot her earlier fear that the Bechets would think it strange for a honeymoon couple to seek company. Jacques obviously adored his wife, and she wondered if theirs was one of the practical partnerships to which Justin had referred on the night of their arrival. But whatever the foundation of their marriage, the Bechets were plainly very happy together.

  Leonie was what the French call une jolie laide, meaning a woman who is really rather plain but who contrives to give an impression of beauty by having great charm and style. In her simply cut dinner dress of stiff midnight-blue silk with a skein of mocha-tinted river pearls at her throat, she epitomized the famous Parisian elegance.

  During the evening Justin suggested that the two women spend the following day shopping together while he and Jacques went to the races at Longchamps, and it was arranged that Leonie would call for Andrea about ten o’clock.

  After dinner they went to the Folies Bergere, and Andrea, who had always disliked revues in London, found herself dazzled by the whole glittering extravaganza.

  Leonie, noticing the rapt childlike attention with which she was watching the tall shapely showgirls in their scanty spangled costumes and towering plumed headdresses, touched Justin’s sleeve and nodded at Andrea’s intent face. He smiled, but Leonie reflected that the smile had not touched his eyes, and she recalled several other seeming trivialities that struck her as being unusual.

  The evening ended at a quiet nightclub and the party broke up at two o’clock in the morning.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” Justin asked as they reached their suite.

  Andrea dropped her stole onto a chair and stretched her arms above her head. The exhilarating effect of the wines they had had was still with her, and. the music at the nightclub lingered in her head.

  “It was a wonderful evening,” she said gratefully. “I like the Bechets very much. It is nice of you to ask Leonie to take me shopping. I must admit I’m longing to explore the shops, but it would be rather boring for you.” She smiled. “I’ll try not to be too extravagant.”

  To her consternation Justin’s face hardened into a mask of coldness.

  “I wouldn’t worry on that score. The facility to be extravagant is one of your advantages under the terms of our agreement,” he said stiffly.

  If he had rounded on her in a fury, he could not have shocked her more deeply. For a moment she stared at him aghast, and then, very pale and wit
h all the sparkle gone from her eyes, she said tightly, “I wasn’t thinking of it like that. It’s time I went to bed. Good night, Justin.” Without waiting for him to reply, she snatched up her wrap and hurried into her room.

  The next morning they exchanged a few terse words and then ate in a constrained silence. In spite of the ruinous end of the previous evening, Andrea had slept heavily. But there were faint shadows under her eyes that she had had to hide with more than her usual makeup.

  She wondered if it was too late to cancel the expedition with Leonie, for she was in no mood to enjoy it with the echo of Justin’s bitter reminder of her reason for marrying him ringing in her ears.

  Why had he chosen that moment to fling her mercenary motives at her? That was the thing she found so hard to understand. Was he already regretting their bargain, or had she said or done something to annoy him so strongly that he had responded in the most brutal way possible? Unconsciously she gave a deep sigh and pushed her half eaten croissant to the far side of her plate. Shortly afterward she excused herself and went to her room to tidy her dressing table.

  She was listlessly buffing her nails when Justin tapped at the door and came in.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly. “What I said last night was quite inexcusable. Do you think you could forget it?”

  It did not occur to her to pay him out by sulking. She was so relieved at the breaking of the chill silence between them that she said at once, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I annoyed you. It was all my fault.”

  He watched her, his face still somber.

  “What a strange young thing you are,” he said. “So determined to get what you want out of life and yet so easy to hurt. Poor child, I may have done you a great disservice in giving you your material objectives.”