We'll Always Have Paris

by Jessica Hart

  ‘I’m sure Clara and Ted don’t want a late night either. They’ll be working too.’

  ‘They’re not the ones in front of the camera,’ said Stella. ‘Tiredness shows up so horribly on film.’ She moved a little closer and lowered her voice flirtatiously. ‘I was thinking we could come back after dinner and have a quiet session together,’ she said. ‘We could get to know each other properly and plan what we’re going to say.’

  ‘Clara’s got that all blocked out, haven’t you, Clara?’

  Without waiting for Clara’s reply, Stella snatched her hand from his arm and flounced off to find Roland. Simon turned to Clara with satisfaction, only to find that she was glaring at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Couldn’t you be a bit nicer to her?’

  Simon was affronted. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s not happy. She only agreed to come on the programme because it meant working with you, and if you keep avoiding her she’s going to be really miffed,’ said Clara worriedly. ‘We can’t afford to lose her. Stella’s got a reputation as a prima donna, and she hates not getting her own way. We don’t want her taking her bat and ball and going home because you won’t play with her!’

  ‘It’s not my fault she can’t get the hint that I’m not interested in her,’ grumbled Simon.

  ‘It’ll be your fault if we can’t make the programme. We really need the two of you, Simon. It’s only until tomorrow.’ Clara looked at him pleadingly. ‘Couldn’t you pretend to be interested in her, or at least not give her the brush-off just yet? You know how much the programme means to MediaOchre. It’s make or break for us.’

  She must have seen the stubbornness in Simon’s expression because she held out her cast and winced.

  Simon rolled his eyes. ‘Isn’t that old cast trick getting old?’

  ‘It’s jolly sore.’ She rapped the knuckles of her good hand on the cast. ‘Ouch.’

  Simon sighed.

  ‘You know, I didn’t think you were the kind of man who would stand by and let the woman who saved your mother’s bag suffer the agony of uncertainty,’ Clara went on, shaking her head in disappointment. ‘I do believe the word “heroine” was bandied around,’ she remembered artlessly, ‘but that obviously doesn’t mean anything to you. If it did, you’d never let me face the collapse of the company and the loss of my job, just because you couldn’t be bothered to be nice to your co-presenter.

  ‘But I can see that’s too much to ask,’ she went on, clearly enjoying herself. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to find another job. Oh, and somewhere else to live, because I certainly won’t be able to pay the rent any more. I won’t be able to go and stay with Ted, because he’ll lose his flat too, so we’ll be wandering the streets together. But we’ll be fine,’ she said bravely. ‘Don’t worry about us.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Simon, goaded. ‘I’ll be nice to Stella.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. But I’m not sleeping with her,’ he warned. ‘My mother’s bag wasn’t worth that much!’

  So he had to sit next to Stella at dinner, and let her monopolise his attention, while Clara, all smiles, had a great time at the other end of the table with the cameraman, Steve, and Peter, the sound guy.

  Restored to good humour by his attention, Stella was fluttering her lashes at him over the rim of her glass. ‘My accountant says I should be investing my money, but what do you think? I’m just so confused by finance.’

  Suppressing a sigh, Simon set his jaw and explained how the markets operated while at the other end of the table Clara threw back her head and laughed at some joke Steve had told, and Ted and Roland were immersed in a long discussion which Simon strongly suspected was intended to leave him at the mercy of Stella.

  Evidently taking his gritty conversation as encouragement, Stella inched her chair closer. She found excuses to touch his thigh, his arm, his knee, and only the memory of Clara’s smile at his promise stopped Simon from edging back into Roland’s lap. Stella was monumentally self-absorbed, he decided. She ignored everyone except Roland, snapped at waiters, and pushed her food away barely touched.

  When at last the meal was over, Stella started dropping hints that the two of them should head back to the hotel alone, but Simon felt he had endured enough by then.

  ‘I said I’d go dancing,’ he said, trying to sound regretful.

  Stella flicked a dismissive glance down the table to where Clara was telling some uproarious story. ‘They’ll just be going to some ghastly club and getting drunk,’ she said. ‘You know what crews are like. They’re halfway there already, I’d say,’ she added contemptuously.

  ‘Someone ought to tell that girl Clara that she can’t carry off those colours,’ she went on, when Simon didn’t respond. ‘Still, I suppose she has to get attention some way. She’s not exactly a stunner, is she?’ Complacent in her own beauty, Stella smoothed her fingers along her clavicle. ‘It’s a shame she ends up looking so vulgar.’

  ‘I think she’s attractive,’ said Simon stiffly, and Stella’s celestial blue eyes sharpened.

  ‘Be careful, darling. You’re quite an innocent in the world of television, I can tell. These production companies are full of girls like Clara who just sleep their way to the top. I’ve seen her eyeing you up.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I’ve got no influence in television.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Stella. ‘I’m quite sure Clara knows just how useful you could be to her. Anyway, she’s having a good time with the crew. They won’t mind if you and I go back to the hotel and get cosy with a little digestif. Wouldn’t you rather do that than go to some noisy club?’

  Simon wasn’t over-enamoured of the club idea, but he would rather cosy up to a crocodile with PMT than be alone with Stella. Mindful of Clara’s instructions, though, he bit back the comment and forced an approximation of a smile. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Stella put her lips close to his ear. ‘Knock on my door when you get back.’

  It was a huge relief when she made Roland take her back to the hotel. As soon as they had gone, the rest of the party relaxed and headed off for the club. ‘Thank you. ‘ Clara smiled at Simon. ‘Stella looked much happier when she left.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about being nice to her,’ said Simon. ‘She got a free financial consultation out of me!’

  ‘And I appreciate it,’ Clara promised him. ‘Now you can relax and enjoy yourself.’

  They were pushing their way into a crowded bar, and they had to raise their voices over the sound of the catchy salsa beat. Clara’s feet were tapping. ‘Come on, let’s dance,’ she said, grabbing his hand unselfconsciously, but Simon dug in his heels at that.

  ‘I don’t dance.’

  Clara stopped and stared at him. ‘Why on earth did you come then?’

  ‘It was a choice between this and a nightcap with Stella, and I’ve been nice enough to her tonight.’

  ‘Well, since you’re here, you ought to try it. Dancing’s good for you.’

  Simon grunted. ‘I fail to see how making a fool of myself on the dance floor could possibly be good for me.’

  ‘It’s about letting go.’

  Exactly the reason he didn’t dance.

  �
�I don’t do letting go either,’ said Simon.

  ‘Well, I’m dancing.’

  Clara disappeared into the crowd, and Simon found a spot to lean against the wall with a lager. It was dark and very hot, and the smell of beer and sweat fought with the throb of music in the darkness. Every surface was sticky as far as Simon could make out. He could feel the clagginess of the floor every time he moved his feet.

  Astrid liked the theatre, or classical music. Simon had gone with her occasionally but usually they went to receptions, to drinks parties or expensive restaurants where it was all very quiet and tasteful, and there were no grinding, gyrating bodies, no pounding music reverberating up through the floor.

  Simon felt as if he had been transported to a different world. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he kept getting glimpses of Clara through the crush on the dance floor. She was impossible to miss with that neon-green cast.

  Not that it seemed to be cramping her style. Her skirt swirled up round her thighs and her arms waved and her body swayed and spun. Simon couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was like a flame, dancing and flickering mesmerizingly in the darkness.

  Sometimes she danced with Ted, sometimes on her own, but sometimes with other men, strangers presumably. Simon watched, scowling, as they put their hands on Clara’s waist, or swung her round them, their hips thrusting suggestively. Why didn’t they just get a room? Simon wondered savagely.

  God, there was another one! His fingers tightened around his glass. Dressed like a gigolo in a vest and obscenely tight jeans, he was undulating around Clara, and she was laughing! Dammit, couldn’t she see the guy was a slime ball, and probably a pervert to boot? She shouldn’t be allowed out on her own.

  The music was just coming to an end, thank God, but Simon saw the slime ball shout something in Clara’s ear, obviously suggesting another dance.

  Simon couldn’t bear it any longer. Smacking down the glass he had been nursing on a nearby table, he stalked onto the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘My turn, I think,’ Simon said, taking her by the arm and giving her admirer such a glare that the man threw up his hands, shrugged and retreated.

  ‘I thought you didn’t dance?’ said Clara, but the music had started again and she had to lean close and shout in his ear.

  ‘I don’t,’ he shouted back. ‘I can hold you, though. Will that do?’

  Without giving her a chance to reply, he put one hand at the small of her back and drew her close, holding her good hand against his chest with his other. Clara stared at him for a moment, then rested the hand with its absurd cast on his shoulder and relaxed into him.

  Simon could feel the warmth of her body through her flimsy top. She was soft and supple, and she swayed in an attempt to dance while he shuffled around a bit, which was the best he could do. He wasn’t going to gyrate in tight trousers and a vest.

  Luckily, the music had slowed, but it was still impossible to talk, and Simon was glad of it. Succumbing to temptation, he rested his cheek against her hair. It felt silky against his skin, and he breathed in the same fresh scent he had noticed earlier that day. There on the crowded floor, with the other dancers jostling around them and the music making the floor vibrate, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Simon felt himself relax.

  Which was odd because there was nothing restful about Clara. She was all warmth and movement and challenge, and he liked coolness and calmness and control. That was what had always attracted him to Astrid.

  Simon frowned slightly against Clara’s hair. It worried him that he had been in Paris less than twenty-four hours and already he was having trouble picturing Astrid clearly. All he remembered was an impression of serenity and contentment. It was always easy to be with Astrid. She never made him walk in the rain or dance in dark, noisy clubs.

  So he should be thinking about getting Astrid back, not about how warm and soft Clara was. It was Astrid he really wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  * * *

  Clara shut the hotel room door and leant back against it, letting out a long breath as she closed her eyes. Her heart was still thudding from that last dance with Simon.

  By unspoken agreement, they had left when it had ended. Ted, Steve and Peter were ready to move on to another bar, but Clara and Simon had come back to the hotel. There had been silence in the taxi but Clara’s body was thrumming with awareness, and her pulse was roaring in her ears so loudly that she was sure Simon must be able to hear it.

  He must know that her senses were still jerking, that her back felt as if the imprint of his palm were seared onto it, that her fingers tingled where he had held her. It had been so, so tempting to lean closer, to let her hand slide a little higher up onto his shoulder. She tried not to, but how could she help remembering how easily they had kissed before? If they had turned their faces just a little way, they could have kissed again, but Simon kept his cheek against her hair, and she kept staring at his collar.

  Which was just as well.

  Because what a mistake that would have been. Simon didn’t need another groupie, fantasising about that lean, angular body and that cool, cool mouth. Clara couldn’t understand how she had missed the appeal of it before. Now she couldn’t think about anything else.

  But that was pointless. For a start, it was deeply unprofessional to lust after the talent, quite apart from the fact that she would be treading on Stella’s toes and possibly putting the whole programme at risk.

  Hadn’t she vowed to focus on her career? It wasn’t long since she had been desperate about Matt, Clara reminded herself. She had had enough of longing for someone who was hopelessly out of reach. She was tired of being liked, but not quite enough to be more than second best.

  Simon had been very clear. He needed Astrid, just as Matt had needed Sophie. I don’t want anyone else, Simon had said.

  He might have held her close on the dance floor, but he didn’t want any more than that. Why else would he have simply wished her a cool goodnight in the lift?

  Deliberately, Clara made herself remember those terrible weeks after Matt had left. The jagged pain in her heart, the aching loneliness. The bitter realisation that all she could do was put one foot in front of another and trudge on without him.

  She had survived. More than survived. Brick by brick, joke by joke, she had built up a defensive barrier of gaiety around her heart and it had served her well. She wasn’t going to let it crumble now, not for a man who was clearly interested in another woman, no matter how good it felt when he held her.

  No matter how well he kissed.

  Sighing, Clara pushed herself away from the door. She was very tired, almost too tired to enjoy this lovely room. The bed was wide, inviting, with crisp white linen. It was a shame not to have someone to share it with, and her mind flickered treacherously to Simon, who was making do in the basic room that had been hers, Simon, on whom the romance of this room would have been quite wasted.

  Clara stepped out onto the balcony. It had stopped raining while they were in the club, but the roads were still wet. She could hear tyres swishing on the tarmac, and the occasional horn. Laughter and music spilled out of a bar down the street, and the air shimmered with the pulse of the city.

  Hugging
her arms together, Clara looked down onto the courtyard, where the cobbles gleamed in the yellow light that spilled out of the lobby windows. It was perfect, just like the room behind her was perfect, and she sighed again, depressed and lonely and aware that, for the first time in years, it wasn’t Matt she most wished for.

  But there was no point in wishing for Simon. He wouldn’t appreciate this anyway. He had no idea about romance. Matt would have done, if he’d been here, but Simon would tell her she would catch her death, and for God’s sake come in and close the window.

  He wouldn’t draw her down onto those white sheets and make love to her all night. He would remind her that they had to get up early next morning and make sure that she had set the alarm.

  Clara crawled into the bed. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She lay luxuriating in the soft sheets and trying not to feel lonely. Trying not to think about that kiss or how it had felt dancing with Simon—if you could call it dancing! The man had no sense of rhythm.

  It had been like trying to dance with a block of wood, Clara thought, encouraging the train of thought. So what if he had strong hands and a solid body and a mouth that made the air leak out of her lungs? She could never fall for a man who couldn’t dance.

  Never.

  She had just drifted off to sleep when there was a tap at the door. She rolled over with a groan and pulled the pillow over her head, but the tap came again. If Ted had lost his room key again, she was officially going to demote him from best friend to most annoying colleague imaginable.

  Blearily, Clara rolled out of bed and grabbed the throw to cover her nakedness. Ted was a good friend, but not that good. She was still wrapping it round her when she opened the door in mid yawn.

  ‘This had better—’

  She broke off. Stella stood there, dressed in a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination, her hand raised to knock once more.