Weekend in Paris

by Robyn Sisman

  She sighed. The man in the sweatshirt glanced up. His expression was friendly, interested, even admiring—or did the drawing show through the paper? Blushing, Molly rolled it tight, fitted the rubber bands back on and put it away. But her heart was singing. Whatever his failings, Fabrice had not been cynical: the proof was here. More than that, he had given her a new way of looking at herself: not plump, but desirable; not shy, but confident; not protected and repressed; certainly not priggish. Boldly, Molly looked over at Mr. Sweatshirt, as if to test her new self. He smiled.

  It occurred to her that she might have smudged mascara under her eyes—or a mustache of hot chocolate. Apologizing to the Japanese lady once again, she squirmed her way out of her seat and walked through to the loo to check. Oh dear. She took out her makeup bag.

  Fabrice was probably at this very moment sitting in a noisy café, fondling some thin, perfect French girl while he dismissed rumors of a mysterious Anglaise who had been seen with him over the weekend. (“Mais écoute, Gabrielle . . .”) There was a catch in her throat, halfway between a sob and a giggle. He was gorgeous—unpredictable, unreliable, absurd, melodramatic—but gorgeous. She would never forget him.

  When she had brushed the shine back into her hair, touched up her eyes and rubbed some color into her cheeks and lips, she lingered at the mirror. No disguises anymore—no gold skirt, no black wig, no red dress. She knew who she was. Now she would be herself.

  As she unlocked the door, the speaker system crackled into life and a voice announced that the train would shortly be entering the tunnel. Molly turned to look out of the window, but there was nothing to see except darkness. For a moment she felt a wrench of loss, thinking of all she had experienced and discovered in Paris, and everything it had meant to her: beauty, joy, enchantment, liberation, a sense of possibility that fizzed the blood.

  Then her head seemed to fill with dazzling light, as if she was once again standing on Armand’s balcony on the Île St-Louis, with the sun sparkling on the river below. How foolish she was! These things could not be taken away. They were in her heart. Wherever she went, whatever she did, she would take Paris with her.

  She pushed at the handle of the door to her coach. It slid back with a hiss. The guy in the sweatshirt looked up. He had put down his book. Gazing serenely over his head, Molly stepped forward into her new future.

  Acknowledgments

  My first thanks must go to Amanda Craig for suggesting the idea for this book: a characteristically generous gesture from someone who is herself a writer, and a loyal and valued friend.

  Thanks, too, to Caroline, Eveline and Sylvie for a memorable evening in Montmartre; to Robert Parker for giving me a glimpse into “real” Paris; and especially Doug and Claudie for their opulent Franco-American hospitality.

  A big cheer for the wonderful Ozzie girls who’ve sparked up the Sisman household (and enriched our vocabularies) over the last decade or so: Annabelle, Kelly, Jane, Georgie, Jo and Leah. None of them bears any resemblance to the fictional Alicia in this story, except in their boundless good humor and appetite for fun.

  Liz Rigbey gave me brilliant advice when I needed it most. George Misiewicz explained the arcane rituals of medical conferences. Jonathan Lloyd, my agent, is like the Rock of Gibraltar, only lots more fun. Louise Moore continues to be a paragon among publishers.

  My greatest debt is, as always, to my husband Adam, without whose encouragement, criticism, inspiration and unflagging practical support I’d still be chewing my pencil over Chapter One.