Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Chapter 10

Ren needed something to hold onto. What she’d intended to be a quick smack of lips to drive her point home to her grandmother had turned into the most divine kiss of her life. It was firm, but gentle, and with his lips slightly parted, his mouth fit hers in a way that scrubbed every thought from her mind.

The Ren of two days ago would have pushed him away in shock – if she’d ever found herself kissing a relative stranger. But today’s Ren, developing a thirst for chaos, returned the kiss, opening her lips against his. He was the one to draw away, sucking in an enormous breath.

She stifled a smile, watching him turn pink and rub his hand over his mouth. He was perfectly sweet.

‘Sorry,’ she mouthed just before her grandmother cleared her throat loudly from where she was standing by her chair.

‘Are we intruding?’

‘Non, madame,’ Sacha said, his voice gravelly. Ren would never have guessed that an inappropriate boyfriend was just what she needed.

‘Grandmama, no matter what you say, I’m not coming back to London yet.’ Yes, finally she’d actually said it straight!

‘Because of ?’

‘Yes.’ She wasn’t quite lying.

‘Darling,’ her grandmother said, and Ren steeled herself. ‘You were still engaged only a few days ago. You’re grieving.’

‘I haven’t been engaged for six months. You can’t expect I’d just… tread water, hanging onto Charlie all that time?’ Ren knew she might be lying, now, but there was too much at stake to admit it, even to herself. ‘I knew he’d moved on. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘I expected you to come to me when the problem first arose! You don’t fold at the first challenge. An Asquith-Lewis stays and fights!’ Which was exactly why Ren sometimes had trouble believing she really was an Asquith-Lewis.

‘What do you think I should have fought for?’ God knew Charlie wasn’t worth it.

‘We had the contracts for the merger drawn up, hundreds of hours of discussions with the lawyers, and Charlie had no intention of honouring it? Honouring you?’

‘This isn’t about the merger.’

‘Two family firms with a lot of history don’t just merge without some kind of insurance.’

So much for a grand romance. ‘What about feelings? What about love?’ Ren choked on the word.

‘You and Charlie were together for years. You wouldn’t have got this far if you didn’t love each other. He’ll take you back, if he knows what’s good for him. You’re meant for each other, Ren. You’ve known that since you were teenagers.’

Ren’s stomach turned and she almost regretted eating the biscuit. How could Grandmama on the one hand suggest her relationship had been about the business and then claim they were meant for each other? But what more had she expected? For Grandmama, ‘destiny’ and ‘business’ were practically the same thing.

Ren knew she had a duty to her family, to the business that was more precarious than anyone realised, but she just wanted some time to recover without anyone watching. She wanted more time in Paris.

She had no phone, no social media logins. This was the perfect opportunity to run away and hide – just this once. Grandmama couldn’t be any more disappointed in her than she already was. Where was the harm?

Ren took Sacha’s hand, pushing away the guilt for dragging him into this. She slowly linked her fingers with his. ‘“Meant for each other” is supposed to describe a great love that is destined to be,’ she said. ‘That’s not what I had with Charlie.’

‘You think you’ve found love with …?’ Livia waved her hand at Sacha, unable to find a word or simply too British to insult him to his face.

Ren reached for him protectively. ‘I’m willing to take the chance.’

‘I will not approve of this. I can’t sit back and let you get hurt!’

‘You can’t protect me from everything!’ she exclaimed, realising a moment too late that her comment was like poking the beast. Even a hint of a reminder of what had happened twenty years ago was enough to bring out the dragon.

‘You are my granddaughter and I will protect you from that threatens you!’ Ren gritted her teeth. Livia’s statement might have had more power a week ago, but that day she could only think, with some bitterness, that Livia had never been able to protect her from the things that hurt her most. ‘Come back home and forget all this nonsense.’

‘I’m staying,’ Ren insisted.

Ziggy placed a hand on Grandmama’s arm and she calmed immediately. ‘If Ren is truly set on this, we can only…

her.’

‘I will not—’

‘We will all be in Val d’Isère for the ski weekend with the investors in two weeks,’ Ziggy continued, ignoring Livia’s outburst. ‘I’m sure by then this will all…

and Ren will be by side again to entertain the investors at the chalet. Two weeks in Paris will be a relaxing holiday for her to rediscover her place in the world.’

Ziggy’s support surprised Ren, but she wasn’t going to question it, despite the uneasiness that crept up her spine at the purposeful emphasis in those sentences. ‘I don’t want to spoil your afternoon tea, so Sacha and I will go,’ she said hurriedly, wanting to leave before her free pass was revoked. ‘I’ll see you in Val d’Isère.’

‘Wait!’ Ziggy said. ‘Where’s your phone?’

‘It broke. I threw it in the bin.’

‘That’s fortuitous. If you’re going to walk away from your family for two weeks,’ she continued, her tone sending shivers down Ren’s spine, ‘then no social media. No media of any kind. No photos. No paparazzi. No one knows about… him. Is that agreed?’

Ziggy had no idea her words were received by Ren as a blissful get-out-of-jail-free card, although she hadn’t realised granting her wish could sound like a veiled threat. ‘All right.’

Her hand was horribly damp, but Sacha hung on regardless. He was a saint for what she’d put him through – and she’d better get him out of there before he became a headless one at her grandmother’s hands.

‘You know this is a mistake,’ Livia declared as they rose from the table.

‘Yes,’ she agreed – another sliver of truth in this farce. ‘Mistake, opportunity – it’s difficult to tell the difference until you’ve made them.’

It was only when she’d stumbled out from under the awning and onto the pavement of the Place Vendôme that Ren breathed again. She managed to take a few steps away, so the doorman wouldn’t pay too much attention, before doubling over, propping herself up against her knees and trying not to suck too much frigid air into her lungs all at once.

‘Oula,’ she heard Sacha’s voice somewhere close, ‘tu vas être malade? You’re not going to vomit?’

His words made her laugh – a loud laugh from deep in her stomach that echoed around the elegant square. The darkness of evening had fallen and the mist of a light rain brought a hush to the stone buildings and slate roofs, enhanced by the cobweb of warm fairy lights above and the two solemn Christmas trees.

A sense of freedom swept through her, with the prick of goose bumps on her skin. Her cardigan didn’t provide much protection from the cold, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel each molecule of damp Paris air. If this was how it felt to embrace mistakes, to run into the unknown, then she should have done it a long time ago.

Ren hauled herself upright and leaned a hand on Sacha’s shoulder. ‘After everything I’ve put you through, I really hope I don’t vomit as well,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you’re calling me “tu”, now.’

He coughed, regarding her with a reluctant smile. ‘I think we’re a bit past “vous”. And vomiting would be a waste of a very fine biscuit.’

‘That biscuit divine!’ she said, whirling on her heels. She’d barely had one glass of champagne, but she was drunk on relief. ‘I’m sorry I kissed you.’

‘You didn’t,’ he insisted.

‘What? Were we in the same reality? Have you forgotten the lip-locking that totally sealed the deal for my grandmother – or for Ziggy, at least?’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said. He bit his lip – it was for less than a second, but it gave Ren a tingle of something very pleasant over her skin. ‘But kissed .’

‘Ah, semantics,’ she said with a dismissive wave.

His frown was particularly deep. ‘It’s not semantics. Semantics is about the relative meaning of words. You mean interpretation.’

‘Ah, ,’ she repeated with another wave and a smile. His lips twitched and she wasn’t sure what she wanted more: for him to smile fully or to say more of those long sentences in his charming accent. ‘Whatever it was, I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable. It wasn’t agreed and I just panicked.’

‘C’est bon. Kissing was not a problem,’ he said. ‘Now I have met your grandmother…’ He couldn’t find the words and finished his sentence with a shrug. ‘I played my part willingly.

were magnificent.’

‘I !’ she giggled, stepping across the road and doing another twirl under a chandelier made of fairy lights. Sacha raced after her and caught her when she tripped. ‘Stupid heels,’ mumbled Ren. ‘Why do women have to wear heels anyway?’

‘They don’t have to.’

‘You’re right. Perhaps I’ll decide to never wear them again. I wouldn’t want to part with my Chanel boots, but four-inch heels can fuck off!’ The ‘f’ passing her lips with emphasis gave her immense satisfaction.

An icy gust blew through the empty square, and she shivered. A moment later, a familiar fleece-lined leather coat was placed onto her shoulders.

‘You need it more than me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking another peek at that gorgeous face. Then she opened her mouth without premeditation. ‘Let’s get out of here! There’s so much of Paris I want to see.’

‘And I have seen enough of the Hôtel Ritz.’

‘So, take me somewhere. Take me… to the Sacré-Cœur! I’ve never been there and I’m suddenly dying to go.’

‘Now? Are you… serious?’

‘Why? Is it unsafe at night?’

Sacha huffed at her in a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘No, it’s safe – well, usually, for normal people who aren’t wearing diamonds and evening dresses.’

She tugged out her earrings and stuffed them into her purse. ‘This isn’t an evening dress. It’s a cocktail dress, so we’re good to go.’ She grabbed his hand and tugged him into motion, only to stop a moment later, realising she had no idea where she was going.

‘Don’t you have to call your driver?’

‘I thought you were going to take me?’ She realised he hadn’t actually agreed, but she didn’t want to give him the chance to turn her down.

‘You know I don’t have a car.’

‘How did you get here, then? Are we taking the métro?’

‘Why are you so excited about the métro?’

‘I’ve never taken it before!’

‘It doesn’t taste as good as a margarita.’

‘I wasn’t planning to lick it.’

He coughed again. ‘Well, if you insist I must take you…’

‘I absolutely insist,’ she said.

‘Alors,’ he said, ‘this way.’

She followed him to the north end of the square in the light of the wrought-iron lamp posts with three lanterns each. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jeans, probably against the cold, and she tucked her hand into one elbow, making him glance at her doubtfully.

As they walked quickly north, Sacha jerked his head in the direction of a bicycle chained to a traffic sign. ‘That’s how I got here.’

‘You got it fixed!’

He nodded. ‘Don’t offer me money.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I know about your fierce pride, now.’ She studied the bike as they walked past. ‘You could take me on the frame.’ She could wrap her arms around him and let him pedal her through the night. It wasn’t quite a magic carpet, but it would do.

But he snorted in response. ‘I’m not cycling up the butte Montmartre with you on the back.’

‘Are you saying I’m heavy?’

He turned to her with a sharp look that made her stand up straight. It reminded her of something – or someone – but she couldn’t place who or what. ‘Are you worried about your weight? Because you shouldn’t be. I can’t believe that woman told you not to eat the biscuits of a famous French pâtissier!’

‘I thought you were defending me, when you were merely offended on the part of some French pâtissier.’

‘I defending you!’ he insisted. The pâtissier could have concocted a masterpiece from her warm, gloopy, sugary feelings.

She gave him a cheeky smile. ‘“That woman” remembers when I was a chubby teenager with an aversion to the gym. Honestly, I think I would hate myself more if I was on social media every day with even bigger thighs.’

‘Bordel de merde, can you hear what you say?’

‘Why do you care so much?’

‘I… this attitude causes problems – for others as well.’ Her steps slowed as his words struck her. ‘I see it in my work.’

‘You haven’t said what your work is yet.’

‘No.’

She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. ‘Are you a… doctor?’

‘No, but good effort.’

‘I might have been born wealthy, but I do know not to judge a book by its cover. Do you say that in French?’

‘We say the dress doesn’t make the monk. But I like the English better. Any other guesses?’

‘You’re going to make me guess your job?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then, lawyer? Lawyers know about semantics and interpretation.’

‘No.’

‘Hermit?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You’ve grown rather monosyllabic, so I thought you might be a recovering hermit.’

‘Ah, you mean ermite.’ He didn’t dignify her joke with a laugh. ‘No. I don’t think that would pay my rent. Some of us require a salary.’

‘Ha. I earn a salary. But, to be honest, I’d rather like to be a hermit, if it means I don’t have to face my grandmother ever again.’

The sidelong look he gave her, out from behind thick lashes, held an unexpected spark of amusement. ‘I’m not sure you’d be a good hermit. And I mean that like a compliment.’

They arrived at the Place de l’Opéra and Ren paused, pulling Sacha to a stop. ‘Look,’ she said. Her breath caught at the play of light projected onto the stone buildings on the square. The stately façades glowed red and blue, Christmas lights twinkled gold while the shadows of the wrought-iron balconies traced their own lines. Watching over the glimmering square was the Palais Garnier itself, the grand Paris opera house, imposing and ornate with sculpted figures and grand arches and touches of gold.

‘If you want to go to the opera, you can go without me.’

‘I don’t want to go to the opera,’ she said, nudging him with her shoulder. ‘I’m looking at the lights. They’re beautiful.’

He looked as though he was going to contradict her at first, as he studied the lights critically, but then his expression softened and he inclined his head. ‘Très beau,’ he agreed quietly.

She stared at him, his words echoing in her mind. She had enough poor French to understand that he’d said, ‘Very beautiful,’ and she had enough hope to imagine that instead, he might have looked at her and said, ‘Très belle,’ not meaning the lights at all.

It was such a romantic cliché and she knew she’d watched too many films with happy endings. But she couldn’t help peering at him and thinking the words, ‘Très beau,’ so fiercely she was concerned he would hear them.

‘Is something wrong? You look…’ His gesture to his own face wasn’t flattering. Ren got the message. Pining wasn’t a good look.

‘I’m fine. Let’s go!’

He ushered her along the pedestrian crossing and down the stairs to the métro, with a grand view of the Palais Garnier in front. Underground, the lighting was suddenly harsh and the tiled walls and concrete made the station feel like the entrance to a giant underground public toilet.

Ignoring the décor – or lack of it – she followed the stream of passengers to the barriers, where she was quickly defeated by the LED crosses and arrows and the strange silver turnstiles.

‘You need a ticket!’ Sacha called out.

‘I know I need a ticket. I’m not entirely stupid. Where do I put the money?’

He managed to look fiercely disapproving and reluctantly amused at the same time. ‘You’re not stupid at all. I just… have you taken the London Underground? It’s similar, except that this is Paris, so we never quite managed to get rid of the paper tickets.’

‘Of course I haven’t taken the Underground!’ she said with mock horror. ‘Can you imagine what Ziggy would say if I tried?’

He released a long breath. ‘D’accord. This way to the ticket machines.’

‘Are you a bus driver?’ she asked abruptly.

He smiled, flashing his slightly crooked teeth and crinkling up the corners of his eyes. ‘Non,’ he said. ‘Why would a bus driver care about his passengers’ body image?’

‘Well, would be a caring bus driver,’ she said with a shrug.