Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Chapter 8

Sacha was staring at her as though she’d said she wanted to join him on Santa’s sleigh, dressed in green with a pointy red hat. Although, now she thought about it, seeing him dressed up as an elf sounded fun, especially if it was a tight-fitting costume. Maybe he’d be a naughty Christmas elf with no shirt. That worked.

But the mental image wasn’t helping her determine why he was gawking at her. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering barely a second before he wrenched it back up again, she remembered what she’d just said.

‘I don’t mean really!’ Ren rushed to explain.

‘What do you mean? “Really”?’

‘I mean pretend. I mean I… that is, if you don’t mind – if you don’t have any plans. I need you to pretend to be my… like a boyfriend, just for afternoon tea.’

‘Pretend? What do you mean “like a boyfriend”? I don’t understand. Perhaps it’s my English.’

A blush bloomed on her cheeks. ‘It’s not your English,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s a long story and I don’t have much time,’ she said. ‘Will you come with me for now and hear me out?’

‘Uhm… sure,’ he said with a little tip of his head. ‘I assume,’ he said, once they’d rounded the landing of the first flight of marble stairs, ‘that it has something to do with this?’ He held out her engagement ring.

She took the ring, flinging it carelessly into her handbag. She nodded in response, but she couldn’t work out where to start without making herself sound like the spoilt idiot she was.

‘I’m sorry about Friday,’ she said. ‘It was the shock. You know I’m… really already over the break-up. It happened more than six months ago, now. You read about that too, did you? I knew about his girlfriend and it was my idea to keep it a secret. I don’t know why I cracked up.’ His expression was wary. ‘Truly,’ she insisted. ‘That’s what I have to convince my grandmother. She’s on her way to Paris, to make me go back and fix everything.’

‘You don’t want to go back to your family? For support?’

Support? Her grandmother’s attempt at sympathy would probably be a mortified pat on the shoulder. She allowed herself to imagine for a moment that Grandmama was a hugger and… nope. She couldn’t.

‘My grandmother is…’ She snapped her mouth shut. How could she succinctly describe the force of nature that was Grandmama and the symbiotic relationship she had with Asquith-Lewis? ‘You’ll see, anyway. If you agree to help, that is. She doesn’t do… feelings and if she thinks I’m struggling, she’ll take charge of everything and make it worse. But… I also can’t go back to face all the media attention just yet.’ Ren swallowed. She needed another lifetime. ‘And the best way to convince her to leave me alone right now is…’ She gestured wildly between the two of them.

‘To tell her you’re sleeping with me?’

She stopped so suddenly that he ran into her and tripped. If she hadn’t grabbed handfuls of his thick pullover, he would have found himself sprawled at the bottom of the steps. Sacha righted himself against the polished wood banister, tugging on his collar.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured.

‘Somehow I’m not sure I deserve your thanks.’

‘I surprised you,’ he said. ‘Was that not the purpose of your request? Did I misunderstand?’

‘I… wouldn’t have put it so baldly, but you didn’t misunderstand. Yes. You would be doing me a favour if you would pretend that we are having a… steamy rebound affair.’ She rubbed her suddenly clammy hands down her twill trousers.

‘A steamy—’

‘Yes, that,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘I mean, not completely without feelings. It has to be believable.’

He made a choking noise. ‘That might be a problem. Who would believe I’m your… lover?’

‘It won’t take much,’ she assured him. ‘I was never demonstrative with Charlie, so I’m not expecting you to ravish me in front of my own grandmother.’ Her words petered out when she caught the alarm in his expression.

‘I didn’t mean… Ren, I’m happy to help you, but perhaps you should think again. You said it yourself: I’m the last man in Paris. This idea is doomed from the start.’

doomed With a gulp, she dismissed the latter phrases and focused on the former. She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘Thank you. I appreciate you… your help – so much. I’ve got it all worked out. You don’t have to pretend to be an appropriate boyfriend. An inappropriate one is even better.’

‘An inappropriate… wait, they won’t let me in looking like this!’ He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

‘Oh, don’t worry about your outfit,’ she said. ‘No one will say anything if you’re with me.’

It was lucky Nadia didn’t know where he was. Although, Sacha thought to himself as they descended the stairs back to the ground floor, she would probably think it was hilarious. He almost wished he could send Raphaël a picture of himself on the grand staircase of the Ritz with Irena Asquith-Lewis on his arm.

It had taken two hours and three different employees to get her ready, during which time he’d twiddled his thumbs and stared at the gilt mirrors and antique clock in her room. He looked like a ruffian, but partly because she truly looked like a queen now. She was barely recognisable as the woman who’d got her knees dirty giving him first aid.

She wore a silk dress and a slightly ridiculous tweed cardigan that knotted at her throat. A pair of emeralds surrounded by diamonds winked in her ears. Their reflection in the numerous gold mirrors made him uneasy, as though someone would take him discreetly aside and escort him out for bothering an esteemed guest.

As they approached the doorway to the salon, he ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it. ‘Here,’ she said, tucking it behind his ear with cool fingers. There was so much wrong with this moment, but, as he studied her face, trying to find the woman beneath the make-up, all he could think of was that he should have kissed her on Friday, before it all got so complicated.

‘You have a very deep line, right here,’ she said lightly, gesturing to her own forehead.

‘I have a very bad feeling, right here.’ He tapped his chest.

‘How do the French get rid of bad feelings? Toss herbes de Provence over your right shoulder?’ He could only respond with a flummoxed laugh.

He turned to the mirror, nudging her shoulder as they regarded their reflection as a fake couple. ‘Do we pass?’

‘We fail… miserably,’ she said, ‘but we look good doing it.’

‘

look good. I look inappropriate, as requested.’

‘I like inappropriate,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is it okay if we hold hands?’

‘I think we must.’

She wiped her hand on her cardigan and thrust it at him. He grasped it, hesitating a moment before threading his fingers through hers. She swallowed, staring at their hands. At least they were both nervous.

‘Sorry. We shouldn’t need to display any more affection than this.’

‘T’inquiète – don’t worry. I don’t mind holding your hand.’

The maître d’ approached as soon as they stepped into the opulent salon. His disdain for Sacha was evident, as was his distaste as he took Sacha’s worn coat and threadbare rucksack, but he greeted Ren by name and led them through the tables.

Sacha tried to play it cool, but it was difficult when he was suddenly transported to the turn of the previous century, surrounded by wood panelling, gold edging and an imposing marble fireplace. Gold beads and baubles the colour of a fine Bordeaux were arranged artfully on the mantlepiece. But what truly struck him dumb and made him drop Ren’s hand to look were the bookcases, built into the arches and enclosed in glass. Every tome was leather-bound, many first editions – fiction in French, poetry in English, philosophy in German and classics in Italian.

He caught sight of the portrait of Marcel Proust, hung in pride of place above the fireplace and wearing sprigs of holly for the season. ‘The Salon Proust,’ he murmured with a huff of disbelief. ‘Papa would have loved this. So many books.’

‘Hmm?’

‘This room, it’s named after the French author who wrote about the lives of the beau monde at the time the hotel opened. Can you imagine it? The wealthy families patronising the artists and writers, marrying off their children and suffering in their own unhappy marriages while celebrating wealth and progress. And outside the Ritz, the real world. Proust described the lives of the rich and educated, but most of France was poor – and not welcome in the dining rooms of the Ritz.’

He snapped his mouth shut when he noticed her gaping at him.

‘I’m not sure my grandmother would appreciate that. What did your father do?’

‘He was a taxi driver.’ It was a simple description for a complex man, but he doubted Ren wanted the long story.

‘And he loved books,’ she repeated softly. Sacha stared at her, searching for a trace of derision, waiting for her to dismiss the memory of his father, but she simply took his hand and squeezed.

‘Mrs Asquith-Lewis is here, now,’ the maître d’ informed them, and Ren’s smile vanished. Her other hand closed around the sleeve of his pullover. There was a light floral scent in her hair that made him take note of the spicy-sweet smell of the hotel. Her nerves troubled him. It was all a touch overwhelming.

‘Don’t leave me alone with her,’ she said under her breath.

‘I won’t go anywhere.’

‘There you are, darling!’ A tall woman, spindly and rigid like a piece of wire, approached. She wore a loose-fitting beige outfit with flowing lines and perfect folds and her knuckles winked with several rings. She looked agelessly chic, but also older than he’d imagined. She must be approaching eighty, if she wasn’t already there.

Sacha loosened his fingers, but Ren held tight, not letting go even when her grandmother placed a kiss on her cheek and clasped her shoulders. Sacha had to shake Ren off forcibly to hold out his hand to her grandmother.

‘Madame Asquith-Lewis,’ he said. He felt Ren’s gaze and glanced down to find her staring at his wrist, where his tattoo peeked out.

‘This is my grandmother, Livia,’ she said. ‘Grandmama, this is my boyfriend, Sacha.’

‘Sacha,’ the woman repeated, her tone flat.

‘Sacha Mourad,’ he introduced himself more formally. Would Madame Asquith-Lewis – there was no way Sacha would call her ‘Livia’ – notice what he suspected Ren hadn’t? Would she recognise the Arabic surname and make assumptions about his humble origins – assumptions that wouldn’t be far from the truth?

‘And… Ziggy?’ Ren was pale as she submitted to a hug from another woman who appeared at her grandmother’s side. ‘Ziggy is the chief strategy adviser for Asquith-Lewis,’ she explained, not that it was clear to Sacha what that meant.

‘How lovely to meet you, Sacha,’ Ziggy said in a tone that made it clear she meant the opposite. ‘We have planning to do to get us out of this pickle,’ she said to Ren, and Sacha had the distinct impression he’d just been included in whatever she meant by a ‘pickle’.

‘Enchanté, Madame… Ziggy,’ he said.

‘Very… French, isn’t he?’ Ziggy commented across him.

‘His English is very good,’ Ren insisted.

‘I wasn’t sure if you’d bring your… Mr Mourad to afternoon tea,’ Livia said gruffly. Oui, she had probably guessed that Sacha was a mixed-race kid from an apartment tower in the neuf trois, the notorious Paris suburbs. It was usually something he took pride in, especially at work, but he didn’t think he’d do Ren any favours by drawing attention to it right now.

Sacha hesitated to plonk his backside on one of the upholstered museum pieces that passed for chairs in the Salon Proust, but Ren grasped his hand and tugged him down next to her on the gold velvet sofa.

A waiter immediately poured champagne, as though he could sense the misery at their table. Ren took a long sip that reminded him of the margarita on Friday night. He squeezed her hand under the table and she squeezed back twice.

‘Un café, s’il vous plait,’ he murmured to the waiter. He suspected he was going to need it.