After Paris, page 1
After
Paris
ALSO BY NICOLE KENNEDY
Everything’s Perfect
After
Paris
NICOLE KENNEDY
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Nicole Kennedy, 2022
The moral right of Nicole Kennedy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781800240162
ISBN (XTPB): 9781800240179
ISBN (E): 9781800240193
Cover design: Helen Crawford-White
Head of Zeus Ltd
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For Cara, Jemma and Katie
Contents
Also by Nicole Kennedy
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
Hôtel de Crillon, Paris, 1999
‘She’s disappeared!’ Teddy huffed, and Alice arranged her mouth into a smirk. Unease had restructured his already exquisite features, rendering his face pensive and brooding; his cerulean eyes glazed sulkily, his full berry lips pouting. It was so unfair that he looked so good, all the time, even now as his distress escalated. She didn’t fancy Teddy – Lordy, he was practically her brother – but she could appreciate fine art when she saw it and Teddy Astor, with his fine-boned nose and sharp-lined cheekbones, was a subject worthy of the Old Masters. Pity he was such a pain.
‘I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s hardly going to miss le Bal,’ Alice replied, a yawn in her voice, as though Teddy’s problems were just so tedious to her and there wasn’t a delicious justice in him being stood up at the society function of the year. Chunky, he’d called her. Chunky. And she hadn’t forgotten it.
‘She might. She’s French,’ he said, as if that explained everything.
Around them the lobby bustled with activity – women dripping with pearls, the press dripping with long-lens cameras. ‘There must be someone high profile here,’ Alice observed. The list of debutantes was always a closely guarded secret, adding to the mystery and glamour of the event. Teddy ran a hand through his hair nervously and the effect was so enthralling Alice had to look away. She was fortunate she was impervious to his charms. ‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’
‘Avoiding your mother,’ he answered, sombre. He signalled to the barman for a drink, a gesture that seemed to transform him from a boy to a man. When had he started doing that? Alice put a hand on his arm.
‘Well, I can’t argue with that, but there’s no time for a drink. Come on, let’s get this over with.’
‘This is all your fault, you know. Why couldn’t you have debuted in London like everyone else? Always got to be different, haven’t you?’ He looked skyward, as if praying for something. Divine intervention from tonight, perhaps.
Alice had been asking herself the same thing. She’d liked the idea of being more anonymous in Paris, of not feeling like she was being sized up against her contemporaries when she’d spent her whole life doing that herself. And of course Mummy was thrilled with the suggestion, immediately tapping into her extensive network of influential friends to secure her, and Teddy, an invitation – but rather than making her feel less visible, as she’d hoped, the new surroundings were having the opposite effect. At least she knew where she was in London. At least she could chatter her way around the room, outrunning her nervousness, and duck off somewhere with Lulu and talk about how unflattering her pale lilac-blue lace dress was and yes, Lulu often made her feel a hundred times worse, but at least the whole scene would be familiar. She wouldn’t feel the rising sense of being adrift that she was experiencing here.
‘She’s wearing yellow, apparently. The Frenchie. Nina Laurent. So she shouldn’t be too hard to spot.’ His mouth formed a line of distaste, as though he’d eaten something sour. Alice didn’t answer but obviously she hoped Nina Laurent was a total bitch and ugly to boot. Her mother’s wish had been for Teddy to be her cavalier, but Alice had prayed for the formidable Madame Chapelle, le Bal’s imperious organiser, to allocate her someone else and her prayers had been answered, in the form of a tall, fair, serious-looking Swiss count. ‘Sounds delightful, doesn’t she?’
Alice shrugged.
‘I met the count earlier,’ he added, in a teasing tone and with a look on his face which said: lucky you. She rolled her eyes. She’d already had her fill of jokes from her father, whose only contribution to this evening, beyond attending as a lord himself, had been a steady stream of puns: I bet you’re counting down the days! You can count on it!
Their attention shifted as another debutante crossed the lobby. Alice looked around furtively, nervous of reproach from Madame Chapelle if they were spotted. The debutantes weren’t supposed to be out here, they were meant to be tucked away, hidden like precious jewels about to go up for auction, but every now and then a gem escaped, gliding across the lobby to speak to a parent or whisper something to a sibling. Alice wished she had a sister here to talk to. Not Teddy, whom her mother had taken under her wing when his parents died ten years earlier.
Alice watched Teddy’s eyes follow the young woman. She was wearing a long pale-pink gown that snagged on her hip bones, a tiara atop her blonde hair, which fell in glossy curls around her shoulders. Lordy, how Alice wished something would snag on her hip bones. Most of the debutantes looked like supermodels and Alice cursed herself again. You can’t disappear in a place like this. As Teddy’s eyes tracked the girl in pale pink around the room, Alice felt a deep ache tugging in her chest. Would anyone ever look at her that way?
‘She’s out of your league,’ she said, and smirked again. Why did she always smirk so much around Teddy?
He cocked his head as though considering this. It had been a while since Alice had last seen him. It was the previous summer at The Hurlingham Club (with the unforgettable chunky incident: she’d beaten him at tennis and he’d attributed this to her chunky thighs, making her four brothers roar with laughter). He’d spent October half term in Hong Kong with a cousin, rather than with them as sometimes happened. She suspected he was steering clear of her mother, who was keen for them to coordinate their gap year plans, but he needn’t worry; Alice had no intention of travelling with Teddy Astor. She and Lulu already had a rough itinerary, although the thought of being in a bikini next to Lulu brought her out in hives.
‘I think being at le Bal puts me exactly in her league,’ he said finally and as Alice caught his eye, she realised he too understood that his stock had recently gone up. Teddy Astor, hitherto a gangly, awkward teen, but now on the cusp of being a man, was gorgeous.
It was lucky she despised him or she’d be in serious trouble.
*
In the lobby of the hotel, perched awkwardly on a circular leather banquette, a copy of The Economist pressed against her lap, Julia Frey was doing that thing she always did after talking to a boy. Running and rerunning their exchange in her head, cringing at the things she’d said, admonishing herself for the witty, interesting things she could have said. Why was speaking – such a basic, perfunctory thing – so difficult sometimes? Julia rarely said much, even though at any given time thousands of words galloped through her mind, a fizzing backdrop of linguistic opportunity and regret.
Valentin. Even his name was French and sexy. The things she wished she could say to him. She couldn’t even blame the language barrier, since his English was excellent and that was how they mostly conversed, to her annoyance and relief. Julia was an almost straight-A student. The only subject she struggled with – the only subject that might lower her International Baccalaureate points and scupper her chance of studying maths at Cambridge – was French. So when she had to make plans for a work experience placement, she’d convinced her parents to allow her to do hers in Paris. She’d requested a ‘business’ opportunity but had wound up in a pharmacy, which seemed not so bad when she met Valentin on her first day. But that was two whole weeks ago, and today had been her last day. There’d been no signs he had even noticed her until this afternoon and then of course she’d blown it. Now he thought she was some uber-posh rich kid. Which she wasn’t. Middle-class, but not posh. Comfortable, not
‘Okay,’ he’d said, with an awkward grimace.
She hadn’t realised he was about to invite her to the bar he was heading to with the others.
‘You have friends there?’ he’d asked, surprise and disdain in his voice as he appraised her again, making a fresh assessment of her family and economic circumstances: her smart black suit trousers, her pin-striped shirt, the delicate pearl earrings gifted from her godmother, which she now regretted wearing.
‘Hm, sort of,’ she’d shrugged. Not wanting to lie, nor to tell the truth.
She cursed herself again, as she scanned the lobby, her fingers tightening around The Economist. The truth was, people-watching was a hobby of hers. She loved to observe people when they thought no one else was watching. Enjoyed overhearing conversations and imagining the context, the stories they divulged. And nowhere was better to people-watch than the annual le Bal at the Hôtel de Crillon. When Julia had realised she’d be in Paris for it, she’d marked it in her diary in capitals and underlined it. The people she could watch! Like the couple over there. A tall, handsome boy in white tie, with a pretty, slightly chubby girl in a blue, lace dress with capped sleeves and a full, tiered skirt, cinched round her waist with a wide satin sash. She was trying her best to tease him about something, but the flush on her cheeks and the way she kept angling her body towards his was giving her away. They were looking around them, for a parent perhaps, or a friend. What were their worries right now, she wondered? Was he bored? Roped into this by a relative? Perhaps she had a boyfriend – because it seemed to Julia as if everyone else in the world had a boyfriend except for her – but she liked this boy better?
Across the lobby, she noticed a hotel manager watching her closely. She’d arrived after work and in her smart attire had walked straight inside, but that was a couple of hours ago and the lobby was beginning to fill with photographers and guests. She sensed it was time to leave. She wasn’t sure how much more she’d be able to see anyway; she could hardly sneak into the ballroom where le Bal was held. Would it be weird if she joined Valentin at the bar in Le Marais now, turning up late when she’d told him she had other plans?
She stood quickly and made her way to the restrooms, but a queue had formed. She continued walking, in no rush and enjoying the buzz around these people who were, in theory, quite close to her world – she was at one of the best independent schools in the country, after all – but in practice were aeons away. Someone like Julia would never be able to gain entry to an event like this. If only Jennifer, her best friend and the other scholarship pupil in her year, could see her now. Jennifer was obsessed with the London socialites, poring over Tatler the same way Julia did the Financial Times in preparation for her future secondment interviews. She had a clear career trajectory mapped out: Cambridge and then financial analyst at one of the large investment banks in the City.
She found a restroom away from the main lobby, tucked down a small corridor. It was quiet, an oasis of calm compared to the melee in the central atrium. She peered at herself in the mirror, evaluating her face from different angles and frowning. It had been two hours since she’d left the pharmacy and last applied make-up in the cramped cupboard toilet at the back, and some shine was creeping in. Sometimes she feared she was destined to spend the rest of her life at her dressing table, staring into her vanity mirror, charting the rise and fall of empires on her face: the blackheads on her forehead, the whiteheads around her nose, the lurkers, small angry lumps beneath her skin that lay like dormant volcanos, hot to the touch but offering no sign of release. She wrote everything down in her diary, hoping that this scientific approach might someday provide an explanation for what she referred to internally as the state of her face. She could have been beautiful, that was the huge injustice of it. Her hair was long and blonde, her body toned and taut from hockey and barely eating. A body like Baywatch, a face like Crimewatch. That’s what she’d heard a boy in her Duke of Edinburgh’s Award group say as the others laughed. Fuck you, she would frequently think. Fuck all of you, when I’m earning enough to have my skin lasered, or whatever advancements lay ahead. Until then she applied make-up. Lots and lots of make-up. She needed her toolbox, she thought, reaching for her hefty bag, glad to have this bathroom to herself.
Oh.
She started at the unmistakable sound of crying. She considered leaving – tearful situations were not her speciality. She was practical, concise. She could explain the law of indices or accurately predict a chemical equation. She could not dissect a text message from a boy, or console a friend while they tearfully complained about their mother. It was for this reason some of the girls at school branded her ‘cold’, or sometimes ‘frigid’. She hated that word, with its Miss Havisham undertone, as if all the other girls were gamely shagging or dishing out blow jobs every night after school – she wasn’t more frigid than anyone else, surely? They were seventeen and at an all-girls’ school! And then there were her clothes; whatever she tried, she always seemed to get it wrong, the other girls laughing that her outfits were ‘too loud’ or ‘too clashy’. It was why she was wearing practically a uniform today, so she couldn’t get it wrong. She did as she always did. Told herself it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t. She was bright and she was focused and she’d get out of that school and she’d get a good job and she’d make enough money to fix her skin properly and she’d be a success. She felt certain that of all the things she couldn’t control, her success was a surety. But she was feeling a little different tonight. There was something about being here for le Bal, in this beautiful hotel, something about knowing Valentin had invited her to join him and the others. She felt emboldened. She felt like maybe she could have something to add sooner than she thought.
She approached the closed door, her heart tap-dancing in her chest, and rapped her knuckles against the wood.
‘Est-ce que ça va?’ she asked – Are you okay? Not knowing what she would do if the occupant replied in rapid-fire French.
She stood there for a moment, excited to have stepped out of her comfort zone but apprehensive, silence permeating the space. She tapped over her forehead gently, moved her fingertips in small circular motions over the hot lumps before realising she’d need to press powder on to them again. She couldn’t have known this moment would change her life and yet she was holding her breath.
‘J’ai besoin d’aller dans ma chambre,’ the voice replied tearfully, in staccato, faltering French. The voice belonged to someone young, perhaps a similar age to Jules. As she translated in her head – She needs to go to her room – her sense of intention dissipated. Why am I getting myself involved in this?
‘Okay…’ she said aloud, thinking through her response. Behind her she heard someone else enter the restroom. She glanced over her shoulder, distracted, and saw the girl in the ruffled blue dress. The deb! Oh God. She hated speaking French in front of other people. Mortifying. ‘Um… avez-vous…’ She closed her eyes, heat flushing her entire face. She’d really have to go to town with the powder after this. ‘No. Um, desolé. I mean… Um…’
‘Can I help?’ the deb asked, appearing beside her, a keen, interested look on her face. She was beautiful up close, with soft creamy skin and arresting sapphire eyes. She smelt of roses and hairspray, her chestnut-brown hair swirled and secured around the nape of her neck, a thick wave of fringe curving over one side of her perfectly clear forehead. ‘I speak French.’ Of course you do, thought Julia, picturing chateaus in France and al fresco dinners at long tables laden with fresh flowers and red wine.
At their interaction, a gasp erupted from behind the door. ‘You’re English?’
‘Yes!’ Julia said, turning back and placing her hands on the closed door. ‘You too? Are you okay?’ she called into the wood.
