Seven Nights in Paris, page 12
Zoe sat forward, hugging herself.
‘All I wanted was for you to love me.’
‘I did love you, Zoe. And you know what? It was you who fixed me. A little late perhaps, but after you left, I realised just what a mess I'd made of my life, I felt ashamed at how badly I had screwed up. So I decided to do something about it. We're all damaged in some way, but you can't go on blaming other people. You have to… grow up I suppose?’
Zoe sniffed and nodded. She forced out a smile.
‘So maybe some good came out of it, huh?’
Lucas reached across and held her hand.
‘You saved me, Zoe. I just wish I’d let you do it earlier.’
She pressed her lips together.
‘I guess we all have wishes that don’t come true, don’t we?’
Lucas kept hold of her fingers. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said. ‘We’ll find Mike. I promise.’
Zoe gently pulled her hand away and, using the cuff of her robe to wipe her face, stood up.
She walked over to the window, staring out at the dark streets of Paris. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her silhouette.
‘Do you think Mike’s out there, looking for us?’ she whispered.
Lucas came up behind her.
‘He’s looking for you, Zoe,’ he said softly. ‘He’s looking for you.’
Sunday
Chapter 16
Zoe threw an arm over her face as a shard of light cut across the bedroom.
‘Levez-toi!’ said Lucas, opening the shutters.
Zoe groaned. ‘Five more minutes…’
She rolled away from the light, her toes seeking out the coolness of the crisp sheets, feeling the soft pillow against her face. Zoe stretched like a cat, luxuriating. And for one delicious moment, she was suspended there, enjoying her vast bed in her lovely suite, warm and safe. But just for a moment.
Then she remembered; this huge bed was so big because there was no Mike. No husband, no honeymoon. No future.
There was a clank to her left and Zoe lifted her head as Lucas laid a tray on her bedside table.
‘Come on, the coffee’s hot, the croissants are warm. Eat, drink. You need it.’
Lucas had already dressed: chinos and a plain white T-shirt, sneakers, his hair elegantly tousled, looking like a model just back from an early photo shoot.
‘How do you look so bloody fresh?’
He smiled.
‘When you’ve slept in a burned-out tank...’
She groaned again. ‘Not the burned-out tank story.’
Lucas smiled. ‘Seriously, I’m back on Paris time, which for me always meant late nights. Anyway,’ he held up his watch meaningfully. ‘Most people have been up for a while. The bakery had almost sold out. Try one, they’re delicious.’
Zoe reluctantly pushed herself up against the pillows, self-consciously tugging the sheet higher. Her night attire was slinky and pink; appropriate for a honeymoon, not for an impromptu breakfast with her ex. But then everything about this situation was topsy-turvy. Having Lucas in the room next door had been downright strange, but then again it had been reassuring. Better weird than alone, she supposed.
Zoe took her latte and sipped it as Lucas opened the rest of the shutters, flooding the room with light and giving Zoe a sudden jolt of déjà vu: a bright Sunday morning in the cramped flat they’d shared in Parsons Green. An ex-council block, it hadn’t been pretty, but for a while, love had held it together and on the good days, it had been a little like this. Blossom in the trees, coffee on the stove, the two of them just lazing in bed.
‘Another life,’ she said softly.
‘Pardon?’ he asked, with the French inflexion.
Zoe snapped back to the present. Nostalgia was a dangerous drug; it could leave you with a bad hangover. Yes, Lucas had been sweet last night, and she was grateful he was here, but it didn’t change the situation. She wanted everything to go back to how it had been three days ago, not three years.
‘Any news?’ she asked. ‘Did you see the concierge?’
Lucas pulled a face.
‘I spoke to him yes, nothing new. But your phone has been buzzing.’
He passed it over and she read the messages, a smile spreading across her face.
She gasped. ‘It’s Julian – Mike’s friend from work. He wants to do a Zoom.’
She grabbed Lucas’s wrist and looked at the time.
‘In ten minutes!’
‘You go shower, I’ll set it up on my computer.’
Zoe closed the bathroom door behind her, and as an afterthought, locked it. It was awkward enough without any misunderstandings over boundaries. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but still…
Trying not to look at the twin sinks, Zoe crossed to the wet room and turned the hot as high as she could stand. The water hit her, waking her, and making her skin tingle. She felt alive, but not inside. She wanted to cry, but she felt empty, no tears left. God, what was she going to say to Julian? She wrapped herself in a towel, then quickly got dressed – jeans and a Breton top, clothes she thought she’d be wearing for a jaunty trip to the Eiffel Tower, not an emergency call with Mike’s best man. There was no time to put on make-up or dry her hair, instead tying back her damp locks with a scrunchie.
As she stepped out of the bedroom, Lucas was already standing by the writing desk near the window.
‘I’ll give you some space for your call,’ he said. ‘The computer’s all ready to go. If you need me, I’ll be in the lobby making some calls.’
Zoe appreciated the gesture but felt a sudden rush of loneliness as Lucas closed the door. Don’t go, she wanted to shout. Not you too.
Instead, she sat down at the desk in front of the computer screen, her own face in a little window. Video conferencing was now as common as making a telephone call, but Zoe still didn’t like it. I look about ten years older than I am. Did anyone look good on these things? She’d heard that people used special lights and filters, but she just had the desk lamp and the voile curtains. With a ‘bing-bing’ alert, another picture appeared: Julian. Zoe felt her heart jump; just seeing someone familiar, someone from ‘before’, it made her want to cry.
‘Zoe? Oh, there you are! Can you hear me?’
Julian was as jolly as ever, round face flushed, wearing a shirt and tie, as if he was about to do an interview on Bloomberg. Perhaps Julian wore a shirt and tie to bed.
‘So sorry for not getting back sooner,’ he said. ‘Didn’t check my messages. It was our anniversary this weekend, and we’ve been to some Godawful spa in the Cotswolds. Only so much whale song a man can take.’
‘It’s okay Jules. I’m just glad to see you now.’ Zoe felt her voice catch as she said it. Julian must have heard the stumble because he leant towards the screen.
‘Are you alright Zoe? I didn’t quite understand your message,’ he said. ‘Mike’s disappeared? What do you mean?’
As concisely as she could, Zoe told him the story: Mike ‘popping out’, Mike vanishing from the hotel. The police’s indifference, the staff’s insinuations. And the plain facts: they knew Mike had left the hotel, but after that, he might as well have been swallowed by the earth.
‘Did you have a row?’ asked Julian.
She shook her head and looked away. At least it was better than assuming he’d run off with another woman.
‘No, he was – we were – fine. He just… didn’t come back.’
Julian frowned.
‘Well, Mike’s a solid sort,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’s…’
‘…Alright? But he’s not, Julian. He can’t be, otherwise he’d be here, wouldn’t he? Every hour, every minute he’s away, I’m more and more convinced he’s not alright.’
And it was worse than that, wasn’t it? There was a TV cop show called The First 24 – the title came from a police belief that unless you had a lead within the first day of any crime, the trail got very cold very quickly. On the screen, Julian grimaced, conceding the point. Julian was one of Voran’s in-house lawyers, he was used to arguing, but even he couldn’t dispute the logic.
‘So that’s why I wanted to speak to you,’ said Zoe. ‘I wanted to know if you’ve heard from him.’
‘I’m sorry, Zoe. Nothing. The last time we spoke was at the wedding.’
‘Julian, you’ve known Mike longer than me. Has anything like this happened before?’
‘He’s never been married before, Zoe.’
She was irritated by his flippancy.
‘With other girlfriends,’ she said, an edge to her voice. Julian heard it and sat back.
‘Did Mike have a pattern of going goo-goo over a girl, then losing his nerve? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Well, yes.’
Obviously, Zoe and Mike hadn’t talked about ex-girlfriends – or boyfriends. Why would they? They’d been too wrapped up in their own romance. Their love was the future, everything else was the past.
‘Look, Zoe, I’ll be honest,’ said Julian. ‘There haven’t really been any other girls. A few dates here and there, but until you, there was no one even remotely serious. So Mike’s not a bolter if that’s what you’re thinking.’
That should have been a relief of course – confirming that Mike hadn’t run away from her. But she was beginning to think she would have preferred that explanation; a ‘cold feet’ scenario might mean Mike was cowardly, but it would mean he was still in one piece. She thought about something Lucas had asked the previous night.
‘Did Mike have any worries at work? Were there any problems?’
‘No,’ said Julian. ‘Mike’s a good guy, hard-working, well-respected. Although…’
There was a hesitation, just a beat, but Zoe felt it.
‘What? Anything, Julian.’
‘Well, you’ll know Mike missed out on that promotion.’
‘You’ll know’: Zoe didn’t know, Mike hadn’t mentioned it. He’d barely talked about work.
‘Late last year, there was a reshuffle at the office. Mike wanted to move to a more commercial role, but instead, they moved him to ESG. He saw that as a side-step. But then he met you and he seemed as happy as Larry.’
Zoe nodded but she wasn’t convinced. Lucas carried the burden of war and the shame of scandal – and she hadn’t realised how bad the guilt was until it was too late. Men were proud creatures, they didn’t like to admit to weakness. Had Mike been depressed too, concealing some sort of hurt? Zoe had been so swept up in the romance, she could easily have missed it, especially if Mike had wanted to hide it. And what else had he kept from her?
‘What about the company?’ said Zoe. ‘Voran is a French company, perhaps he had to meet a client here? On the CCTV footage, it looked like he was making a call when he left.’
Julian shrugged.
‘Voran is technically French, yes, but it’s a huge global brand. We have factories on five continents. I mean, statistically, it’s possible that someone from another office was in Paris. I can ask around.’
‘Has anyone looked at his emails? Or, messages on a work phone?’
Julian pulled a face.
‘It’s Sunday. Obviously, I’ll see what I can do first thing tomorrow, but I warn you, our accounts are password-protected. I can have a word with the IT bods, but they‘ll need permission from the section director. May take some time.’
Zoe could feel her frustration rising. She didn’t have time for them to go through their petty chain of command.
‘Julian, Mike could be in trouble,’ she said, her frustration clear. ‘I need action, not words. No one seems prepared to do anything to help Mike and as the minutes tick away, I’m more and more worried that he’s in danger.’
Julian didn’t contradict her, but he didn’t reassure her either. And then it struck her: perhaps Julian did know something. What if the doorman and the bell boy had been right and there was another woman? Would Julian tell her? Probably not. Another thing about men: they stuck together.
‘Was Mike seeing another woman?’
‘What? No! How can you think… you’re on your honeymoon.’
The appalled expression on Julian’s face told her all she needed to know: if Mike was a cheat, Julian wasn’t aware of it. A cheat. Zoe felt terrible for even thinking such a thing about her husband, but she was rapidly discovering that she had to put her feelings to one side if she was going to get anywhere. She needed to toughen up.
‘Sorry Julian,’ she said, ‘But I just don’t know what to think and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Do you have anyone with you?’
‘I have a friend from Paris, yes.’
She made a snap decision to keep those details vague.
‘Listen,’ said Julian. ‘I’m visiting our Lille office on Wednesday. I can come back via Paris if you need more support.’
‘Thanks, Julian, I’ll let you know.’
Julian gave her a sympathetic smile.
‘I know it’s a worry, but we’ll sort it out.’
Julian waved, and then the window clicked off: she was alone again. Zoe sat there, not wanting to open the curtains, not wanting the sunlit view of Paris to remind her what this room should have been. She ran her hands through her wet hair. What did I do? Was this my fault? Did I drive him away? There was a chime – her phone, and a message popped up in the window.
It’s Kate: Rick and I are coming. 2.30 Eurostar. Hang in there.
Chapter 17
Olga looked at the dessert on the counter in front of her. Perfect waves of pastry, golden cream oozing from each layer, and an elegant sprinkle of powdered gold on the top. Even here, in a restaurant which specialised in exquisite pastries, it was an artwork.
‘It looks amazing, Angelo, but I really can’t,’ she said, casting her eye over the spread of food in front of her. It had been quite an exceptional brunch – with everything from fresh pastries to cereals, fruit juices, cheese, langoustines, whelks, oysters, salads and charcuterie on offer. And the cakes! The Sunday brunch at the Ritz Paris might be more famous, but Ginello’s had the most extraordinary selection of patisserie.
Olga was kicking herself it had taken so long to come and try the food here at Ginello’s.
Angelo’s handsome face fell. His brother Marcel was the pastry chef here at Ginello’s restaurant, just across the road from Éclat. It was a lovely little place, a closely guarded secret among the Parisian social set, but even so, Marcel was wasted here; he should be using his artistry at the Park Hyatt or the George V where all the world could try his gorgeous confections.
‘Are you sure, Madame?’ asked Angelo, ‘The mille-feuille is Marcel’s speciality.’
‘And it looks a dream, it really does. But I’ve already had a croissant, a fruit platter and an omelette…’ she closed her eyes, putting temptation behind her. ‘I mustn’t.’
The mille-feuille – a ‘thousand sheets’ of puff pastry and cream sandwiched on top of one another – was Olga’s favourite. And yes, there was an argument that at Olga’s age, what did one more exquisite sweet treat matter? But as a Parisian woman, there were certain lines she simply couldn’t cross, standards to uphold.
Instead, she poured herself a simple black coffee and they went to sit back in their corner booth.
‘So what are you doing for the rest of the day?’ asked Angelo. He was only thirty, and already the food and beverage supervisor at the Éclat - when he wasn’t pouring her tea early in the mornings. Angelo was smart, fun and kind. Olga didn’t doubt that within the decade he would be general manager, but for now, he was a trusted friend.
‘I met a gentleman, Angelo,’ she said in a rush. ‘And he’s invited me to a party. Tonight.’
Angelo’s eyed widened.
‘You mean, like a date?’
She felt herself blush.
‘We’re just friends,’ she said quickly.
‘Tell me everything,’ said Angelo, leaning forward.
Olga felt herself blushing as she told him how she had met Sandy in the bakery queue.
‘And who is this lucky man?’ he asked.
‘That’s the most embarrassing part,’ whispered Olga. ‘He told me he was a playwright and when I got home I looked him up; he’s rather famous! And I was treating him like some penniless poet.’
It had only taken the quickest of Google searches to find Alexander Harris’s lengthy Wikipedia entry. In the Seventies and Eighties, Sandy had been something of a star in the theatre world, penning a series of highly regarded West End and off-Broadway plays. Then came ‘Sundays at the Boathouse’, a huge hit on both sides of the Atlantic, which was immediately snapped up by Hollywood, who saw Sandy as the new Neil Simon. Sandy, evidently, saw himself as the new Truman Capote, immediately becoming a fixture on the LA party circuit, a period that seemed to coincide with the end of his marriage. He had a couple of sitcom credits in the Nineties and early Noughties, at which point Sandy stopped producing hits – in fact, according to Olga’s research, he stopped producing anything at all.
Angelo looked at Olga for a moment.
‘Are you ready, Madame?’
Olga appreciated his directness: it spoke of concern and friendship. She and Angelo had shared so many quiet moments as the hotel slept, she felt she could trust him with anything. Olga shook her head. The answer was no, she was not ready for a relationship, but then who ever really was?
‘After Edouard, I didn’t think anyone would ever find their way in, but perhaps I was wrong.’
‘Life is for living. Edouard would have wanted you to be happy.’
She knew he was right, but something nagged at her.
‘I don’t want people to talk,’ she said quietly. ‘To say it’s too soon.’
‘This is your life, Olga. Not theirs. If you feel ready to leave that hotel room, to meet new people, to feel the sun on your face again, then let them talk.’
Olga nodded. Parisian society was a small, insular world powered by gossip. Angelo took her hand and looked into her eyes.
