Chapter Five #2
‘This is gorgeous,’ she breathed as she looked around the walls.
He sighed. ‘I can’t take the credit. It was my girlfriend’s taste. She was very talented.’ He touched a picture of a beautiful woman with wild curly hair in a long batik robe.
‘Oh.’ Olivia was horrified when she realised he must mean she was dead.
‘It was a terrible accident,’ he said. ‘In Morocco. Her favourite place.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She moved forward to take him in her arms, and he leaned into her.
‘It’s very hard,’ he whispered. ‘And it’s taken me a long time. But as soon as I saw you . . . I knew you’d understand. I knew you’d be gentle with me.’
‘Of course.’ She stroked his hair, and kissed the top of his head, holding him as tightly as she could to comfort him. Eventually he took her face in his hands, gazing deep into her eyes.
‘Thank you,’ he said, before leaning in to kiss her properly.
Then he led her by the hand to a room with a low bed strewn with cushions, and a huge mirror on the wall where she could see everything they did, and for the first time in her life something unlocked inside her that made her feel powerful and abandoned and irresistible all at once.
‘By the way,’ she said afterwards, ‘I don’t know what to call you.’
He smiled down at her. ‘You can call me anything you like,’ he said. ‘But my friends call me Marcus.’
She was hooked. Not only had Marcus unlocked her, he unlocked Paris for her too, taking her to all sorts of secret hideaways – tiny little bars, hidden galleries, backstreet cinemas, flea markets.
He was the perfect guide, and she found herself growing in confidence as her French improved, and her knowledge of the geography of the city grew, and she lost weight because of all the walking and the constant fluttering in her belly that meant she never felt terribly hungry.
She moved out of the hostel and into his apartment, and because she was saving so much money she picked up the bills when they went out, even though he protested, but it was cheaper to pay for a bottle of wine and steak frites than accommodation.
And in bed, they made a plan for a tour of the rest of Europe before she went home, for there were so many more places he wanted to show her. He spoke of friends with grand palazzos in Italy and sprawling villas on the Riviera and fairy-tale castles in the Black Forest.
‘We can stay with them as and when, of course, but I don’t have friends in every town, so we’ll need to book hotels in between. Are you happy for me to choose? Or would you rather?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’ She’d never booked a hotel in her life, not even in England, so she wasn’t going to have a clue where to start booking one abroad.
‘Leave it with me.’ He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘It’s going to be the trip of a lifetime. Art, opera, food, fine wine . . .’
Olivia nodded, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t have unlimited funds . . .’ she ventured.
He waved an airy hand. ‘It will even itself out,’ he said. ‘Trust me, I’m not reckless. Some days it will be a jambon-beurre on the train, some days it will be caviar. It’s a life skill, knowing how to budget.’
She nodded, reassured, and felt butterflies at the thought of it all.
A week before they were due to go, he took her hand over dinner, his expression troubled.
‘I’m embarrassed,’ he said. ‘There’s been a hold-up with my payments from the tour company.
They won’t be paying me until next month, and of course I still have to pay the rent on my flat.
But I need to pay the hotels in advance to get the best rate, and book the train fares . . .’
‘Oh!’ said Olivia. She still had a fair bit of her savings left. ‘How much would it be?’
He jotted some calculations on a napkin and showed her.
‘I can give you my half the minute the money hits my account. I’m so sorry.
This is mortifying. But the company takes advantage sometimes.
I’m seriously thinking about leaving Paris for good.
’ He leaned into her. ‘Maybe even moving back to London. I think it’s time.
Especially if that’s where you’re going to be . . .’
Olivia stared at him. He would leave his gorgeous apartment, his glamorous life, for her? She imagined them in a little flat somewhere, maybe Chelsea. They would be the toast of the town, throwing bohemian dinner parties and being asked to private views every night of the week.
‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ she said. ‘Shall I transfer the money?’
‘I think cash would be better,’ he said. ‘I don’t want the tax people here getting funny.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and the next day she arranged to withdraw as much cash as she could.
‘I think we should book first class to Nice, don’t you?’ he said as she handed him a plump envelope.
The day before they were due to leave, he had to spend the night with clients out at Versailles.
‘I’m doing a private tour and dinner. I have to stay at the hotel with them. But it’s good money and they’ll be good tippers. I’ll pack everything and take it with me and see you at the station tomorrow.’
She could barely sleep that night for excitement.
She looked at the piece of paper where he had written out their itinerary in his black italics, drawing funny little pictures to represent the different destinations.
Tomorrow was palm trees. She imagined leaning her head on his shoulder in the train carriage as they thundered towards the south of France, the azure blue of the Riviera in the distance.
The next day, she packed her things and left the apartment immaculate for when he returned, as she would be going back to London at the end of their trip. He had promised her he would not be far behind.
‘I love Paris, but I do miss London. It’s home, after all. And you are the most important thing in my life now,’ he had told her.
She was early for the train, of course. Platform 6.
He wasn’t there yet. She watched as all the other passengers climbed on board, and tried not to feel anxious.
She hated leaving things to the last minute, but she suspected Marcus was a seasoned traveller, cutting it fine in a way she would never have the nerve to do – perhaps she would learn from him to be more relaxed while they travelled together?
The station clock ticked on. He’d be here any minute.
She couldn’t get on the train and settle herself into their seats, as he had the tickets.
She couldn’t phone him, as he didn’t have a mobile phone – ‘I can’t think of anything worse than being permanently contactable’ – and she only had hers for absolute emergencies as she was terrified of the charges abroad.
She felt hot and sweaty and anxious as she scanned the crowds.
The whistle blew. The last few doors slammed shut. The train slid its way out of the station without her on board. She picked up her suitcase and trudged back to the Métro. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he had gone back to the flat? Yes, that was it. She would find him there.
She had to bang on the door of the apartment as she had left the keys in the post box as he’d instructed. Perhaps he was in bed, ill? She heard footsteps and felt relief. They would wait until he was better and then get a train later in the week.
The door opened and she gave a gasp. She recognised the woman standing there, her burgundy hair loose and past her shoulders, dressed in flowing linen pants and a tight waistcoat, with lots of beaded necklaces strung round her neck.
The woman in the photograph. His girlfriend.
The one who was supposed to be dead. Or had she misunderstood him?
Had she just assumed that’s what he had meant?
She was so hot and tired, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
‘Oui?’ The woman gave a shrug as if to say ‘what do you want?’ Her voice was deep, sexy, and she had an aura that screamed sophisticated and well travelled.
‘Marcus . . . ?’ was all Olivia could think of to say. ‘Il est ici?’ Is he here?
‘Marcus?’ The woman looked at her, puzzled.
‘Who do you mean?’ She’d broken automatically into English, and Olivia realised that the French she’d thought had improved so much was not going to fool anyone into thinking she was Parisian.
‘Oh! You mean the guy who was watering my plants? No, he’s not here. ’
Olivia felt herself crumple.
Marcus had gone, and with him, her money. She wouldn’t see him, or it, ever again.