EPILOGUE #2
édith had learned her trade in nearby Montmartre bars and now this young singer was filling the room with her own voice and creating a new story. Was she a Paris local or had this dark-haired pixie come to Paris to chase her creative dreams, like Charlie and Violet? Like Maisy Bell?
The last Maisy Bell story had been sent to press. Charlie sighed and took a sip of champagne as her heart ached for Maisy and her family, who would no doubt be relieved to continue their grieving in private. For the Bell family, this story, this heartache, would never be over.
Now that the court case had concluded, Charlie would have no more incidental contact with Detective Allard. No more professional pleasantries on the courthouse steps or awkward glances in the courtroom when one thought the other wasn’t looking.
Charlie took another sip of her drink and felt the bubbles slowly slide down her throat.
She ran her fingers over her blue dress, idly flicking at the darts as she listened to the song, remembering the last time she wore this dress.
The last time it was peeled from her skin.
Allard’s lips at her neck, her breasts, and her hands deep in his hair.
It was unprofessional, but she did not regret their one wild night together. Not for a second.
Charlie’s only regret was that her investigative work as a reporter, unravelling secrets, had come to occupy almost every second of her life.
She watched her friend Violet flit about the room with her proud mother at her shoulder, admiring and sweet-talking customers as she strutted into the next chapter of her life.
Charlie needed to do the same. She’d long said goodbye to the tentative reporter nursing a broken heart who’d arrived in Paris from Sydney via the Night Ferry from London.
Chasing the Maisy Bell story had proven once and for all that her instincts and judgement were sound and she was indeed very good at her job.
But winning at work was no longer enough …
Charlie gulped the last of her bubbles and set the glass on the silver tray of a passing waiter.
Behind her, the shop bell tinkled as the front door opened. Charlie turned half-heartedly to see if a tipsy customer was coming or going; she was enjoying the parade of couture and costumes. She stiffened when she saw a handsome man with unbrushed curls and a smart tuxedo striding through the door.
Detective Gilles Allard.
The detective surveyed the crowd and his cheeks coloured.
The heady layers of music, scent and fabric textures were a far cry from courtrooms and crime scenes, and he wore the same look of wonder he’d worn at Lady Ashworth’s Versailles soiree—like a child seeing an elephant or giraffe at a zoo for the first time.
Aleksandr gave a welcoming wave and before Charlie could slink off to an even darker corner, he pointed to where she was hiding. Allard followed Aleksandr’s gesture and stepped towards Charlie, who was by now standing between a mannequin and an apricot Grecian bust draped with pearls.
She made room between the artefacts in her dark corner of the shop for Detective Allard. If he was distracted by the ample breasts of the marble goddess jutting between them, he had the grace not to show it.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle James.’
‘Bonsoir, Detective Allard. I wasn’t aware you were in the market for antiques. Or a pearl necklace.’ She ran her fingers along the necklace on the bust and gave Allard a cheeky smile.
‘I’m not. Violet insisted I come to the launch. She said you would be here and I thought that maybe now the court case was over … now there was no conflict of interest … we might start again. Properly?’
‘Properly?’ Charlie raised her eyebrow. They’d connected ‘properly’ for one night and she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Had Detective Allard been thinking of Charlie too?
‘I’m not one for games, Detective Allard. We had …’ She gulped and articulated her words. ‘We chose work. I respect that.’
‘Charlie, I was wrong. I thought it was best to keep everything professional. I crossed a line—’
‘We,’ corrected Charlie.
‘We.’ Detective Allard nodded, his lips twitching as he tried not to smile. ‘ Give me a second chance, please?’
Charlie took his hand and squeezed it. She’d moved to Paris for a second chance to make it as a reporter writing features with her own by-line.
She’d arrived on the brink of divorce, not exactly sworn off men, but with a tender, bruised heart that was unwilling to risk another heartbreak.
Her thoughts flashed with the photo of Maisy Bell, her open young smile.
A woman who’d travelled to Paris with dreams of her own and never got the chance to live them.
Life turned on a dime and sometimes you had no control over which way the coins fell.
But with her hand firmly tucked inside Detective Allard’s warm, callused grip, she realised this was her second chance. She squeezed his hand. Yes.
Detective Allard sighed with relief, kissed the top of her head and took in the line of her dress, her body, as he stroked her cheek. He smiled, but stayed silent, letting the singer’s smoky notes and the excited buzz of the crowd cradle them.
There was no place for words in that sweaty corner of the shop.