Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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might be a good idea.’ Jack’s voice was touched with acerbity.
She glanced across at him swiftly, detecting at once a hint of impatience…as if it were her fault their lovemaking had been interrupted by the FedEx delivery. But wishing to keep things on an even keel, to placate him, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, it can wait!’ Dropping the envelope on the small table in the foyer, she added, ‘Let’s go back to bed.’
‘Naw, the mood’s gone, ducks. I’m gonna take a quick shower, make a cuppa rosy lee, then start on dinner,’ he answered her in a bogus Cockney accent.
She stood staring at him, biting her lip.
Observing the crestfallen expression in her eyes, Jack Wilton instantly regretted his truculent attitude. He softened, pulled her towards him, embraced her. ‘I’m sorry, I was a bit snotty, Lexi. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?’ His eyes held hers, a brow lifted quizzically. ‘Don’t you see, I was put out…and you know why. I was all ready to make babies.’ He grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. ‘So…’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Let’s go and take a shower together.’
‘I guess I ought to open–’
He cut her off. ‘It’ll wait.’ Taking hold of her hand, he led her across to the bathroom and into the shower, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, held her close again as the water sluiced over their bodies.
Alexandra leaned against him, closed her eyes, thinking of the envelope she had left on the table. She was beginning to worry about it, anxiety-ridden and tense inside. She could well imagine who it was from. It could be only one person. And the thought terrified her.
But she was wrong.
A short while later, when she finally opened the envelope it was not a letter inside, as she had misguidedly believed, but an invitation. Her relief was enormous and the anxiety instantly dissipated.
She sat on the sofa in her living room, staring at it, and a smile broke through, lighting up her face. Leaping to her feet, she ran across the room to the kitchen, where Jack was cooking. ‘Jack, it’s an invitation. To a party. In Paris.’
Jack glanced up from the bowl of fresh tomatoes he was stirring, took a sip of his tea, and asked, ‘Who’s the party for then?’
‘Anya. My wonderful Anya Sedgwick.’
‘The woman who owns the school you went to…what’s it called again? Ah yes, the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what’s the occasion?’
‘Her birthday.’ Leaning against the door jamb, she began to read from the engraved invitation. ‘The pleasure of your company is requested at a celebration in honour of Anya Sedgwick on the occasion of her eighty-fifth birthday. On Saturday June the second, 2001. At Ledoyen, Carré Champs Elysées, Paris. Cocktails at eight o’clock. Supper at nine o’clock. Dancing from ten o’clock on. Hey, isn’t that great, Jack. Oh, how wonderful.’
‘Sounds like it’s going to be a super bash. Can you take a friend, do you think?’
Alexandra glanced at the invitation again. Her name had been written across the top in the most elegant calligraphy she had ever seen. But it was only her name. The words, and guest, were missing. ‘I don’t think I can. It has only my name on it. I’m sure it’s just for her family and former pupils…’ Alexandra’s voice trailed off.
He was silent for a moment, concentrating as he finely chopped an onion. When he at last looked up, he asked, ‘Are you going to go?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know. It all depends on work, I guess. I’ve only one small set to finish for Winter Weekend, and then that’s it. I’ll be out of work, if something doesn’t pop up.’
‘I’m sure it will, Lexi,’ he reassured, glancing at her, smiling. ‘Now scoot, and let me finish the pasta pomodoro, and before you can say Jack Robinson I’ll have dinner for my lady.’
She laughed, said ‘Okay,’ and went back to the sofa, still holding the invitation in her hand. Seating herself, she stared at it for a moment longer, her mind on Anya Sedgwick, the woman who had been her teacher, mentor and friend. She had not seen her for a year. It would be lovely to be in her company again, to celebrate this important milestone in her life…Paris in the spring. How truly glorious it would be…
But Tom Conners was in Paris.
When she thought of him she found it hard to breathe.
Alexandra awakened with a start, and after a moment she sat up, blinking, adjusting her eyes in the darkness. The room was quiet, bathed in silence, but for a long moment she felt a presence, as if someone stood nearby, hovered close to the bed.
She remained still, breathing deeply, pushing the feeling away, knowing this was all it was…just a feeling, the sensation that he was with her in the room because her dream had been so very real.
But then it always was, whenever she dreamed it. Everything that happened had a validity to it, was vivid, lifelike; even now, as she rested against the pillows, she could smell him, smell his body, his hair, the cologne he used. Jicky by Guerlain. It seemed to her that even the taste of him lingered on her mouth, as if he had kissed her deeply.
Except that he had not been here tonight…only in the dream, one so extraordinarily alive in her mind that after awakening she had believed he truly was in the bedroom. But, of course, she was alone.
Suddenly knowing that sleep would be elusive, at least for the moment, Alexa sat up, switched on the bedside lamp and slid her long legs out of bed. As she glided across the floor, she realized she was bathed in sweat, as she usually was after this recurring dream.
Wrapping herself in her pale blue woollen dressing gown, she hurried through the small front foyer and went into the kitchen, snapping on lights as she did.
What she needed was a cup of tea. Camomile tea. It would soothe her, encourage sleep. After filling the kettle with water and putting it on the gas ring, she sat down on the stool, contemplating the dream which she had with such regularity.
The odd thing was, the dream was always exactly the same. Nothing ever changed. He was suddenly there with her, either coming through the door or standing by the bed looking down at her. And inevitably he slid into bed, made love to her, cradling her in his arms, telling her he missed her, wanted her, needed her. And always he reminded her that she was the love of his life. His one true love.
And the dream was rooted in such uncanny reality she was invariably shaken; even her body felt as if it had been invaded by a sensual and virile man. It was, she muttered under her breath, filling the mug with boiling hot water. At least it was this afternoon. Jack Wilton made love to me when he arrived here today…in the gloaming he loved me well.
Yes, a small voice said in her head, but in the dream you just had it was Tom Conners loving you. It’s never anybody else but Tom Conners in the dream, and that’s your basic problem.
Sighing to herself, Alexa turned on a lamp and sat down in the comfortable, overstuffed chair near the fireplace, sipping the camomile tea, staring into the dying embers of the log fire.
What was wrong with her? The question hovered over her like a black cloud.
She had made love with Jack and enjoyed every moment of it, and there had been this unexpected and wonderful renewal of passion between them, a passion sadly absent for months. To excuse this she had blamed tiredness, work, the pressure and stress of designing sets at top speed for the new play. But in all truthfulness, something else had been at play. Exactly what that was she wasn’t sure. She had pulled away from having sex with Jack, had avoided it. There had been a strange reluctance