Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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personality. He was even funny, made her laugh.
So many images invaded her, bounced around in her head, and conflicting thoughts jostled for prominence in her mind. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sort them out. Suddenly she sat up straighter, and thought: My God, I agreed to marry Jack! In effect, I’m engaged to him!
This was no joke as far as he was concerned. He was very serious. He had gone on talking about getting married over dinner, constantly touching his glass of red wine to hers, and they had laughed together, flirted, been in tune on all levels.
Whilst they hadn’t exactly settled on a date, she had sort of acquiesced when he had talked about a winter wedding at the end of the year. ‘In New York. A proper wedding,’ he had insisted. ‘With your family and mine, and all the trimmings. That’s what I want, Lexi.’ And she had nodded in agreement.
Once dinner was over, he had helped her stack the dishwasher, and then they had gone to bed. But he had left at five, kissing her cheek and whispering that he wanted to get an early start on a large canvas for his upcoming show.
As for her, she had dreamed about another man, and in the most intimate way possible at that. Was there something wrong with her? This wasn’t normal, was it?
Despite the camomile tea and its so-called soothing properties, she was suddenly wide awake. Glancing at the small brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece she saw that it was already ten past six in the morning.
Ten past twelve in Paris.
On an impulse, before she could change her mind and stop herself, she lifted the phone on the side table and dialled his office number, his direct line. Within a split second the number in Paris was ringing.
And then he answered. ‘Allo.’
She clutched the phone tighter. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. She heard an impatient sound from him, and then he spoke again.
‘Tom Conners ici.’ Then again, this time in English, he said, ‘Hello? This is Tom Conners. Who is this?’
Very carefully she replaced the receiver. Her hands were damp and shaking, and her heart was thudding unreasonably in her chest. What a fool she was to do this to herself. She took several deep breaths, leaned against the cushions in the chair, staring off into space.
He was there. In his office. He was still in Paris. He was alive and well.
And if she went to Paris, to Anya Sedgwick’s birthday party, she would do exactly what she had just done now. She wouldn’t be able to resist. She would call him, and he would say let’s have a drink, because he was like that, and she would say yes, that’s great, and she would go and have a drink with him. And in consequence of that she would be genuinely lost. Floundering about once more. Yes, a lost soul.
Because to her Tom Conners was devastatingly irresistible, a man so potent, so compelling he lived with her in her thoughts, and in her heart and mind–if not all the time, for a good part of it.
Even though they had stopped seeing each other three years ago, and he had been the one to break it off, she knew that if she spoke to him he would want to see her.
But she couldn’t see him. Because she was afraid of him. Afraid of what would happen to her if she fell under his mesmeric spell once again.
You’re such an idiot, she chastised herself. Anger flooded her. It was an anger at herself and her lingering emotional involvement with Tom Conners. And she knew it had been foolish to make that call, even though she hadn’t spoken to him. Just hearing that arresting, mellifluous voice of his had truly unnerved her.
Alexa now forced herself to focus on Jack Wilton. He loved her, wanted to make her his wife, and she had actually accepted his proposal. All that aside, he was a truly decent human being, a good man, honourable, kind, loving, and generous to a fault sometimes. His success had not spoiled him, and he was very down-to-earth in that humorous English way of his, not taking either himself or life too seriously. ‘Only my work must be taken seriously,’ he was forever telling her, and she understood exactly what he meant by that.
She knew he adored her, admired her talent as a designer, applauded her dedication and discipline. He encouraged her, comforted her when she needed comforting, and he was always there for her. And the truth was he had stayed in the relationship and had been exceedingly patient with her even when she had been cool towards him physically these last few months.
What’s more her parents liked him. A good sign, since they’d always been very critical when it came to her boyfriends. Not picky about Tom Conners, because he’d charmed them without trying. But then again, they had never really known him, nor had they actually understood the extent of her involvement with him, because their relationship had evolved after she had left Anya’s school in Paris.
Jack would make a wonderful husband, she decided. He loved her, and she loved him. In her own way.
Alexandra pushed herself up out of the chair very purposefully, and, turning off the lamp, she went back to bed. Jack Wilton was going to be her husband and that was that.
Sadly, she would have to forgo Anya’s eighty-fifth birthday party. For her own self-protection.
Seated at the mahogany table in the elegant dining room of her parents’ apartment on East Seventy-Ninth Street, Alexandra was savouring the tomato omelette her mother had just made, thinking how delicious it was. Hers inevitably turned into a runny mess, despite having had her mother, the best chef in the world, to teach her over the years.
‘This is great, Mom,’ she said after a moment, ‘and thanks for making time for me today. I know you like to have your Saturdays to yourself.’
‘Don’t be so silly, I’m glad you’re here,’ Diane Gordon answered, glancing up, smiling warmly. ‘I was just about to call you this morning, to see what you were doing, when the phone rang and there you were, wanting to have lunch.’
Alexa returned her mother’s smile and asked, ‘When’s Dad getting back from the Coast?’
‘Tuesday, he said. But it could be Friday. You know what the network is like. You grew up with networks and their schedules, lived by them when you were a child.’
‘And how!’ Alexa exclaimed. ‘I suppose Dad’s going to see Tim this weekend.’
‘Yes, they’re having dinner tonight. Dad’s taking him to Morton’s.’
‘Tim’ll love that, it’s his favourite place in LA. I guess he’s going to stay out there after all. When I spoke to him last week he sounded very high on Los Angeles, and his new job at NeverLand Productions. He told me he was born to be a movie maker.’
Diane laughed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s true. Remember what he was like when he was a kid, always wanting to go with your father to the television studios, to be on the set. And let’s not forget that Grandfather Gordon was a very highly thought of stage director for many years. Show business is in Tim’s blood, more than likely.’ Diane took a sip of water, then asked her daughter, ‘Do you want a glass of wine, darling?’ a blonde brow lifting questioningly.
‘No, thanks, Mom, not during the day. It makes me sleepy. Anyway, it’s fattening…all that sugar. I prefer to take my calories in bread.’ As she spoke she reached for a piece of the baguette, which her mother had cut up earlier and placed in a silver bread basket. She spread it generously with butter and took a bite.
‘You don’t have to worry about your weight, you know. You look marvellous, really well,’ Diane remarked, eyeing her daughter. She couldn’t help thinking how young she looked for her age. It didn’t seem possible that Alexandra was thirty. In fact, in the summer she would be thirty-one, and it seemed like only yesterday that she was a toddler running around her feet. My God, when