Paris Is Always a Good Idea (32 page)
Read Paris Is Always a Good Idea Online
Authors: Nicolas Barreau
She remembered Rachel's triumphant smile and thumped her pillow with a scream. Robert Sherman would soon be flying back to New York with his lovely bride-to-be. And the damned swine had not said a single word.
He would presumably have turned up on the last day with some kind of threadbare excuse, and then she would never have heard from him again. He'd lied to her, lied about everything, and she was outraged at how well he'd playacted. But of course, she thought bitterly, playacting was second nature to him. Rachel had clearly hinted that the oh-so-well-read literature professor was always game for a little adventure. Shakespeare, pah! More like
Shakespeare in Love,
she thought angrily. That's probably why all his lies tripped so easily past his lips.
She thought back to the sweet words that Robert had whispered to her that Saturday night, and held her hands to her ears sobbing loudly. “Oh, hold your tongue, Robert Sherman. Get out of my head! I never want to see you again!” she screamed. Then she stumbled over to her desk and, in a despairing flood of emotion, knocked over all the jars that held the paintbrushes. She felt a little better after that.
She drank three glasses of red wine, smoked eight cigarettes, found she couldn't help thinking about Robert, cried again, hurled out abuse that would have made her mother blanch, and finally got William Morris from his basket.
She carefully laid him beside her on the bedspread. He lifted his head with a faint whimper and looked at her with his brown eyes, showing that steadfast loyalty of which probably only a dog is capable. “Oh, William Morris!” she had said before she finally fell asleep. “It looks like you're the only man in my life who will never leave me.”
When Robert Sherman came to the store for the second time the next day, Rosalie was still in bed.
She heard raised voices in the store and crept barefoot to the door. She quietly put one foot on the spiral staircase and leaned forward to risk a careful look.
Robert was standing in the middle of the store with an angry face and was involved in a heated battle of words with Madame Morel, who was blocking his way with folded arms.
“
Non,
monsieur, she's gone away,” she was saying. Rosalie cowered on the top step, nodded appreciatively, and bent her head a little farther forward so as not to miss anything.
“What do you mean, she's gone away? What bullshit!” she heard Robert saying loudly. “I know she's there. So stop playing around with me and let me past.”
Madame Morel remained standing in front of Robert like a fortress and shook her head regretfully. She was really good at this.
“I'm extremely sorry, Monsieur Sherman, but Mademoiselle Laurent is really not at home.⦔
Robert looked angrily at the spiral staircase, and Rosalie flinched back.
“There!” he shouted. “I've just seen a foot!”
He pushed Madame Morel aside and stormed up the spiral staircase.
In two bounds Rosalie was back in bed. She had just enough time to pull up the covers and smooth her hopelessly disheveled hair a little before he entered the room. With a certain degree of satisfaction she noticed that he didn't actually look in peak condition either, with his unshaven face and the massive dark stain on his pants. It looked as if his domineering Rachel had given him the tongue-lashing he deserved.
“What do you think you're doing?” she shouted angrily. “Get out!”
She reached for a cushion and hurled it at his head.
“Rosalie!” he cried as he ducked out of the way. “Please! Hear me out!”
She shook her head. “No way!” Then she narrowed her eyes and stared at him crossly. “Well? Haven't you boarded the plane with your fiancée yet?”
“The flight isn't until tomorrow,” he replied. “And then there will only be my fiancée on it ⦠I mean⦔ He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Rachel is not my fiancée at all.” He risked a smile. “Not my fiancée ⦠not my girlfriendâ”
“But just âsomeone you know,'” Rosalie interrupted his stammering words.
He held his head in his hands and groaned. “Okay, okay! I know I shouldn't have said that. I know that everything speaks against me, but believe me, it's all a
misunderstanding
.”
She burst out laughing. “I don't believe it! You didn't seriously come out with that bullshit, did you?” She sat up and pointed a finger at him. “Your it-was-all-a-misunderstanding was in my store yesterday and told me all about the way you know each other. Did she show me a ring?” She clasped her forehead in mock confusion. “Yes, she did. Did she say I should keep my hands off her future husband? Yes, she did that, too. Was your it-was-all-a-misunderstanding with you in the hotel yesterday evening?” She thought for a moment, then nodded. “So she was!”
“You came to the Hôtel des Marronniers?”
She shook her head. “No, but I telephoned you there. Gosh, how dumb can you be? Just by chance Carole Dubois, a good friend of mine, was at reception and when I asked for Monsieur Sherman and she tried to put me through and no one answered, she explained to me with a giggle that you were probably very
busy
because your fiancée from America was in your room.”
She saw Robert turn pale and nodded knowingly. “So, what do you have to say now, you liar?”
Robert put his hands over his mouth and nose in a gesture of despair and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Rosalie,” he said insistently. “Rachel is beautiful and clever and she knows how to create confusion. When I came to Paris, our relationship was already in the balanceâbecause of ⦠various things. Then she suddenly popped up here and lay in wait for me at the hotelâ”
“And spent the night with you?”
“No she did not! I threw her out. You're welcome to ask your friend Carole about that.” He looked at her pleadingly. “I love you.”
Rosalie picked hesitantly at the bedcovers.
“Ha! Fine words,” she said eventually. “How can I be sure that you really mean it?”
He smiled. “Come on,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I'd like to show you something.”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
ROBERT HAD INSISTED THAT
they set out at once. She'd smoothed her crumpled blue silk dress as best she could and had slipped on her ballet slippers. Then they'd walked out of Luna Luna past an astounded Madame Morel.
“Where are we going?” Rosalie asked curiously.
“Wait and see,” he said, holding her hand firmly in his as he strode boldly across the boulevard Saint-Germain and hurried down the quiet rue Pré-aux-Clercs, pulling Rosalie after him through the rue de l'Université, the rue Jacob, and the rue de Seine.
“Robert, what is this all about?” Rosalie laughed in bewilderment, wondering where this silent walk was going to end up.
A moment later they had reached the Pont des Arts. They walked out on the wooden planks of the old bridge with its black iron railings. When they'd reached a point about halfway across, Robert came to a sudden halt.
“Which side?” he asked, rummaging in his shoulder bag.
“Which ⦠side?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
“Well, would you prefer the side with the view of the Eiffel Tower, or the one with Notre-Dame?” he said impatiently.
Rosalie shrugged her shoulders. “Well ⦠hmm ⦠the Eiffel Tower?” she asked, wide-eyed.
He nodded curtly and they walked over to the railing together.
“Here,” he said, pulling a small package out of his bag. “This is for you.” He smiled. “Or ratherâfor us.”
In some confusion she took his gift, which was unskillfully wrapped in some tissue paper and a couple of bits of Scotch tape.
She opened it, and a mixture of joy and expectation caught her throat.
In her hand lay a little golden padlock on which someone had written in thick black felt pen:
Rosalie & Robert. Pour toujours
.
“Forever?” She looked at him, her heart missing a beat. “Do you believe in forever?”
Robert nodded. “That's all I believe in.” He tenderly stroked a strand of hair from her face. “What a desolate place this world would be if not even a man who's in love believed in it? Doesn't even the greatest realist in his heart of hearts wish for a miracle?”
“Oh yes,” whispered Rosalie, the mistress of wishes. She looked over at the Eiffel Tower looming erect and reliable against the evening sky, and smiled, both happy and bemused.
“But how did you know? I mean⦔
Robert raised his eyebrows. “Soul mates?” he replied.
Rosalie was deeply impressed. Fortunately she would never find out that her American literature professor, who was still carrying an edition of Shakespeare's
Taming of the Shrew
around with him, was not telling the whole truth at that moment. He was lying, but only a teeny-weeny bit. And for love.
After the golden lock had taken its place among the others, Rosalie took a big swing and threw the little key out over the glittering water.
Forever,
she thought, and before the key had sunk to the bottom of the Seine where it would lie for all eternity with all the other lovers' vows, Robert had already taken her in his arms.
Rosalie shut her eyes blissfully and the last thing she saw was the incredible sky over Paris, which, with its patches of pink, white, and lavender, assumed the color of a kiss.
Â
ALSO BY
NICOLAS BARREAU
Â
Nicolas Barreau
was born in Paris, the son of a French father and a German mother. He studied Romance languages and literature at the Sorbonne and worked in a bookshop on the Rive Gauche in Paris but is far from an inexperienced bookworm. With his other successful novels,
The Ingredients of Love
and
One Evening in Paris,
he has gained an enthusiastic audience. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
Â
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin's Press ebook.
Â
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Â
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
Â
For email updates on the author, click
here
.
Â
Contents