Barbara Taylor Bradford - Three Weeks in Paris

‘I do.’

‘Can you?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, of course I can. Feel this.’ Taking hold of her hand, he put it on him under the duvet. ‘See what you do to me. And I’ll always be ready to make babies with you, darling.’

‘Then stop boasting and let’s do it!’ she exclaimed, sliding a leg over him, kissing him on the mouth. ‘Let’s do it all night, in fact. It’s one of the things I love to do with you, Jack.’

‘Don’t you want dinner?’ He raised a brow.

‘Oh, who cares about food when we’ve something so important and crucial to do.’

He started to laugh. ‘I care. But we don’t have to venture out, my sweet. I brought dinner with me. In the shopping bag.’

‘Oh, so you planned all this, did you? Very devious, you are, Jack Wilton. You wicked, sexy man. I might have known you came here to seduce me. To impregnate me.’

‘Seduce you! What a bloody cheek! You’ve just displayed the most incredible example of splendid cooperation I’ve ever come across. As for impregnating you, you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to do that.’

They began to roar with laughter, hugging each other and rolling around on the bed, filled with hilarity and pleasure in each other, and the sheer happiness of being young and alive. But after a moment or two of this gentle horseplay, Jack’s face turned serious, and he held Alexandra still. ‘You’re not going to change your mind, are you, Lexi?’

‘’Course not, silly.’ She touched his cheek lightly, smiled seductively. ‘Shall we get to it then…making babies, I mean.’

‘Try and stop me–’ he began and paused.

The shrilling of the intercom startled Alexandra, and nonplussed she stared at Jack. Then she scrambled off the bed, took a woollen dressing gown out of the wardrobe, and struggled into it as she ran to the foyer. Lifting the intercom phone, she said, ‘Hello?’

‘FedEx delivery for Ms Gordon.’

‘Thanks. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the fourteenth floor.’

The carbon copy of the original label on the front of the FedEx envelope was so faint she could barely make out the name and address of the sender. In fact, the only part she could read was Paris, France.

She stood holding the envelope, a small furrow crinkling the bridge of her nose. And then her heart missed a beat.

From the doorway of the bedroom, Jack said, ‘Who’s it from? You look puzzled.’

‘I can’t make out the name. Best thing to do is open it, I suppose,’ she replied, forcing a laugh.

‘That 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.