I could hardly be mad at him, since I’d said on the phone that I didn’t mind making a dinner appointment, but I’d been thinking about a sexy night in all the way under the Channel . . .
‘Um, OK,’ I said. ‘But we can stay in tomorrow?’
‘Sure. Hey, are those things pyjamas?’ he asked, peering at my swishy pants.
‘They’re lounge pants,’ I replied.
‘Right.’ His face said what he was too polite to put into words.
‘I’ll go and change,’ I said, hauling myself to my bare feet. The sofa wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it looked. In fact, it wasn’t a sofa for lounging on at all.
While Jonathan was at work on Friday, I put on my flat shoes and took the métro up to Montmartre in search of a vintage clothes boutique I’d read about in the Sunday papers. It was a breath-catching walk up the steep hills from Abbesses station, but the pretty winding streets and canopied pâtisseries distracted me until I puffed my way to the steps of Sacré-Coeur, and Paris was laid out like a miniature city beneath me.
I spent the day browsing the clothes shops (euros still felt like Monopoly money and were therefore tons easier to spend than my hard-earned pounds), and taking photographs of sleepy black cats and creepy alleyways. I found a recipe book for beginner French cooks that even I could translate, so as I waited for the bus back into town, I pictured myself flitting Frenchly from boucherie to épicerie to boulangerie, then fastening on a pinny and whisking up a romantic meal in the brand-new kitchen. I’d decided I could put the spare keys in a little dish of some kind – it was the kind of news that deserved its own fanfare.
Before that, though, I’d arranged to meet Jonathan for a drink on the Left Bank, and – typically – he noticed my new/old spotty blouse immediately, which only boosted my good mood.
‘New shirt?’ he said, kissing me on the cheek.
‘Yes.’ I flicked up the collar, and caught my reflection in the glass. There seemed to be mirrors all over French dining establishments – for admiring yourself and flirting, presumably. ‘Quite Brigitte Bardot, the lady in the shop said. I think.’
‘Mm.’ Jonathan stopped perusing the wine list. ‘Listen, I meant to ask you – fancy going shopping tomorrow?’
‘Ooh, yes!’ I said. ‘What for?’
‘Clothes?’
‘For you?’ My mental Rolodex whirred. ‘I’ve heard there’s a marvellous American men’s tailor that all the—’
‘Um . . . I mean, for you? Too?’ he added, a fraction late.
I stared at him. ‘But I’m fine for clothes!’ I laughed. ‘You know me and my wardrobe.’
‘Well,’ he said, looking a little cautious, ‘I was thinking more of a working wardrobe. It isn’t that I don’t think what you wear is great, Melissa, but I just think, here in Paris, people are a bit more traditional than London? And we want clients to take you seriously.’
I felt rather stung. Apart from the fact that my clients did take me seriously, thanks, Jonathan had always gone on about how gorgeous he thought I looked in my pencil skirts and nipped-in winter tweeds. Like an old-fashioned man’s woman, he used to say. ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’
Jonathan spread his hands. ‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong. Just that you might want to look more . . . business-like.’
The waiter appeared and Jonathan ordered something in fluent French. He and the waiter then shared a little joke that I didn’t understand, and the waiter looked at me, still chuckling, and I had to smile and pretend I had.
‘Listen, you can’t wear tea dresses to work, not for the type of clients we deal with,’ said Jonathan, getting back to the matter in hand. ‘It’s not what they’re used to. It doesn’t come across.’
‘Surely if I’m dealing with their cleaners and arranging nannies I should look relaxed and trustworthy?’ I argued.
Jonathan made a face as if he couldn’t understand why I was being so difficult. ‘Don’t take it so personally. You can save the pretty dresses for me, when you get home. You know I love them.’
There was something so Daddyish in that comment that I forgot my Parisian diet and reached out crossly for the bread basket on the table.
‘I’ll get Solange to find you a dressmaker, if you want,’ he carried on. ‘It’s the kind of thing she’d know. We really have to set up lunch with her – I’m hoping I’ll be able to persuade her to jump ship and come in with us eventually.’ He looked over the table at me. ‘What do you reckon? You could train her up.’
‘I’m sure she could do the job better than me already,’ I said pettily. I knew I was being childish, but it came out anyway. Argh.
Jonathan cocked his head. ‘Well, I must admit I’d been looking ahead to that – you know, so that in a year or so, you might want to take some time off?’ He raised his ginger eyebrows.
‘Sorry?’ I said. Surely Jonathan wasn’t bringing up the romantic topic of us starting a family in the context of his diary. Was he?
‘Well, you know, neither of us is getting any younger. Not just you,’ he added, as my face registered distress, ‘me too! I read that men have a biological clock too – and I’m going to be forty this Christmas. And what with Brendan and Cindy having little Parker running about . . .’
Cindy was his ex-wife. Brendan was his brother. Parker was his two-year-old nephew. Doesn’t take a genius to see how painful Jonathan’s divorce was.
He reached over the table to stroke my arm, but I felt too cross to reciprocate. We’d never really talked about family plans, since Parker was such a tricky topic, but it was one of my favourite romantic thoughts – you know, finding the man you’d want as your children’s father. I’d always assumed it would just . . . happen, not be timetabled. I should have known Jonathan would want to be more specific.
He touched my engagement ring. ‘Once we’ve got this business up and running, and the wedding over, I don’t think we should hang around, do you? In case . . . you know.’
The wine arrived, and Jonathan disengaged his hand to try it.
‘Bon,’ he nodded knowledgeably to the sommelier, and nodded again towards me to have my glass filled.
Suddenly, I really felt like I needed a drink. I took a deep slurp of red wine, and braced myself to be frank. He’d casually brought up a whole load of stuff – not just babies, but this business of my clothes, the chalet-girl nature of what I was meant to do, the fact that we hadn’t actually discussed how I was going to wind things up at the agency – and now appeared to be moving onto the menu as if it was all settled.
I felt a tightness starting in my chest, and forced myself to sound relaxed.
‘Actually, darling,’ I said, putting my goblet down. ‘There were one or two things I wanted to ask you. About the business.’
‘Can it wait till after supper?’ he asked, gazing at the specials board. ‘You’re always telling me not to talk about work when we’re off-duty.’
‘But I think we . . .’ I began, and he looked up, with a ‘No, no!’ twinkle in his grey eyes.
‘But . . .’
‘Ah, ah!’ he said playfully.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But shall we talk about this at home? I’m going to wow you with cooking and translation skills.’ It was nearly six, and if we didn’t get back the shops would be shut and my planned dinner wouldn’t happen.
‘I called you,’ I added. ‘About supper?’
He tore his eyes from the menu. ‘Oh. I didn’t get that message. I thought we could eat now then go to the Mozart recital at the Théatre des Champs-Elysées. That OK?’
I felt my heart sink. ‘It’s just that . . . I thought we were going to stay in this evening, spend some time together?’
Jonathan looked up. ‘Melissa, I only see you a few days a week. What’s the point of staying in and doing nothing?’
‘Because it’s just nice? To relax? Be all unbuttoned together?’ I tried a smile. ‘You know how I love my evenings in.’
‘Honey, I don’t work this hard
to spend evenings in watching television,’ he said. ‘Anyway, there’s so much to catch up on – how’s Emery? Tell me she’s hired someone else to sort out the christening for little Egbert. There’s no way you’ve got time to get dragged into that!’
‘Cuthbert. The baby’s called Cuthbert,’ I said. Suddenly, I couldn’t even be bothered to argue. A real paralyser of a Bad Mood was starting to spread through me. ‘Jonathan, I’m just going to pop to the loo – if the waiter comes back before I do, I’ll have the tomato salad to start, then the sole.’
I pushed my chair back, and weaved my way out into the fresh air.
Most people would reach into their bags and restore themselves with a cigarette. Instead, I refreshed my lipstick and checked my phone. No messages.
Nelson would be at home by now, I thought. Probably with his feet up, with some home-made minestrone, watching Time Team. Unless he was out with Leonie.
Or maybe Leonie was there with him, I thought, with a pang. On my side of the sofa.
My fingers started to move before I could think. WANT ANYTHING FROM PARIS? I texted and sent it to him.
Almost immediately, a reply pinged back. DUR!! YOU FORGOT TO MOVE YR CAR AGAIN! HAD TO SAVE IT FROM PARKING WARDENS – IS PARKED IN LUPUS ST.
I knew there was something I’d forgotten in my rush to catch the train yesterday: the evil hour when parking was permit-only outside our house. Good old Nelson had saved me at least sixty quid there. I smiled at the image of bear-like Nelson folded up in my tiny pink Smart, scooting away in the nick of time from the fist-waving wardens. I LOVE YOU! I texted back. YOU ARE PATRON SAINT OF FLATMATES!
I breathed in the cooler air, and missed London.
To my surprise, the phone beeped again with a new message.
HOW’S PARIS? Nelson had texted.
Nelson didn’t normally text internationally with such wanton disregard for his phone bill. This unexpected yearning for home, plus gratitude for his thoughtfulness unlocked the building panic in me. I started to tell him about having a row with Jonathan, then stopped and deleted it.
FLAT PURCHASE IS GO! I texted instead. THANKS TO YOU!
There was a brief pause, then HOORAY! YOU’RE A BORING MORTGAGED GROWN-UP AT LAST! came back.
I smiled to myself, suddenly seeing his sardonic expression as he said that. Nelson and I could say all sorts to each other, knowing we didn’t really mean it.
I started to text back, then reminded myself I was meant to be having dinner with Jonathan. And how mad did I get when he wouldn’t turn off his BlackBerry?
I texted TALK LATER MX to Nelson, then turned off my phone and went back inside.
Jonathan compromised by ditching the concert for a romantic walk along the river, and after a little brittleness, we got through the starters and the mains in a better mood, talking about my family’s various ridiculous arguments about Bertie’s christening, and Jonathan’s dealings with Parisians, and his plans for the apartment. Then we hit an awkward dry patch, and I found myself blurting out my news about the office, just to fill the silence.
Instead of leaping in the air with delight, Jonathan merely smiled, and said, ‘Hey, well done.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yeah. Good move. I kind of thought you already owned the place, actually.’
I stared at him, dismayed by his lack of excitement. ‘But I’ve never owned anything in my life. This is a big deal for me.’
‘You own a business,’ he said, looking a little evasive.
‘Well, yes, but this is real. This is . . . mine. Ours!’
‘I thought you didn’t want to talk about work,’ he said, signalling to the waiter.
‘Well, no . . .’ I began.
The waiter was hovering at my shoulder.
‘Go on,’ said Jonathan. ‘You order the desserts – good practice.’
I would have bet money that the waiter deliberately brought me crème brûlée instead of crème caramel, but I ate it anyway.
We left the restaurant by nine. Early, for us. When we’d first started dating, it had been a running joke that Jonathan would slip the staff cash to let us linger on, flirting over liqueurs while they swept up around us. And I would argue to my wavering conscience that since it was my job to introduce him to London, I was only giving him value for money by staying so late. Then we started dating properly and there was no need to pretend any more. The talking and flirting carried on, just the same, but with the promise of even more to follow.
Tonight, though, we each sank into our own thoughts. I didn’t understand enough French to eavesdrop on our fellow diners, and I felt uncomfortably like a tourist. Jonathan was quiet too, as if he was trying to work out how to say something. When he suggested strolling to the Square du Vert-Galant off the Pont Neuf ‘because it was famously romantic’ I felt a sudden pitch in my stomach, as if that could only bode badly.
As we walked hand in hand along the bridge, I realised I was racking my brains for something to talk about. That had never happened to us before. It made me feel chilly inside.
‘So come on,’ said Jonathan, pulling me to a sudden stop as we reached a curved sightseeing bay, overlooking the Seine and the tourist boats passing beneath. ‘Suppose you tell me what’s wrong?’
He looped his arms around my waist, and was smiling, but his smile seemed forced. It reminded me again of our first dates: when he was tense, and defensive, still smarting over his divorce and cracking the whip at Dean & Daniels.
‘OK, I’ll start,’ he said, when I didn’t reply immediately. He sat down on the stone bench, and gently pulled me down next to him. ‘I’m sorry for shouting at you about the Scotts and I’m sorry about that confusion with their club. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. And I’m thrilled about you buying the office, OK? I just wish you’d talked to me about it first.’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise,’ I said, feeling the cold stone through my thin summer skirt. ‘And . . .’
He lifted my chin with a finger, and crinkled up his grey eyes, to examine my face better. ‘What? You’re still offended about the clothes thing, aren’t you? Melissa, don’t take it that way. Think of it as a different kind of costume. Trust me, I know this business and . . .’
I gathered my nerve. ‘That’s just it. I’m just not sure about this business,’ I said.
Jonathan’s brow furrowed. ‘Meaning?’
Squeezing my eyes shut, I opened my mouth and let the words that had been jostling in my head for the last month come out. ‘I don’t think I want to do it. Not the way you want. I’m sorry.’
When I opened my eyes, Paris was still there, the tourists were still strolling across the river, but, for the first time ever, Jonathan was looking lost for words. ‘What are you saying, Melissa?’ he asked, eventually.
That was a very good question. It was also a much bigger one than it first appeared.
And this is where my Ghastly week really began to take on quite epic proportions of Ghastliness.
14
I took a deep breath. ‘Jonathan,’ I said, ‘there’s so much we haven’t discussed. When were you going to ask me what I saw my role in this partnership as? You didn’t even check to see if I wanted to do it before you started making plans.’
It was out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to think what I was saying. The trouble was that once that bit was out, a whole load of other stuff followed it.
‘It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’ve been running my own office for a while now, and I don’t want to act as a glorified chalet maid to people too busy and self-important to pay their own parking fines!’ I went on. ‘I mean, I’m sure they’re very nice and very successful but is that all I’m going to be doing from morning till night – filling in forms for one client after another?’
‘No, there’ll be far more to it than that,’ said Jonathan, sounding surprised at my outburst. ‘Some guys will be bringing their wives over, and if they’re not working, they’ll need someone to
show them round, get them used to the way things work over here . . .’
‘As well as fill in their forms?’ I gave him a ‘Seriously?’ look. ‘And their parking fines? And do their secretarial donkey work?’
He shrugged, openly, with both his hands raised, as if he had no idea why I was being so unreasonable. ‘What’s the problem here? Is there something I’m not seeing? It’s exactly what you’re doing in London. It’s what you’re good at.’
‘It’s totally different,’ I insisted.
‘Is it? You’re just picking up the slack for people who can’t or won’t sort out their own lives. Your clients can’t. Ours, on the other hand, are professional people who don’t have the time. And I know which kind I’d prefer to deal with.’
Jonathan’s voice had suddenly got much harder. ‘You’re happy enough to run after Nicolas,’ he went on disparagingly. ‘And he’s treating you like an idiot, and behaving like a child, so it can’t be about that.’
I bridled at his tone. This wasn’t the romantic, urbane Jonathan I knew. ‘You know as well as I do that Nicky’s a one-off, and anyway, most of my clients aren’t . . .’
I stopped and stared at him. Was this really an argument about work – or was it about my work and my clients versus Jonathan again?
He lifted an eyebrow, but there was none of the tender amusement that usually accompanied the familiar gesture. His face, the face I thought I knew so well, seemed hard, and there was a coldness in his eyes that made me shiver.
I was afraid that the next words that came out of my mouth would shift everything onto dangerous new ground. Here we were, about to move in together, and I just wasn’t sure we were planning the same things.
Jonathan, though, took my silence as some kind of agreement. ‘OK,’ he said, softening, ‘forget Nicky. It’s not that I don’t think your agency is great. You hit on a real niche, and, you know, with the divorce rate and everything, single guys everywhere, it’s only going to get bigger. That’s why I don’t want you to sell up when you move to Paris.’