Remember

  ‘Now you can see why it is difficult for me to get around,’ she said and pointed to her left leg encased up to the knee in a plaster cast. ‘The stairs are hard for me—with this.’

  Nicky nodded sympathetically. ‘I was sorry to hear about your accident, and sorry that I couldn’t take you to lunch at the Relais Plaza. But it’s great to see you, and you do look wonderful, Marie Thérèse.’

  ‘I feel it, ma chérie, except for this silly thing.’ She tapped the cast with her cane and grimaced.

  ‘This is for you,’ Nicky said, giving her the black shopping bag she was carrying.

  ‘Nicky, you shouldn’t have! But how wonderful… something from Chanel.’

  Nicky told her: ‘I hope you like it. I popped across the street this morning, to their boutique. They said you can change it, if you wish.’

  ‘I am sure that I will adore it, thank you. But come, let us not stand here, let us go and sit down so that I can open your cadeaux. You are so generous, ma petite.’

  They sat in wide bergère chairs opposite each other, and within a few seconds Marie Thérèse had opened the Chanel box and pulled out a beautiful red-and-white silk scarf. It was obvious from her expression that she loved it, and Nicky was delighted to see this.

  ‘Thank you, Nicky, you are such a darling.’ Pushing herself up, she went to kiss her, and then added, ‘I have a bottle of white wine ready for us, and a little of the country pâté you always liked.’

  With a chuckle, Nicky said, ‘I hope you’ve got cornichons to go with it.’

  ‘Bien sûr! I wouldn’t dare to serve pâté to you without them. I have not forgotten how much you love them. Why, you and your little friend Natalie used to eat them like the candy!’

  Nicky burst out laughing. ‘And I’ve never lost the taste for them. Neither has Natalie.’

  ‘And where is the beautiful Natalie these days?’

  ‘Living in Los Angeles, and being very successful in films.’

  ‘She was certainly beautiful enough to be a movie star when she was a child.’

  ‘And she’s still a beauty, but she works in production, behind the scenes, not in front of the camera.’

  ‘But you are in front of it, my Nicky, and you are fantastic. One of the French networks recently showed a documentary you had done for ATN on the women of Beirut, and their point of view about the war. It was very touching. I was so proud of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Nicky murmured, and gave her a fond little smile. ‘As I recall, they dubbed me in French.’

  Hobbling across the floor of the living room, Marie Thérèse said, ‘Yes, they did. I will get the wine from the refrigerator, so that we can have a drink.’

  ‘Let me help you!’ Nicky cried, jumping up.

  ‘Merci, chérie.’

  Nicky followed her through the foyer and down a short corridor to the kitchen, where she opened the wine and put it on the tray along with the loaf of pâté, the plate of toast, and the crystal dish of cornichons. Marie Thérèse placed several paper napkins on the plastic tray, and then Nicky carried it back to the living room.

  Once they were settled in their chairs and had clinked glasses, Nicky let her eyes roam around the cheerful room. ‘Your things look beautiful here, and the apartment seems to be large, but why did you move? You were comfortable on the Left Bank, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was, Nicky, this is true. But my apartment only had one bedroom. It was too small for three people.’

  ‘Three? Are Paul and his wife living with you then?’

  The Frenchwoman shook her head. ‘Non, non, chérie, they have their own apartment. I live here because of Marcel, my friend. He is a widower, with a son, and he already had this place. It was so much easier to move in here with them. Marcel and I did it up a little, and brought my things…’ She shrugged. ‘We are content here.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Nicky replied, and eyed her former nanny. Marie Thérèse looked younger than her forty-six years. The short curly hair was still dark, untouched by grey, the rosy complexion youthful, and those warm brown eyes she remembered so well from her childhood shone with happiness. ‘Why, Marie Thérèse, I do believe you’ve fallen madly in love with your friend Marcel! I can see it in your eyes!’

  Marie Thérèse blushed slightly and nodded, suddenly looking shy and girlish.

  Nicky said, ‘I think Marcel must be very good for you.’

  ‘Oh he is, Nicky. I have not been so happy in years. Marcel is a nice man, very kind, and we are happy together.’

  ‘Are you going to marry him?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. There is no hurry.’ She lifted her shoulders, gave a Gallic shrug. ‘When we feel like it, we will.’ Marie Thérèse leaned forward slightly, and asked, ‘But what of you, Nicky? Last night, on the telephone, you said you had a boyfriend in Paris. Is that why you are here? To be with him?’

  ‘Yes, it is. He’s a photographer, and we met in Beirut two years ago. And then just after we came out of China, where we’d been covering the demonstrations in Tiananmen Square, we sort of got involved. That was at the end of June.’

  ‘I never thought you’d be interested in a Frenchman. You were such an all-American girl when you were small.’

  ‘I guess I still am,’ Nicky laughed. ‘And my friend is an American, even though he lives here. His name’s Cleeland Donovan, Clee for short, maybe you’ve seen his photographs in Paris Match.’

  ‘Oui, oui!’ Marie Thérèse exclaimed. ‘I have! And are you going to marry him?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Nicky answered noncommittally.

  ‘That would be wonderful for me, if you came to live in Paris… perhaps we could see each other more often than once every couple of years,’ Marie Thérèse said, sounding wistful.

  ‘Of course we could see each other if I lived here.’

  At this moment the doorbell rang, and Marie Thérèse said, ‘Ah, Nicky, can you go to the door, please? It is the lunch arriving, I ordered it from the restaurant next door.’

  Nicky rose and hurried into the foyer, and as Marie Thérèse struggled to her feet, she called after her, ‘It is paid for. All you have to do is put the dishes in the oven for me. It is already turned on.’

  ‘Okay,’ Nicky said over her shoulder, and opened the front door, took the large tray from the waiter standing there. ‘Merci beaucoup,’ she said, and again glanced over her shoulder at Marie Thérèse, who was hobbling toward her. ‘What about a—’

  ‘It’s already taken care of,’ her friend cut in, and then she looked at the waiter, and murmured, ‘Merci, Olivier, merci.’

  The waiter inclined his head. ‘De rien, Madame Bouret,’ he said before he disappeared down the stairs.

  Once they were in the kitchen, Marie Thérèse leaned against the door jamb whilst Nicky put each of the dishes in the oven. ‘I ordered couscous from downstairs, they make it with chicken, and it’s delicious,’ she explained.

  ‘It certainly smells it,’ Nicky replied as she straightened, and pushed her hair out of her face.

  Marie Thérèse continued, ‘Now, let us go back to the salon and have another glass of wine before lunch. And you can tell me all about your friend Clee.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to do that.’ Nicky flashed her a wide smile, and added, ‘I’ll begin now if you like by telling you that he’s absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Aha, my Nicky, I think you too are in love!’

  ‘I just might be at that,’ Nicky found herself agreeing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Nicky felt her mood changing the minute she opened the door to Clee on Monday evening. The last vestiges of her sadness, that awful feeling of melancholy, dissipated instantly, and her spirits lifted. All of the things which had troubled her for the last few days were pushed to the back of her mind. The only thing that mattered was Clee.

  He stood there, saying nothing, a huge smile spreading across his face, his love spilling from his dark eyes.

  She smiled back, her face filling with radiance, opened the
door wider, and stepped to one side so he could enter.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Nick,’ he said, striding into the suite, grabbing hold of her, wrapping his arms around her, pushing the door closed with his foot. ‘It’s been too long, babe,’ he went on, brushing her cheek with his lips. ‘Far too long for me.’

  ‘And me,’ she said, holding on to him tightly. ‘I’ve missed you too, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Clee said, and bent his face to hers, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then releasing her, he put his arm around her shoulders, walked her into the small sitting room.

  Pausing in the centre he held her away from him, exclaimed, ‘God, it’s so good to see you! You’ve lost weight… pining for me, I’ve no doubt.’ He gave her a cheeky grin and added, ‘Well I hope that’s the reason.’

  ‘It’s true, I have longed for you,’ Nicky responded, taking herself by surprise with this unexpected admission. She was usually so cautious in what she said to him.

  ‘That makes two of us. But hey, I’m going to have to fatten you up a bit, otherwise Amelia will be after me when we get to the farm. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Sure I do, she wants to turn me into a butterball,’ Nicky declared, laughing. ‘But nevertheless, I’m counting the minutes… I can’t wait to get there. It’s going to be wonderful!’ She meant this; she ached to escape to Provence, wanting to obliterate everything that had happened since she had arrived in Europe, and most of all to forget about Charles Devereaux entirely.

  ‘Well, I guess I’d better dump my problems on you now, before we do anything else,’ he announced, and made a grimace.

  Nicky stared at him, raised a blonde brow, looking concerned. ‘What kind of problems, Clee?’

  He didn’t immediately answer this question. Instead, he asked, ‘Is that a bottle of champagne I spy in the ice bucket over there?’

  ‘Dom Pérignon. Your favourite.’

  ‘Let’s have a glass, darling, and then I’ll explain.’

  ‘Fine,’ Nicky said, and sat down on the sofa, experiencing a little pang of anxiety, hoping the problems he had mentioned were not insurmountable. She couldn’t bear it if he had to go away on another assignment. All she wanted was to be with him. She needed him, needed his gentleness and affection.

  Clee went over to the coffee table, fiddled with the cork, opened the bottle of champagne with efficiency and filled the two crystal flutes on the tray. After clinking his glass against hers, he took a long swallow. ‘Mmmm, that’s good,’ he murmured, and walked over to the fireplace. ‘It’s been a helluva rough day at the office.’

  ‘The problems, Clee, what are they?’ she pressed, sounding anxious.

  He put his glass down on the mantelpiece, and said, ‘Okay, here goes. Firstly, I’ve got a leak in the bathroom. I came back last night to find a flood. Bathroom and bedroom under water—well, almost. I called several plumbers today but, in typical French fashion, not one was available until tomorrow. I could float away in the meantime. Anyway, my housekeeper has done her best to contain the deluge, but there’s no way I can move you into my apartment tonight. So—’

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a toothbrush and banged it down on the mantel. ‘I’ve got to sleep here tonight, babe. I can camp out in the suite with you, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course you can, you fool!’ she cried, the laughter rising in her as she filled with relief. ‘I’d love it, and I’d hardly call that a problem. I mean, staying here isn’t, but I am sorry about your apartment.’

  He grinned at her. ‘It needed redecorating anyway.’ His face sobered as he went on. ‘Second one coming up… we can’t leave for the farm on Wednesday as we’d planned, Nick. I’ve got beaucoup problems at the office—’

  ‘Such as what?’ she cut in, her brow puckering as worry took hold of her again.

  ‘Two of my partners are kaput, so to speak. Steve’s mother died yesterday, very suddenly and unexpectedly. She wasn’t even sick, just dropped dead in her kitchen of a heart attack. He took off for the States this morning, and he’ll be gone a week at least. That wouldn’t be too hard for the office to handle normally, except that unfortunately Michel put his back out ten days ago. A slipped disc. And he’s still not well enough to come in, is laid up in agony, in fact. Pete Naylor and I will have to split their assignments between us, which are mostly in Paris, thank God.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Steve’s mother, and I feel for Michel with his back. And of course I understand.’

  ‘Do you mind being in Paris another week?’

  ‘You know I love Paris. Besides which, I don’t really care where I am, as long as I’m with you.’

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve had today,’ he said, smiling broadly, his manner nonchalant. But his eyes were fastened on hers very intently all of a sudden. Clee was no fool, and he realized the progress he had made with her since they had been together in Provence and later in New York. Maybe his absence from her life had been effective, had helped his case.

  Taking a sip of champagne, he continued, ‘There’s another thing, although it’s not really a problem, more of a disappointment. Yoyo won’t be arriving in Paris until the end of the week. So I’m afraid there’s no celebration tonight.’

  ‘Oh yes there is,’ she said, giving him a pointed look.

  ‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I’m sorry we won’t be seeing Yoyo,’ Nicky remarked between sips of champagne. ‘But the main thing is that he’s on his way here, not rotting in a Beijing jail. Have you actually spoken to him yet?’

  ‘No. He phoned the office again. On Saturday. Jean-Claude says Yoyo knew you would be in Paris today. Apparently he’d spoken to your secretary in New York at some point.’

  ‘Last week. He phoned me at the network. Annette told me today, when I checked in with her.’

  Clee nodded, finished his champagne, and stepped over to the coffee table, poured himself another one. ‘Are you ready for a refill, Nicky?’

  She shook her head. ‘No more for me just now, thanks.’

  Propping himself against the mantel, Clee asked, ‘How did your research go in Rome, Athens and Madrid?’

  ‘Okay… Fine, thanks. And how did you get on in Berlin and Leipzig?’

  ‘Not bad, Nick, not bad at all. And I have a feeling I might go back there in the not too distant future. A lot’s happening—we’ve seen nothing yet.’ He began to speak about the political situations now existing in East and West Berlin, Leipzig, the Eastern European bloc in general, most especially Russia.

  Nicky sat back on the sofa, listening attentively, interested in everything he had to say, respecting his judgement, as she always had. But at the same time, part of her mind was focused on him. She could not help thinking how marvellous he looked this evening. His face was lightly tanned, as it usually was from being outdoors so much, and his brown hair had been lightened by the sun. He wore a dark-blue silk suit, a pale-blue shirt and a navy tie; she had never seen him looking smarter. But although he had long ago acquired that inimitable stylishness of the French, and looked European in a certain sense, his face was wholly American. It was boyish and open, a nice face. The brown eyes were full of candour and sincerity, his wide Irish mouth was generous, also very gentle. Yes, Cleeland Donovan was a quietly handsome man, and very appealing.

  Unexpectedly, her feelings for him seemed to engulf her, overwhelm her. For the first time she truly understood how much this man really meant to her. There was no one in the world who was more important than he was, and momentarily she was startled by this sudden self-knowledge.

  Lost for a few seconds in her contemplation of him and of her feelings for him, she wasn’t aware that he had stopped speaking until he let out a low whistle. He startled her. With a jolt she sat up straighter, and blinked.

  ‘Hey, Nicky, where are you drifting off to?’ he asked and broke into laughter. ‘Hell, I guess I’m boring you!’

  ‘No, no, Clee, you’re not, honestl
y,’ she protested, staring at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got a peculiar expression on your face.’

  ‘I love you.’

  He gaped at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  He crossed the floor in three strides and sat down on the sofa next to her, reached for her hands, held them tightly in his, peered into her face. ‘Yes, it’s true, I did hear. But would you mind repeating that phrase one more time?’

  ‘I love you, Clee.’

  ‘Oh Nicky.’ He took her face between his hands and kissed her, then, leaning against her, he pushed her down onto the cushions. Moving a strand of blonde hair away from her face, he said, ‘I love you too. And it’s been hellish not having you with me.’

  Nicky lifted her hand, touched his mouth, traced its shape with a fingertip. ‘I know, it was the same for me, darling.’

  Once more he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her more passionately than before, his tongue finding hers, grazing it, lingering against it. Abruptly he stopped, and whispered against her hair, ‘Let’s find a bed. I want you.’

  Clee stood up, offered her his hand, and together they walked into the bedroom. He flung off his clothes, and so did she; they met in the middle of the floor, wrapped their arms around each other. They stood for a long moment, without saying a word, without moving, just glad to be close and intimate and together again.

  At last Clee said, ‘It’s never been like this before for me, it really hasn’t.’

  ‘It hasn’t for me either,’ she answered, and she knew now that this was the truth. She had not loved Charles in quite the same way that she loved Clee, because each man had brought out something different in her.

  There was another moment of silence as he nuzzled his face in her hair, stroked his hands down over her back, slid them onto her buttocks, pulled her closer so that their pelvic bones touched.

  Nicky trembled slightly, becoming aroused as he already was. Now it was she who took the lead, pushed him gently away from her and led him over to the bed.