Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

Vosges, a wander around the little shops and boutiques of thesecond, perhaps a walk along the Seine, stopping off to look at the second-hand-book stalls. David would disappear after lunch to his meeting for perhaps two hours; Liv would use the magnificent spa at the Royal Monceau while he discussed business. They would meet in the bar for an afternoon cocktail, have a relaxed dinner at a local brasserie. The day had been salvaged. She would be nice. She would be understanding. This was what marriage was about, after all: the great art of compromise. She had told herself this several times since waking up.
    And then, during breakfast, David’s phone rings.
    ‘The Goldsteins,’ she says, when he finally stops talking. Her
tartine
sits untouched in front of her.
    ‘Change of plan. They want to meet me this morning, at their offices near the Champs-Élysées.’
    When she doesn’t say anything, he puts his hand over hers and says, ‘I’m really sorry. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours at most.’
    She cannot speak. Great fat salty tears of disappointment are building behind her eyes.
    ‘I know. I’ll make it up to you. It’s just ’
    ‘that this is more important.’
    ‘This is our future, Liv.’
    Liv looks at him, and she knows her frustration must be clear in her expression. She feels perversely angry with him for making her behave like this.
    He squeezes her hand. ‘Come on, sweetheart. You can do something I didn’t particularly want to do, and I’ll come and meet you. It’s not like it’s hard to kill a couple of hours here. It’s Paris.’
    ‘Sure. I just hadn’t realized my honeymoon was going to be five days in Paris thinking up ways to kill time.’
    There is a slight edge to his voice: ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have a job that I can just switch off.’
    ‘No. You’ve made that very clear.’
    It had been like this all the previous evening at La Coupole. They had struggled to find safe subjects to talk about, smiled stiltedly, an unacknowledged conversation running underneath their too-polite spoken one. When he did speak she had winced at his obvious discomfort. When he didn’t, she had wondered if he was thinking about work.
    When they returned to their suite, Liv had turned away from him on the bed, somehow too angry to want him to touch her ‒ then lain there panicking when he didn’t even try.
    In the six months they had been together she wasn’t sure they had ever argued with each other until they’d come to Paris. The honeymoon was slipping away, she could feel it.
    David breaks the silence first. He refuses to let go of her hand. He leans over the table and pushes a strand of hair back from her face tenderly. ‘I’m sorry. This really will be it. Just give me a couple of hours and I promise I’ll be all yours. Maybe we’ll extend the trip, and I’ll … make up the hours.’ He tries to smile.
    She turns to him then, disarmed, wanting them to feel normal again, wanting them to feel like
themselves
. She stares down at her hand in his, the brassy shine of her new wedding ring, still unfamiliar on her finger.
    The last forty-eight hours have left her completely unbalanced. The happiness she has felt for the last few months seems suddenly fragile, as if it is built on shakier foundations than they had realized.
    She searches his eyes. ‘I do love you, you know.’
    ‘And I love you.’
    ‘I’m a horrible, needy, grumpy girlfriend.’
    ‘Wife.’
    A reluctant smile spreads across her face. ‘I’m a horrible, needy, grumpy wife.’
    He grins and kisses her, and they sit on the edge of the place des Vosges, listening to the roar of the mopeds outside, the traffic crawling up towards rue Beaumarchais. ‘Luckily, I happen to find horrible and grumpy desperately attractive traits in a woman.’
    ‘You forgot needy.’
    ‘That’s my favourite.’
    ‘Go,’ she said, pulling away from him gently. ‘Go now, you smooth-talking architect, before I drag you back to that hotel bed and make sure you don’t get to your very annoying meeting at all.’
    The air between them expands and relaxes. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
    ‘What will you do?’
    She watches him collect up his belongings: keys, wallet, jacket, phone. ‘Go and look at some art, probably.’
    ‘I’ll text you the moment we’re through. I’ll come and meet you.’ He blows a kiss. ‘And then we can continue this pinning-to-the-bed discussion.’
    He’s halfway up the