Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

And she
had
known what he was like, from their very first date, when he had driven her around London and told her about the background and design of modern glass and steel structures they passed.
    But something had happened as she’d crossed the threshold of the hotel room. She’d seen him on the telephone and just the simple fact that she’d known, immediately, it was a work call had skewed her fragile sense of goodwill. You weren’t worried about me, she thinks crossly. You were discussing what thickness of glass to use on the new building entrance, or whether the roof brace could support the weight of the extra ventilation shaft.
    She runs a bath, filling it with expensive hotel bubbles, then slides in, letting out a sigh of relief as she immerses herself in the hot water.
    Some minutes later, David knocks on the door and enters.
    ‘Tea,’ he says, and puts the cup on the side of the marble bath.
    ‘Thank you.’
    She waits for him to leave, but he sits down on the closed lid of the lavatory, leaning forwards, and watches her.
    ‘I booked us a table at La Coupole.’
    ‘For tonight?’
    ‘Yes. I told you about it. It’s the brasserie with the amazing murals painted by artists who –’
    ‘David, I’m really tired. I walked a long way. I don’t think I want to go out tonight.’ She doesn’t look at him as she speaks.
    ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to get us reservations for another night.’
    ‘Sorry. I just want to have some room service and go to bed.’
    Why are you doing this?
she yells at herself silently.
Why are you sabotaging your own honeymoon?
    ‘Look. I’m sorry about today, okay? It’s just that I’ve been trying to get a meeting with the Goldsteins for months. And it just turns out they’re in Paris, and they finally agreed to see my designs. This is the building I was telling you about, Liv. The big one. And I think they liked it.’
    Liv stares at her toes, which emerge pink and shining from the water. ‘Well, I’m glad it went well.’
    They sit in silence.
    ‘I hate this. I hate that you’re so unhappy.’
    She looks up at him, his blue eyes, the way his hair is always a bit messy, the way he is resting his face in his hands. After a moment’s hesitation she reaches out a hand, and he takes it. ‘Ignore me. I’m being silly. You’re right. I know this building’s a big deal for you.’
    ‘It really is, Liv. I wouldn’t have left you for anything else. This is the thing I’ve been working towards for months. Years. If I can pull it off, the partnership is made. My reputation is made.’
    ‘I know. Look, don’t cancel dinner. We’ll go. I’ll feel better after my bath. And we can plan our day tomorrow.’
    His fingers close around hers. Because of the soapsuds it’s hard for hers not to slip away.
    ‘Well … here’s the thing. They want me to meet their project manager tomorrow.’
    Liv goes very still. ‘What?’
    ‘They’re flying him over specially. They want me to meet them at their suite in the Royal Monceau. I thought maybe you could go to the spa there while I was with them. It’s meant to be amazing.’
    She looks up at him. ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘I am. I heard it was voted French
Vogue
’s best –’
    ‘I’m not talking about the bloody spa.’
    ‘Liv – this means they’re actually keen. I have to capitalize on it.’
    Her voice, when it emerges, is strangely strangulated. ‘Five days. Our honeymoon is all of five days, David. Not even a week. You’re telling me they couldn’t wait to have a meeting for another seventy-two hours?’
    ‘This is the Goldsteins, Liv. This is how billionaires do things. You have to fit around their timetable.’
    She stares at her feet, at the pedicure she had booked at great expense, and remembers how she and the beautician had laughed when she’d said that her feet looked good enough to eat.
    ‘Please go away, David.’
    ‘Liv. I –’
    ‘Just leave me alone.’
    She doesn’t look at him as he rises from the lavatory. When he closes the bathroom door behind him, Liv shuts her eyes and slides under the hot water until she can hear nothing at all.

Chapter Two
    Paris, 1912
    ‘Not the Bar Tripoli.’
    ‘Yes, the Bar Tripoli.’
    For a big man, Édouard Lefèvre could bear an uncanny resemblance to a small boy informed of some imminent punishment. He looked down at me, his expression pained, and blew out his cheeks. ‘Ah – let’s not do this tonight, Sophie. Let’s go and eat somewhere.