The Last Time I Saw Paris (32 page)

The sommelier poured the Krug and Bill lifted his glass to her. “Come on, Lara, perk up, we're here to enjoy ourselves. We're in Paris together again. This is our Second Honeymoon.”

She refused the champagne. “I've already had my Second Honeymoon,” she said, “and I'll remind you it was not with you.”

He raised exasperated eyes to heaven again. “Why are you being so difficult? I'm just trying to express my love for you.”

He had a pained look, as though he were the one who had been wronged, and Lara could feel the pendulum already swinging back to his side, where the only viewpoint was Bill's.

“You know, Lara, you really didn't have to go this far,” he added.

“What do you mean?” She didn't know what he was talking about.

Bill took a sip of the excellent champagne. “Oh, come on, I know you said you were with another man, but do you really expect me to believe that's true? You're just not the type. Look at yourself, Lara. You're a middle-aged housewife, and—though I love you—you've never exactly been the type to turn men's heads . . . though I must say you do look very well tonight.”

“Are you saying I
invented
a lover just to make you jealous?”

He lifted a shoulder, smiling. “Don't worry. I understand completely. What I did was wrong and you felt the need to retaliate.”

“You pompous, self-satisfied prick!” The words came out in a furious hiss. “How
dare
you say that to me.” Lara struggled to her feet and a waiter hurried to help her. She grabbed her purse and, with a final furious glare, swept off to the powder room.

Bill glanced after her, astonished, then he signaled to the waiter to refill his glass. Lara was having a little tantrum, that was all. No woman really cared to know
the truth about herself, not even Melissa—and certainly not Lara, whom he had sheltered from reality all her life. He had taken good care of her, provided for her; she'd had a good life. She would get over this and come back to him. Another five minutes and she would be back, apologizing. And so would he, of course. It was only fair, though he had little to apologize for. Melissa was only a passing fancy, even if he had taken her a tad too seriously in the beginning. But that's the way it was with men. Sex came first. Then the letdown. He glanced around the room to see who was there. This place was always filled with famous people; there might be someone he knew.

His eyes lit on the young man talking to the maître d'. Surprised, he saw that he was coming his way. Bill looked up at him, then at the bunch of rapidly wilting poppies he was clutching. He must be a vendor.

“Well, really, I didn't know you were allowed to sell flowers in a restaurant like this,” he said, dismissing him.

Dan had known Lara would be at the Ritz, had found that Bill was there, found where they were dining. “I'm looking for Lara,” he said. “I knew she would be here with you.”

It suddenly dawned on Bill that Lara hadn't been pretending after all, and he inspected his rival carefully, up and down, pegging his station in life exactly. “Well, let me tell you, young fella,” he said in a vicious whisper, “you had better get out of here before I have you thrown out.”

“I'm waiting for Lara,” Dan said, determined.

Bill half rose from his seat. “Oh, no, you're not, fella. And you want to know why? Just look around—ask yourself whether you belong with a woman who's
used to places like this. And let me tell you something else you should know. Lara asked me to come to Paris to get her; she wants to reconcile.”

“I don't believe it,” Dan said, but despair lurked behind his eyes.

“Lara is
my
wife, buddy,” Bill said, still in that vicious whisper. “She's the mother of my children and I'm damned if I'm gonna let you near her again.”

Heads were turning toward them and waiters hovered anxiously, sensing trouble. The maître d' hurried over and took Dan's arm, urging him away. Dan shook his head, unwilling to believe Bill. Then knowing it must be true, he dropped the fading poppies and walked out of the restaurant.

And out of their lives, Bill thought, satisfied. He summoned the maître d', tipped him lavishly, and thanked him for “taking care of things.” He had sorted that little matter out to his satisfaction. Lara was his again. He glanced idly at his gold Rolex. What on earth could she be doing in that powder room?

 

Lara was standing in front of the mirror attempting to powder her nose, but every time she got the powder on, her tears washed it off again. She was wondering how to sort out her life; how to deal with Bill; what to do about Dan; wondering how she'd ever got herself into this mess in the first place.

She glanced at the woman standing next to her, also powdering her nose. She was older, smart, glamorous in that chic Parisian way, red hair swept back from a smooth brow and dark eyes that knew enough to understand Lara's trouble.

The Frenchwoman raised her eyebrows. She smiled. “Don't cry,” she said. “Just ask yourself is he
worth your tears?” She put a comforting hand on Lara's shoulder as their eyes met in the mirror.
“Courage, chéri.
Men can be so. . .
unsympathetic.
Take it from one who knows.” And with a final smile, she was gone.

Lara slumped into a chair. She put her chin in her hands and stared at her own face in the mirror. The woman was right. Why should she shed tears for Bill Lewis? Hadn't she cried enough over him? Damn it, if she was going to cry then it should be for losing Dan, for being a fool, for ruining something beautiful.

What she had told that little dog in the museum gardens was right. Now she told it to the mirror. “I've lost Bill, but I lost him a long time ago, I just refused to acknowledge it. And now I've lost Dan. All that's left is
me.”
She heaved a wobbly sigh. “But now at least I know who I am.”

Determinedly, she powdered her nose, put on fresh lipstick, combed her long hair back like the redheaded Frenchwoman's. She pirouetted slowly in front of the mirror. The clinging black dress looked pretty darn good—and so what if it showed off the extra couple of pounds?—and the black stilettos showed off her legs. Besides, Delia was right; she had always had good legs. She was a pretty woman and age didn't have a thing to do with it.

 

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode confidently from the powder room, ready to take on Bill. He got politely to his feet when he saw her coming, but he still had that “what took you so long” look on his face. She knew it only too well. Bill didn't like to be kept waiting. Well, tough.

She stopped short when she spied the poppies lying on the floor. She bent and picked them up, laying each one carefully on the table as though it were a precious jewel. “I see Dan was here,” she said when at last she could speak.

“You'll be pleased to know I got rid of your toyboy.” Bill ignored Lara's lethal look, ignored the danger signals that she was coming to the boiling point. That she had finally had it with him. “It's for the best and you know it. Just think of your children,” he lectured. “And besides, it's time you stopped being silly and acted your age. Now sit down and for God's sakes let's have a civilized dinner.”

She picked up the poppies, clutched them to her breast. “How
dare
you lecture me about having an affair,” she said icily, “when you're the one who's been fucking your assistant. And
I
was the last to know.” Then, with a single ferocious blow, she swiped the champagne glasses off the table.

Life at the grand restaurant suddenly stopped. Lara leaned closer to Bill and said loudly, so he was sure to hear, “I want a divorce.
Now.
Understand?”

Not even the clink of silverware and crystal broke the silence. Everyone stared, hanging on to every word. Even the haughty waiters were frozen in their tracks.

Remembering where she was, Lara glanced around. She picked up her purse, put her chin in the air and, still clutching the poppies, strode regally to the door, acknowledging with a little nod en route the admiring glances of the other women in the restaurant.

Bill stared after her, unable to believe the scene she had just created. How
dare
she do that to him? How
dare
she, when he was trying to save her from herself? How
dare
she embarrass him? He would never
be able to come here again. He sank back into the booth, smoothed back his hair, straightened his immaculate cuffs, checked his gold Rolex.

“Women,” he said loudly to the room, trying to shrug it off.

Every woman in the place fixed him with an icy stare.

B
ack at the Ritz, Lara asked that her bags be brought down, she was checking out. Then she got into the car and drove aimlessly around until she realized she had passed the Café Flore half a dozen times already, that she had been hoping to find Dan there. But he wasn't and she ended up at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, begging the dragon lady for a room, where she lay wide awake all night, alone in the
lit matrimonial.
When dawn came, she was up and dressed, downing a cup of coffee, then back in the little Renault en route to the airport.

It was good-bye to Paris, she thought sadly as she drove through the quiet, early morning streets. Would she ever return? Somehow, she didn't think so. Her love affair with the city would be forever unconsum-mated.

At the airport, she tried to explain to the rental company official—in French—about the damage to the bumper and the broken headlights and that of course she would pay for it—or at least her insurance would. After much throwing of hands in the air and
Mon Dieu
and
quelle horreur
and
les américains,
she was relieved of the key and presented with a sheaf of documents to sign, none of which she understood and which, she guessed, would someday come back to haunt her.

By the time she had finished doing battle with the
car rental people it was after eleven. Exhausted, her nerves shattered, she decided she was beyond coffee and needed a drink.

For the second time in her life, she took a seat at a bar alone. She stared at the flashing neon sign over the bar.
PARIS IS FOR LOVERS,
it announced triumphantly.

She ordered a Ricard. The white-coated barman slid the glass across the counter and she smiled, thinking, Yeah, this is really me, the new Lara Lewis, woman of the world, in a bar alone.

She checked the clock on the wall. Ten after eleven. Her flight did not board until twelve-thirty. She wondered what to do until then; she couldn't just sit here and watch that sign reminding her of what she had lost. Morosely, she took a sip of the Ricard, pulling a face at the sharp anise flavor.

Dan stood, arms folded across his chest, looking at her. He had seen her walk into the bar, straight-backed, chin up, hair in a sleek knot at her neck. She was wearing the short St. Tropez white skirt and the sexy black heels and her legs were a suntanned gold. She looked cool, beautiful, self-assured. He hesitated, wondering where Bill Lewis was, then, telling himself this was his last chance, he decided to go for it.

“Lara?”

Her heart did a triple somersault. She could not move, couldn't even turn to look at him.

“I guessed you would be here for the flight.” He was standing close to her, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans. “I was worried about you.”

Numb, she stared straight ahead at the neon sign.
PARIS IS FOR LOVERS—
it flickered on and off, endlessly, infinitely.…
Okay, so now say you ‘re sorry.
She could almost hear the voices of the Girlfriends
urging her on.
Or are you going to blow it all again just because of your stupid pride? Give yourself a chance, just say you're sorry, ask him to forgive you.
…

And if he doesn't want to?

Then at least you tried. This is your life you're talking about, Girlfriend. . . .

She turned and met his eyes—those blue, blue eyes that knew her too well. Knew who she was, what she was. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry too.” He said it so quietly only she could hear. They might have been the only people in the bar, the only ones at the whole airport. “I hurt you and I never wanted to do that.”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “It was my fault. I was the one who hurt you.”

“Only my pride.” His voice was a murmur; it seemed to caress her like the soft waves of the Mediterranean.

“I never meant to hide the Second Honeymoon from you. I. . . I guess I thought it would spoil things. I just wanted to be with you.” Her voice trembled. “Believe me, it had nothing to do with Bill.”

“I believe you.”

He was so near, all she had to do was reach out and take his hand. But she knew it was hopeless. He was going to say, It's been nice knowing you, thank you, and good-bye.

“I love you, Lara,” he was saying. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want to take care of you. I want you to be my wife.” He took her hand in his hard, warm one. “Will you marry me, Lara?”

She stared at him, all big topaz eyes. “For better or for worse?” she whispered.

He pulled a crumpled brown paper bag from his
pocket and took out a golden ring set with a tiny blue stone, the exact color of the Mediterranean. “I bought it in the Antibes market when you weren't looking,” he told her. “It's nothing, but if you said yes, I thought it would do until I could get you a proper diamond.”

Her eyes brimming, Lara held out her hand and he slipped the little ring onto her finger. It was a bit big but that was okay. She turned her hand this way and that, admiring it. It was perfect. She leaned toward him and their lips met in a kiss, sealing their pledge.

There was a spatter of applause and they swung around, smiling as cries of
felicitations
and
bon chance
came from the crowd at the bar. And behind them the prophetic sign flashed the truth—
PARIS IS FOR LOVERS.