Greatest Love Story of All Time (38 page)

Michael shrugged. ‘Don’t bloody know. Since he got involved with her I’ve not even heard from him. He is
totally
under the thumb.’

I let him in on my suspicions regarding Dave and Stefania, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. ‘Surely not!
Stefania?
After someone as beautiful as Freya?’ he breathed, scandalized.

‘Er, hang on a minute … Stefania is wonderful, Michael, and she’s really very pretty if you ignore the outfits. But I know what you mean about it being sudden.
Maybe
I’m barking up the wrong tree … I suppose we’ll have to see.’ The conversation turned to Michael’s work: he was out here writing a feature on the Sarkozy family and, as ever, I was dumbstruck
by his success. And, well, his
cleverness.
I listened for ages to the tales of his journalistic exploits tracking down Sarkozy-haters in secret cafés in Montmartre and pulling up old newspapers in dusty records offices, feeling the usual overwhelming sensation of pride. He was so awesome, this man of mine! Quite why he wanted a thicko like me was beyond me.

While we waited for dessert, Michael took my hands in his again and looked me in the eye. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you for agreeing to give more to us. I know it can’t have been easy for you.’ I smiled at him and he kissed me. He didn’t lean back again but stayed very close to my face, gazing searchingly into my eyes.

Suddenly he seemed scared again. He cleared his throat and started speaking hesitantly. ‘Um, I was going to ask you tonight … I have this perfect romantic location lined up but right here, right now, feels perfect.’

He put his hand into his pocket and I started seeing things in slow motion. Out it came. A ring-box. And it opened. And inside it was a beautiful, delicate, sparkling ring made of a smooth silvery metal. Three diamonds sat in a perfect rectangular art-deco clasp. My ears started tingling, so when Michael said, ‘Franny, will you marry me?’ I could barely hear him.

I nodded slowly, wondering if I was possibly fainting. He took my left hand and put the ring on my finger. And then he got up, came round to my chair
and kissed me and hugged me, muttering, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ into my ear. We stayed there for a good five minutes by which time the waiter had served our dessert and wandered off in disgust with the cream jug.

‘I’ve just got engaged!’ I whisper-shrieked, at the stylish old couple who arrived at the table next to ours when Michael went to the loo half an hour later. They looked at me blankly. Ah, yes, they were French. I waved my left hand at them instead, adding squeaks to clarify the situation.

‘Ah!
Félicitations
!’ said Madame, kindly. The man pretty much ignored me but she laughed softly. ‘
Appelez votre mère!
’ she whispered.

Dear Christ! Mum! Madame was quite right. I pulled my phone out of my bag and waited for the ring tone. Nothing. Dammit. Of course, I’d not been able to hear Leonie this morning. Perhaps I could text Mum.

There were three texts from Leonie. The most recent said CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. The one before said: DID YOU GET MY MESSAGE? THIS IS SERIOUS FRAN. Now nervous, I opened the first message.

URGENT: DON’T SEE MICHAEL. CALL ME. DON’T EVEN GO NEAR HIM. I’M NOT FUCKING AROUND.

Oh, God, I thought. This didn’t sound like anything to do with the Eight Date Deal. This didn’t sound like a kindly caution. This was bad. As I stared at my phone, another message came through. FOR
FUCK’S SAKE, ARE YOU GETTING THESE? FRAN YOU MUST NOT MEET MICHAEL.

‘
Pardonnez-moi
,’ I said, grabbing the waiter by his apron. He looked disdainfully at my hand. I removed it. ‘Erm,
j’ai besoin d’utiliser votre téléphone
.’

‘I see. It is over by the maître d’s desk,’ he replied in English. I was off and running. Michael was coming back from the toilet on the other side of the room. I smiled and waved my telephone at him; he nodded and carried on back to the table.

‘Fran? Is that you?’

‘Yes. What the fuck?’

‘Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this.’

‘What?’

‘Franny. It was Michael who sold your mum – and, indeed, you – to the press.’

Silence.

‘Franny?’

‘What are you talking about? Charlie did! He knew everything!’

‘
Yes yes yes
, that’s how it looked, I admit. But it seems Charlie kept his mouth shut. Perhaps he really did like you. Doesn’t matter. Franny, it was Michael.’

I gulped, goldfish-like, unable to take this in. ‘What the hell are you talking about? How? Why are you telling me this now?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I told Alex this morning that you’d gone to Paris to meet Michael. I figured that if you two were getting back together, we could
talk about you at last. But when I said where you were going he went mad. Got really angry. Called Michael a cunt and all sorts. Honestly his language was filthier than when he –’

‘LEONIE.’

‘Sorry. Christ. Look, Alex hasn’t talked to Michael in weeks. They’d been drifting apart for a couple of years because once Michael found you he didn’t really need Alex any more. But then they went out a few weeks back, when Alex told him you were dating, and Michael basically got drunk and told Alex he’d sold the story. They had a massive fight and haven’t spoken since.’

I was speechless. ‘But why? Why would he do that? He works at the fucking
Independent
, Leonie! Why the hell would he bother selling the story to the
Mirror
when he could break it in his own broadsheet?’

‘He doesn’t work at the
Independent
. He was a total failure there. The day he dumped you, he lost his job. They made him redundant because he was shit. Remember how you never saw his name in the paper? And he told you it was because he was in a more editorial role? That was bollocks. He just couldn’t write. He was unemployed for two months after you two split up and then eventually sold your mum to the
Mirror
so that he’d get some freelancing there.’

‘But he was great at his job. I
know
he was. I saw him in action!’

Leonie interrupted: ‘He was OK-ish as an on-camera correspondent but only because he had a good team
around him. He didn’t get early dispensation to leave Kosovo, Fran, they let him go. They got rid of him.’

My mouth had stopped working. I made a strangled honking noise.

‘Oh, Fran, I’m so sorry. But if you don’t believe me, ask Hugh. It was him who let Michael go. He said the quality of stuff Michael was sending in from over there was so bad he’d have better luck employing a turkey with learning difficulties.’

That certainly sounded like Hugh.

‘But … but he’s in Paris writing a piece for the
Independent
!’

‘Of course he’s not.’ Leonie took another deep breath. ‘And, Fran, if you don’t believe me, I need you to think seriously about your relationship. Look, I always wondered about this a bit, in fact we all did, but Alex confirmed it a hundred per cent for me this morning. Michael needed you not because of who you are but because of what you did for him. You put him on a pedestal right from day one, Franny, and told him he was amazing all the time. You fed his ego day after day, you listened to all of his self-important bullshit and made him feel like he was the greatest journalist alive. Apparently he’s always had some downtrodden sidekick doing this for him since he was a schoolboy. Alex was his punchbag for years when they were younger. But then your career started to really take shape and he couldn’t cope with it. The more established you became, the less you did what
he
wanted
you to do. He couldn’t take it. He used to be really scathing about your work behind your back.’

Another blow to the stomach. ‘He
what
?’

‘I’m afraid so, darling. And he
was
going to propose to you on your thirtieth but only in the hope that you’d agree to become some sort of housewife. But that very day he lost his job at the
Independent
and you got your promotion on to the election team and he lost it.’

I reeled. ‘Leonie, you don’t know any of this. As if Michael would tell any of this to Alex! It was
Alex
who was always being rude about my work! Michael told me what he used to say. How do I know he’s not just making it all up?’

‘FRAN! Wake up! Think about your relationship!’

I went silent, but nothing much happened in my head. This was too much. Just too much.

‘Franny?’

‘Yes, still here.’

‘Franny, what has he said to you about why he ended it?’

I felt an unbearable lump of sadness form in my throat. ‘He said I’d abandoned him,’ I whispered. ‘He said I hadn’t given him enough time or put enough effort into the relationship.’

‘The FUCKER!’ Leonie roared. ‘And do you think that’s true, Fran?’

‘No.’

‘Damn right it’s not. You were always running off home to him to make sure he was OK. When we
were at Popstarz the other week I was thinking, God, it’s been months and months and months since me and Fran did this – we used to do it all the time.’

‘Yes, I thought the same,’ I said sadly. It felt as if my world was ending. Again.

‘What did you say to him when he accused you of abandoning him?’ she asked.

‘I said I was sorry. I said …’ I started to cry ‘… I said I’d stop Gin Thursdays and spend less time looking after Mum because she was in AA now, and I said I’d –’ A loud sob escaped and the maître d’ handed me a white napkin without looking round. ‘I said I’d resign from the documentary.’

Leonie was silent. ‘Poor Fran,’ she said eventually. ‘You know that was the wrong thing to do, don’t you?’ I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, blowing my nose. ‘And you know that you were a wonderful, committed girlfriend to him, don’t you?’ she asked gently.

I nodded again. ‘Mmmppff.’

‘So what are you going to do? Do you need reinforcements? I can see if there’s any seats on the Eurostar today, my love?’ Leonie’s kindness was almost as heartbreaking as the situation.

‘I’m going to –’ I cried even harder. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. We just got engaged.’

‘Oh, Franny,’ Leonie whispered. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry.’

After the call ended I looked at him, sitting in the restaurant window, completely relaxed and blissful.
How dare he?
I thought numbly.
How dare he propose marriage to me when he picked up a phone and told the press that my mother is an alcoholic? That she blackmailed Nick into staying with her?
How had he envisaged our wedding day? What would he have said in his speech, for fuck’s sake? ‘And a special thank you to Eve, whose family I’m truly honoured to be joining’?

‘Can I assist wiz, er,
le situation
?’ the maître d’ said quietly at my shoulder. He glanced at Michael and raised his eyebrow. ‘I am presooming that your engagement is no good.’

I started mopping away the now-drying smudges of black mascara with the napkin. I continued to watch Michael, who wore an expression of pure childlike happiness on his face. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘No good.’

‘He cheated wiz you?’ he guessed, looking excited.

‘No. Worse.’ He whistled.

I’d wanted to be with Michael from the
moment
I’d met him. I’d dreamed of it; I’d dreamed of
him
. I’d watched him sleep and imagined us in the same bed in forty years’ time. I’d watched love and hope and disappointment flash across his eyes. I’d made dinner as he’d talked to my cat. I’d cleaned skidmarks out of the toilet without swearing. All because I loved him.

In response he’d used me as a prop. As an ego-inflater. Confidence-booster. He’d laughed at my career behind my back and he’d sold me and Mum to
the fucking
Mirror
just because his career wasn’t working out the way he wanted it to.

I balled my fist. Anger had arrived and it was riding a big furious don’t-fuck-with-me horse. The maître d’ peered down at the fist and nodded enthusiastically. ‘
Oui
. Fight him.’ He removed his jacket. ‘But no fighting in the restaurant. I will get him out for you. And then you may fight to your heart’s end.’

‘Heart’s content,’ I said automatically, as if the man were Stefania. But then I stopped. ‘No, you’re right. Heart’s end is spot on. This is
over
.’

‘Yes!
’he hissed. ‘Over! We have too many engagements in this city! It is time for break heart at La Coupole!’

Together, we marched over to the table where Michael sat gazing dreamily into the middle distance. A happy smile lit up his face as I approached him.

And my anger left as rapidly as it had arrived. ‘It’s OK, actually,’ I said to the maître d’ quietly. ‘I can handle this.’

He was bitterly disappointed. ‘The engagement is still on?’

‘No. It’s still off. But there won’t be any fighting.’

He smiled sadly and shuffled off.

‘Hello,’ I said, as I arrived back at the table.

‘Hello!’ he said warmly, taking my hand.

‘So, the engagement is off,’ I said, as I sat down.

He smiled. ‘Yeah, I second that. We’re a shit couple!’

I said nothing, just looked straight at him. I didn’t move.

Eventually, a small chink of doubt wormed its way into his face. I continued to say nothing as it flourished gradually into a shadow of pure fear. He looked at the maître d’, who was replacing the telephone under his desk. And then he looked at me again.

He knew.

I watched excuses flicker across his face like a silent movie – lies he could tell me to buy himself more time, insults he could throw to make himself feel better, insistences that Leonie, or Alex, or whoever had blown his cover, was mad.

I shook my head gently and eventually he nodded, understanding. Slowly, I took off the ring.

It was beautiful. A finger of afternoon Parisian sun bounced gaily off the main diamond and flashed into his eye briefly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

‘I know. But I can’t be with you now, Michael.’

He exhaled slowly.

I thought of Mum, of that day when the press were camped outside her house and she’d begged me like a child to go and buy her gin. About the shame I’d suffered at ITN. And I thought about our relationship and the overwhelming amount of love I’d poured into someone who needed me only because I bolstered his ego. Someone who cared so little about me he’d sell me and my family so that the nation could laugh at us.