Three Weeks in Paris

BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

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THREE WEEKS

IN PARIS

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Special overseas edition 2002

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2002

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2002

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © 2002 ISBN: 9780007330652

Version: 2017-10-25

For Bob, truly a man for all seasons,

with all my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

PART ONE Les Girls

Chapter One - Alexandra

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four - Kay

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven - Jessica

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine - Maria

Chapter Ten

PART TWO Doyenne

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART THREE Quest

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

PART FOUR Celebration

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

On the rue Jacob the man shivered and turned up the collar of his overcoat. It was a bitter February day, icy from the wind that swept down from the Russian steppes and across the plains of Europe to hit Paris with a sharp blast.

The sky was a faded blue, the sun watery as it slanted across the rooftops, almost silvery in this cold northern light, and without warmth. But Paris was always beautiful, whatever the weather; even when it rained it had a special quality all of its own.

Spotting a cab he hailed it, and as it slowed to a standstill he got in quickly and asked the driver to take him to the post office. Once he was there he unwrapped the package of stamped envelopes, seventy-one in all, and dropped them, in small batches, into a letter box, then returned to the cab.

The man now gave the driver the address of the FedEx office, settled back against the seat, glancing out of the window from time to time. How happy he was to be back in the City of Light, but, nonetheless, he could not help wishing it were a little warmer today. There was a chill in his bones.

In the FedEx office the man filled in the appropriate labels and handed them over to the clerk along with the white envelopes. All were processed for delivery within the next twenty-four hours, their destinations four cities in distant far-flung corners of the world. Back in the taxi he instructed the driver to take him to the Quai Voltaire. Once there, he alighted and headed towards one of his favourite bistros on the Left Bank.

And as he walked, lost in his thoughts, he had no way of knowing that he had just set in motion a chain of events that would have far-reaching effects. Because of his actions lives were about to be changed irrevocably: and so profoundly they would never be the same again.

PART ONE Les Girls

Chapter One Alexandra

It was her favourite time of day. Dusk. That in-between hour before night descended when everything was softly muted, merging together. The twilight hour.

Her Scottish nanny had called it the gloaming. She loved that name, it conjured up so much, and even when she was a little girl she had looked forward to the late afternoon, that period just before supper. As she had walked home from school with her brother Tim, Nanny between them tightly holding on to their hands, she had always felt a twinge of excitement, an expectancy, as if something special awaited her. This feeling had never changed. It had stayed with her over the years, and wherever she was in the world dusk never failed to give her a distinct sense of anticipation.

She stepped away from her drawing table, and went across to the window of her downtown loft, peered out, looking towards the upper reaches of Manhattan. To Alexandra Gordon the sky was absolutely perfect at this precise moment…its colour a mixture of plum and violet toned down by a hint of smoky grey bleeding into a faded pink. The colours of antiquity, reminiscent of Byzantium and Florence and ancient Greece. And the towers and spires and skyscrapers of this great modern metropolis were blurred, smudged into a sort of timelessness; seemed of no particular period at this moment, inchoate images cast against that almost-violet sky.

Alexandra smiled. For as far back as she could remember she had believed that this time of day was magical. In the movie business, which she was occasionally a part of these days, dusk was actually called ‘the Magic Hour’. Wasn’t it odd that she herself had named it that when she was only a child?

Staring out across the skyline, fragments of her childhood came rushing back to her. For a moment she fell down into her memories…memories of the years spent growing up on the Upper East Side of this city…of a childhood filled with love and security and the most wondrous of times. Even though their mother had worked, still worked in fact, she and Tim had never been neglected by her, nor by their father. But it was her mother who was the best part of her, and, in more than one sense, she was the product of her mother. And not a bad product at that, she thought, continuing to stand in front of the picture window, lost in remembrances of times past.

Eventually she roused herself and went back to the drawing board, looked at the panel she had just completed. It was the final one in a series of six, and together they composed a winter landscape in the countryside.

She knew she had captured most effectively the essence of a cold, snowy evening in the woods, and bending forward she picked up the panel and carried it to the other side of the studio, placed it on a wide viewing shelf where the rest of the panels were aligned. Staring intently at the almost complete set, she envisioned them as a giant-sized backdrop on the stage, which is what they would soon become. As far as she was concerned, the panels were arresting, and depicted exactly what the director had requested.

‘I want to experience the cold, Alexa,’ Tony Verity had told her at the first production meeting, after he had taken her through the play. ‘I want to shiver with cold, crunch down into my overcoat, feel the icy night in my bones. Your sets must make me want to rush indoors, to be in front of a roaring fire.’

He will feel all that, she told herself, and stepped back, eyeing her latest work from a distance, objectively, her head on one side, thinking of the way she had created the panels in her imagination first. She had envisioned St Petersburg in winter, and then focused on an imaginary forest beyond that city.

In her mind’s eye, the scenery had come alive, almost like a reel of film playing in her head…bare trees glistening with dripping icicles, drifts of new snow sweeping up between the trees like white dunes. White nights. White sky. White moon. White silence.

That was the mood she sought, had striven for, and wished to convey to the audience. And she believed she had accomplished that with these panels, which would be photographed later this week and then blown up for the stage.

She had not used any other colours except a hint of grey and black for a few of the skeletal branches. Her final touch, and perhaps her most imaginative, had been a set of lone footprints in the snow. Footprints leading up between the trees, as if heading for a special, perhaps even secret destination. Enigmatic. Mysterious. Even troubling, in a way…

The sharp buzzing of the doorbell brought her head up sharply, and her concentration was broken. She went to the intercom on the wall, lifted the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Jack. I know I’m early. Can I come up?’

‘Yes, it’s okay.’ She pressed the button which released the street door, and then ran downstairs to the floor below in order to let him in.

A few seconds later Jack Wilton, bundled up in a black duffle coat, and carrying a large brown shopping bag, was swinging out of the lift, walking towards her down the corridor, a grin on his keen, intelligent face.

‘Sorry if I’m mucking up your working day, but I was around the corner. At the Cromer Gallery with Billy Tomkins. It seems sort of daft to go home and then come back here later. I’ll sit in a corner down here and watch CNN until you quit.’

‘I just did,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’ve actually finished the last panel, Jack.’

‘That’s great! Congratulations.’ As he stepped into the small foyer of her apartment he put down the shopping bag, reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and, stretching out his leg, he pushed the door closed with his booted foot.

He hugged her tightly, brought her closer, and as his lips brushed her cheek, then nuzzled her ear, she felt a tiny frisson, and this shivery feeling ran all the way down to her toes. There was an electricity between them that had been missing for ages. She was startled.

Seemingly, so was he. Jack pulled away, glanced at her quickly and then instantly brought his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, passionately. After a second, he moved his mouth close to her ear, and murmured, ‘Let’s go and find a bed.’

She leaned back, looking up into his grey eyes, which were more soulful than ever at this moment. ‘Don’t be silly.’ As she spoke a small, tantalizing smile touched her lips and her sparkling eyes were suddenly inviting.

‘Silly? There’s nothing silly about going to bed. I think it’s a rather serious thing.’ Throwing his duffle coat on the floor next to the shopping bag and putting his arm around her, he led her into the bedroom.

He stopped in the middle of the room and taking hold of her shoulders he turned her to face him, stared into her eyes, his own questioning. ‘You went missing for a bit,’ he said, sounding more English than ever.

She stared back at him, said nothing.

He tilted her chin, leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘But I have the distinct feeling you’re suddenly back.’

‘I think so.’

‘I’m glad, Lexi.’

‘So am I,’ she answered.

He smiled and led her towards the bed without another word. They sat down together side by side, and he began to unbutton her shirt; she tugged at his tweed jacket, and within seconds they were both undressed, stretched out on the bed.

Leaning over her, he asked, ‘And where was it that you went?’

‘Not sure. Fell into a deep pit with my work, I suppose.’

He nodded, understanding, since he was an artist and tended to do the same at times when he was painting. But he had really missed her, and her withdrawal, her remoteness had worried him. Now he brought his mouth down to her, his kisses tender.

Alexandra felt that frisson once more, and she began to shiver slightly under his touching and kissing. He continued to kiss her as he stroked her thigh, and she experienced a sudden rush of heat, a tingling between her legs.

Unexpectedly, she stiffened. Swiftly, he brought his mouth to her mouth; his tongue sought hers, slid alongside hers, and they shared a moment of complete intimacy.

And all the while he did not stop stroking her inner thigh and the centre of her womanhood, his fingers working gently but expertly. To him it soon seemed as though she was opening like a lush flower bursting forth under a warm sun.

When she began to gasp, he increased his pressure and speed, wanting her to reach a point of ecstasy. He loved this woman, and he wanted to bind her to him, and he wanted to make love to her now, be joined with her.

With great speed, he entered her, thrusting into her so forcefully she cried out. Sliding his hands under her buttocks, he lifted her up, drew her closer to him, calling out her name as he did. ‘Come to me again, come with me, come where I’m going, Lexi!’ he exclaimed, his voice harsh, rasping.

And so she did as he demanded, wrapped her legs around his back, let her hands rest lightly on his shoulders. Together they soared, and as he began to shudder against her, he told her over and over again how much he loved making love to her.

Afterwards, when they finally lay still, relaxed and depleted, he lifted the duvet up and covered them with it, then took her in his arms. He said against her hair, ‘Isn’t this as good as it gets?’

When she remained silent, he added, ‘You know how good we are together…’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not going to go away from me again, are you?’

‘No…it was the work, the pressure.’

‘I’m relieved it wasn’t me. That you weren’t having second thoughts about me.’

She smiled. ‘You’re the best, Jack, the very best. Special…unique, actually.’

‘Ah, flattery will get you everywhere.’

‘I’ve just been there, haven’t I?’

‘Where?’

‘Everywhere. With you…to some wonderful place.’

Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered down at her in the dim light of the fading day, wondering if she were teasing him. Then he saw the intensity in her light green eyes, and he said softly, ‘Let’s make it permanent.’

Those lucid green eyes he loved widened. ‘Jack…I don’t know what to say…’

‘Say yes.’

‘Okay. Yes.’

‘I’m talking marriage,’ he muttered, a sudden edge to his voice. He focused all of his attention on her, his eyes probing.

‘I know that.’

‘Will you?’

‘Will I what?’ Now she was teasing him and enjoying doing so, as she usually did.

‘Will you marry me?’

‘Yes, I will.’

A slow, warm smile spread itself across his lean face, and he bent into her, kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. Resting his head next to hers on the pillow, he continued, ‘I’m glad. Really so bloody glad, Lexi, that you’re going to be mine, all mine. Wow, this is great! And we’ll have a baby or two, won’t we?’

She laughed, happy that he was so obviously delirious with joy. ‘Of course. You know what, maybe we just made one.’

‘It’s a possibility. But to be really sure, shall we try again?’

‘You mean right now?’

‘I do.’

‘Can you?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, of course I can. Feel this.’ Taking hold of her hand, he put it on him under the duvet. ‘See what you do to me. And I’ll always be ready to make babies with you, darling.’

‘Then stop boasting and let’s do it!’ she exclaimed, sliding a leg over him, kissing him on the mouth. ‘Let’s do it all night, in fact. It’s one of the things I love to do with you, Jack.’

‘Don’t you want dinner?’ He raised a brow.

‘Oh, who cares about food when we’ve something so important and crucial to do.’

He started to laugh. ‘I care. But we don’t have to venture out, my sweet. I brought dinner with me. In the shopping bag.’

‘Oh, so you planned all this, did you? Very devious, you are, Jack Wilton. You wicked, sexy man. I might have known you came here to seduce me. To impregnate me.’

‘Seduce you! What a bloody cheek! You’ve just displayed the most incredible example of splendid cooperation I’ve ever come across. As for impregnating you, you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to do that.’

They began to roar with laughter, hugging each other and rolling around on the bed, filled with hilarity and pleasure in each other, and the sheer happiness of being young and alive. But after a moment or two of this gentle horseplay, Jack’s face turned serious, and he held Alexandra still. ‘You’re not going to change your mind, are you, Lexi?’

‘’Course not, silly.’ She touched his cheek lightly, smiled seductively. ‘Shall we get to it then…making babies, I mean.’

‘Try and stop me–’ he began and paused.

The shrilling of the intercom startled Alexandra, and nonplussed she stared at Jack. Then she scrambled off the bed, took a woollen dressing gown out of the wardrobe, and struggled into it as she ran to the foyer. Lifting the intercom phone, she said, ‘Hello?’

‘FedEx delivery for Ms Gordon.’

‘Thanks. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the fourteenth floor.’

The carbon copy of the original label on the front of the FedEx envelope was so faint she could barely make out the name and address of the sender. In fact, the only part she could read was Paris, France.

She stood holding the envelope, a small furrow crinkling the bridge of her nose. And then her heart missed a beat.

From the doorway of the bedroom, Jack said, ‘Who’s it from? You look puzzled.’

‘I can’t make out the name. Best thing to do is open it, I suppose,’ she replied, forcing a laugh.

‘That might be a good idea.’ Jack’s voice was touched with acerbity.

She glanced across at him swiftly, detecting at once a hint of impatience…as if it were her fault their lovemaking had been interrupted by the FedEx delivery. But wishing to keep things on an even keel, to placate him, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, it can wait!’ Dropping the envelope on the small table in the foyer, she added, ‘Let’s go back to bed.’

‘Naw, the mood’s gone, ducks. I’m gonna take a quick shower, make a cuppa rosy lee, then start on dinner,’ he answered her in a bogus Cockney accent.

She stood staring at him, biting her lip.

Observing the crestfallen expression in her eyes, Jack Wilton instantly regretted his truculent attitude. He softened, pulled her towards him, embraced her. ‘I’m sorry, I was a bit snotty, Lexi. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?’ His eyes held hers, a brow lifted quizzically. ‘Don’t you see, I was put out…and you know why. I was all ready to make babies.’ He grinned, kissed the tip of her nose. ‘So…’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Let’s go and take a shower together.’

‘I guess I ought to open–’

He cut her off. ‘It’ll wait.’ Taking hold of her hand, he led her across to the bathroom and into the shower, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, held her close again as the water sluiced over their bodies.

Alexandra leaned against him, closed her eyes, thinking of the envelope she had left on the table. She was beginning to worry about it, anxiety-ridden and tense inside. She could well imagine who it was from. It could be only one person. And the thought terrified her.

But she was wrong.

A short while later, when she finally opened the envelope it was not a letter inside, as she had misguidedly believed, but an invitation. Her relief was enormous and the anxiety instantly dissipated.

She sat on the sofa in her living room, staring at it, and a smile broke through, lighting up her face. Leaping to her feet, she ran across the room to the kitchen, where Jack was cooking. ‘Jack, it’s an invitation. To a party. In Paris.’

Jack glanced up from the bowl of fresh tomatoes he was stirring, took a sip of his tea, and asked, ‘Who’s the party for then?’

‘Anya. My wonderful Anya Sedgwick.’

‘The woman who owns the school you went to…what’s it called again? Ah yes, the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what’s the occasion?’

‘Her birthday.’ Leaning against the door jamb, she began to read from the engraved invitation. ‘The pleasure of your company is requested at a celebration in honour of Anya Sedgwick on the occasion of her eighty-fifth birthday. On Saturday June the second, 2001. At Ledoyen, Carré Champs Elysées, Paris. Cocktails at eight o’clock. Supper at nine o’clock. Dancing from ten o’clock on. Hey, isn’t that great, Jack. Oh, how wonderful.’

‘Sounds like it’s going to be a super bash. Can you take a friend, do you think?’

Alexandra glanced at the invitation again. Her name had been written across the top in the most elegant calligraphy she had ever seen. But it was only her name. The words, and guest, were missing. ‘I don’t think I can. It has only my name on it. I’m sure it’s just for her family and former pupils…’ Alexandra’s voice trailed off.

He was silent for a moment, concentrating as he finely chopped an onion. When he at last looked up, he asked, ‘Are you going to go?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t know. It all depends on work, I guess. I’ve only one small set to finish for Winter Weekend, and then that’s it. I’ll be out of work, if something doesn’t pop up.’

‘I’m sure it will, Lexi,’ he reassured, glancing at her, smiling. ‘Now scoot, and let me finish the pasta pomodoro, and before you can say Jack Robinson I’ll have dinner for my lady.’

She laughed, said ‘Okay,’ and went back to the sofa, still holding the invitation in her hand. Seating herself, she stared at it for a moment longer, her mind on Anya Sedgwick, the woman who had been her teacher, mentor and friend. She had not seen her for a year. It would be lovely to be in her company again, to celebrate this important milestone in her life…Paris in the spring. How truly glorious it would be…

But Tom Conners was in Paris.

When she thought of him she found it hard to breathe.