Sylvie pulled away first. “It is getting cold now.” She shivered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Would you like to come up for a coffee?”
It was a question that he hadn’t expected. But it was a natural end to the evening, to sit and talk some more. He could ask her more questions, the ones he had forgotten to ask already. But it would be dangerous, too. Might she be thinking of more than just coffee?
“I really must get back to the hotel,” he said. “Lucy may wonder where I am.” This sounded silly as soon as he said it. Of course they had separate rooms. He wouldn’t see her until breakfast.
“But Lucy met with her waiter friend?”
“Yes. Claude.”
“I am sure that your daughter is a big girl now.”
“Yes, but I will always worry about her.”
“I am sure that Claude will make sure she gets home safely. And she has a mobile phone, yes?”
“Yes.” Arthur took his own phone from his pocket. “Oh, look. She has left a message.” He opened it up. Lucy had sent it twenty-five minutes ago. It told him not to worry, that she was on her way back to the hotel and would see him in the breakfast room at nine in the morning. “Ah, that’s good.” He smiled.
“So you would like coffee, yes?”
Arthur put his phone back into his pocket. He let his hand linger there. “I...” he started.
Sylvie interjected. She lifted her chin proudly. “The thing is, Arthur, I am lonely sometimes. I feel that time is passing me by. I would very much like you to join me for coffee and perhaps spend the night. I meet men who are young and who are bridegrooms. I meet fathers of the bride who sometimes propose to me what they shouldn’t propose. I am professional and I say no. I do not meet many people whom I like, who I feel something for.”
Arthur felt longing ache within his belly. He hadn’t expected to feel like this about anyone ever again. It was delicious but also made him feel sick with guilt. This wasn’t lusting over a film star or someone unobtainable, which might be acceptable in a marriage. Sylvie was flesh and blood. She was beautiful and she was here, asking him to go to her room.
It felt as if he would be being unfaithful to his wife.
The thought struck him. Of course he could justify to himself that Miriam was no longer here, so how could he be cheating? But he knew that he would feel as if he had done. Sylvie was his wife’s friend. Maybe from a very long time ago, but he could not betray Miriam.
He let his arms fall by his sides. “I am so sorry, Sylvie. I would like a coffee with you very much, but...” He looked down.
Sylvie stood still. She gave a small nod. “I think I understand.”
“I hope you do. Because I think you are wonderful. You are beautiful and graceful and bright and clever. But...”
“But you are still in love with someone else?”
Arthur nodded. “With my wife. Always, I think. If there ever is anyone else, and I really can’t think about that, then I need to take things slowly. I am only here for another night and that isn’t enough for me. If I met someone, I would need to think that Miriam would understand.”
“I think she would want you to be happy.” Sylvie took the keys from her purse.
“I’m not sure if I would be happy afterward. And I want to be. I’d want it to be wonderful. I want to feel that it had been right.”
She touched her necklace. “You may not believe this, but there was once a time when I never had to ask. Men would wait for me, they would follow me...”
“I can completely understand that. You are très magnifique.” They both laughed at his attempt at French. “But—” he reached in his pocket and held out the bracelet “—until I know all the stories, I cannot move on. I’m not ready for any woman other than my wife.”
“You are honorable.” Sylvie pursed her lips. “Though if you continue on your search you may find out things that you do not like to hear.”
“I already have done.”
“There may be more.”
Arthur detected how her tone had cooled. He took hold of her hand. “Is there something you know, Sylvie?”
He saw a flicker in her eyes as she denied it. “Non. It was just a thought...”
“If you know something, please tell me.”
“As I said, Miriam wrote to me a few times.”
“What is it?”
Sylvie held her breath. Then she said, “If you want to find out more, you should try to find her friend Sonny.”
“Sonny?” Arthur asked.
“If I recall correctly, she made jewelry.”
Arthur thought of the bracelet. “Do you know her surname?”
“Hmm. I think it began with a Y. Ah, yes, Yardley. I remember it because I have a cousin who married a man with that surname. I have a good memory, yes?”
“Yes. Excellent. Sonny Yardley. The initials S.Y. are on the paint palette charm. It sounds as if there could be a connection. Do you know where I can find her?”
“No.”
“Can you think of anything else at all, to do with her?”
Sylvie frowned. “I think her brother may have been an artist, but other than that, no.”
“I will try to find her.”
“If you do, she may be able to tell you what you do, or do not, want to know.”
“What do you mean?”
Sylvie shrugged. “You will find out for yourself.”
Arthur could tell that Sylvie wanted to get inside. He had wounded her pride. All conversation had come back to his wife. He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for her hospitality and then walked back to his hotel. He felt regret, heavy in his stomach, but he had done the right thing.
The night sky was already streaked with powder blue in preparation for the next day, the stars fading. He wrapped his fingers around the bracelet and held it tight until he reached the hotel. Before he used the revolving door he paused to straighten his collar. As he did, he caught sight of movement from the corner of his eye. Turning he saw Lucy and Claude standing together in the street. Lucy kissed him on the cheek and then broke away.
Arthur hung back so they reached the door to the hotel together.
“Oh, hi, Dad,” she said, too casually.
“Hello. Did you have a good evening?”
“Yes, very. And you?”
Arthur looked at the rising sun. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. Though I don’t think I will see Sylvie again. I...well, I...er, your mother...”
Lucy nodded and opened the door. “I understand, Dad. Claude was for one night only, too. Sometimes that’s okay.”
Bookface
IT FELT GOOD to be back in his own bed, in his own home. After his stay in a hostel, on Mike’s sofa, in a boutique Parisian hotel, in a manor house with orange-and-black striped wallpaper, his own room was where he wanted to be. It was comforting, familiar, like being in a cocoon. He could have his cups of tea when he wanted them.
He lay and thought for a while about his kiss with Sylvie, replaying the moment their lips met over and over in his mind. He could still feel the softness of her waist, the warmth of her pressed against him. A pit of heat radiated in his stomach and he moved his hands to feel it there. When he closed his eyes he was transported back to Paris. He could still smell her perfume.
He didn’t regret his decision not to have coffee with her, but he did wonder where it might have led. What would have happened if he had followed her upstairs and into her bedroom? Would they have made love or would he have scuttled away into the night, unable to go through with it. He would never know now. He had only ever spent the night with his wife. The idea of being with another woman made him feel both nauseous and curious. Opening his eyes, he rolled on his side and then got out of bed, flustered by his improper thoughts. Yet a small knot of longing remained in his heart.