Page 70 of His Innocent Seduction

My mother loved flowers.

When she was dying, I spent hundreds of dollars each week so that her bedroom was overflowing with blooms. The fragrance was almost too much, but they made her smile, and all I cared about was making her smile.

I run my fingers over the petal of one bloom and tears seep out of the corners of my eyes. I collapse onto the floor, my back pressed to the cabinet, and I cry. I cry for my mother, my beautiful mum, and I cry for Michael, who I hurt, who offered me so much, who I walked away from like that meant nothing.

I cry for the life I think I want, that seems so far from where I am. I cry for the promise I made my mother, for the dream I thought we shared, that is slowly withering my soul. I cry for the broken reality before me and I sink lower, lying on the floor on my side, staring at the door to this apartment in Paris, this beautiful, historic apartment with its art deco furnishings and bistro right downstairs.

It’s the strangest things that can trigger grief. I can think of my mum some days without flinching, and others, remembering the way she loved flowers almost rips my heart out.

But there is disloyalty in my grief too, because I cry now with an overwhelming sadness, with a grief that encompasses everything that’s happened in the last six months.

The weather has turned cold in Paris. Autumn is in full effect. Before long, my body is covered in goosebumps, my flesh ice-cold.

I lie there as the sky darkens and rain begins to fall.

Two years.

It sounded so easy, back in Australia. I lay in bed beside Mum, holding her frail, paper-dry hand, telling her about my trip, describing in vivid detail all that I’d researched. And she listened intently, a smile on her face, and fell asleep, dream

ing of foreign places and adventures, dreaming of the life I would lead.

The life she wanted me to lead.

My chest compresses painfully, as though I’ve had a bag of cement pressed down on it. I stand up slowly and make myself a tea.

Tea will help.

The next day dawns with rain.

I grab my leather jacket and head out early.

I walk far. I walk in the rain, uncaring for how drenched I become.

When I find myself in a part of Paris I don’t recognise, I head to the Métro and zip closer to home. I stare straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone.

But Paris is everywhere. Paris is this Métro and the art nouveau signage, the patisserie, the boulangerie, the people, the fashion, the food. I have dreamed of being here for so long and now I’ve arrived I feel like I’m in a bubble, unable to penetrate this city, this dream, this experience. I’m enduring it—that’s not how it’s meant to feel, right?

I thought once I’d crossed the three-week mark it would somehow invalidate the time I spent with Michael, that I’d wake up and he’d be a distant memory.

He’s not.

Every day that passes brings him to the front of my mind.

Every day that passes makes me ache for him, makes me crave him. Not calling him takes a monumental effort. His words, memories of his words, torture me.

‘I love all of you. I love spending time with you, talking to you, laughing with you, waking up beside you. I love your world view, your optimism, your determination. I admire you, I adore you. I am completely and utterly obsessed with you. So I’m standing here in the middle of this airport asking you—begging you—not to go. Please. Stay here with me.’

My train stops. I hop off. People are everywhere. I jostle past them, pushing up the steps, emerging on the grey streets of Paris, looking around to get my bearings.

I can’t find them.

I have no bearings.

‘Mademoiselle?’ A woman approaches me. ‘Est-ce que ça-va?’

I’m crying. Great. I smile at her, shaking my head, then nod. ‘Je vais bien, merci.’

She doesn’t look convinced, but she moves away from me. She’s right not to believe me because I’m not fine. I’m so not fine.

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