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She straightened up and tousled her hair with both hands. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she tripped down the stairs towards the faint red glow of the pizzeria’s light.
Don’t Think
Ronan unlocked the studio door, pushed it open and turned to walk backwards into the room, taking both her hands and bringing her with him, pausing to kick the door shut at her back. Pressing her against it with his body, he kissed her hard. He tasted beery and garlicky, but so did she, and it was good. It was like old times. She felt floaty, disconnected. She pulled her hands from his grip, let her bag fall to the floor, undid his belt buckle, button, zip. He stepped out of his jeans and, without a word, drew her with him three steps backwards and onto the bed. She sat astride him and pulled her dress off over her head. She pressed back against the involuntary lifting of his hips.
‘Claire—’
‘Shush.’ She put her finger to his lips.Don’t talk, she wanted to say.Don’t think.
He rolled her onto her back. She felt him kiss her earlobe, her collarbone.Don’t think.But the inescapable images were crowding in. She felt his hand slipping under the waistband of her new knickers, his breath on her belly. She gasped.Don’t think.
‘Claire—’ His voice was low and hoarse.
‘I can’t.’
‘Hey. Listen to me.’ He held his body over hers. ‘It will be alright.’
‘I can’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
He stood up and raked his hands through his hair, tearing his scalp.
‘I’m sorry.’ She could think of nothing else to say.
‘I just don’t know what else I can do.’ His back was turned; he was fiddling with the shutter catch.
‘I’m sorry.’
He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand on her foot. ‘Claire—’
‘Can we just watch telly for a while?’
In the half-light, she couldn’t read his expression, but she could feel his thumb making circles on the arch of her foot. He seemed to be deciding something.
‘Yeah,’ he said, releasing a long breath. ‘Grand, yeah.’
The Ritz
Despite the heavily lined silk drapes at the windows, the Pima cotton sheets, and the duck down pillows, Mireille couldn’t sleep. Her brain was intent on processing the day: the early start, the train journey, the bubble of anticipation that had expanded in her stomach with each passing kilometre, the disillusionment of Le Grand Hôtel and the anxiety of getting lost in the cemetery, the worry that she would be late, that Edith might think she wasn’t coming, might leave, and the fear that, even with the silly hat and the promised sunflower, they wouldn’t find each other, that they wouldn’tknoweach other, and then came the moment of certainty that it was her – her Edith – standing there, waiting, the sharp pang of shock that so much time had passed, the relief, and the surge of pure love.
They had talked, walking side by side beneath the open arms of the chestnut trees. It had felt more natural that way, not facing each other but each facing forwards together. To begin with, Edith had used thevousform of address. Mireille, uncomfortable with that, had asked that she usetu, and Edith had seemed grateful, or maybe relieved. Edith’s French was good. Mireille felt a spark of pride at that, and then a jolt of shame as she told herself that she had no reason to be proud.
And yet, there it was, and it had grown only greater as the day progressed: an undeniable feeling of pride. Edith was as elegant, as refined and as accomplished as Mireille could ever have wanted her to be, and she was kind, so very kind.
They ate lunch at Edith’s hotel. It was too formal, Mireille thought, and they might have run out of conversation but for a bottle of very good wine that loosened their tongues. They spoke with the brazen courage of new-found confidantes. The one thing they avoided was the simple fact of their blood relationship.
Edith told Mireille about her marriage, the romance of it and the demise of it. Mireille surprised herself by telling Edith things she had never told a living soul, about her love for Rémy and his faithful devotion to a person unknown to her.
‘Donc nous sommes toutes les deux seules,’ Edith had said, raising her glass to Mireille’s. They were both alone.
‘Être adulte, c’est être seul,’ said Mireille, automatically. It had been the dominant fact of her life: to be an adult was to be alone.
‘Peut-être pas toujours.’ Edith put down her glass and placed her hand on Mireille’s own. Perhaps not always.
* * *
Afterwards, they strolled through the Jardin des Tuileries. Edith had slipped her arm through the crook of Mireille’s elbow and squeezed. Just that much physical contact had been enough to bring Mireille close to tears, but she had maintained her dignity, or close enough, through keeping up a meaningless chatter about the finer points of mustard.
When the time came for Mireille to return to her hotel, Edith had pleaded her case: she had a whole suite at the Ritz, there was plenty of room, they had had so little time, and they had so much still to say. Mireille could not have refused her, even if she had wanted to. It felt, in a way, that they still had everything to say.
