‘I can’t believe we’re here.’ Layla brushed crumbs from her skirt onto the ground for the waiting sparrows. ‘The city of romance.’
They sat on a bench in a little park in Montmartre, eating cheese and tomato baguettes and watching a young man take photos of his girlfriend in a variety of poses in front of the iconic Parisian ‘I Love You’ wall. A tree shaded them from the baking midday sun, its leaves fluttering in a hot gentle breeze. He’d suggested lunch at an upscale restaurant, but she’d had other ideas and he approved.
‘So what’s top of your list of priorities? Shops? Museums? Cathedrals?’
She swigged from a bottle of alpine spring water. ‘The Eiffel Tower and the Lovers’ Bridge and …’ She consulted her guidebook. ‘I don’t know. There’s too much. You choose.’
‘To be fair the …’ He made air quotes and pulled a face ‘… “city of romance” thing is nothing but a tourist trap. What makes Paris more romantic than, say, London or New York?’
Layla smiled. ‘I beg to differ.’ She pointed at the wall.
‘Well, you’re here now. You can make your own mind up. But I can’t promise romance.’ Hot sex and happy times? Sure.
Layla read aloud from her guidebook. ‘Listen to this. “Emblazoned with splashes of red paint to represent a broken heart the fresco says Je t’aime in over three hundred languages including some forgotten dialects.” What’s not to like about “I love you” in a zillion different languages?’
‘Broken heart,’ Nick repeated emphatically. ‘I rest my case.’ Despite his cynicism he scanned the wall, trying to locate a language he recognized.
She swallowed a bite of her sandwich. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘Explain this. How can a cheese and tomato sandwich taste ten times better in Paris than it does at home?’
‘That’s not in the guidebook. And I fail to see that it’s got anything to do with romance. French bread? The fromage has holes in?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It just does.’
‘Exactly. It just does. Because we’re in Paris.’
‘And Paris is romantic right down to its sandwich fillings?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Why? Because it says so in that book?’ With a magician-like flourish he took the Ten Unmissable Paris Romance Hotspots guide out of her hands and made it vanish into a litter bin along with their sandwich wrappers. It landed with a tinny clang.
‘Smile, I’m going to take a selfie.’ She held out her phone and leant close, filling his head with her sweet scent. He flinched, every muscle tensing. His heart sank a little, struggling to separate her desire to save a moment in a photo, and the ability of the world at large to intrude on his private life. Certain tabloids had turned grabbing a sneaky photograph and twisting the truth in a clever caption into an art form.
He gave an internal shrug. She wasn’t into that nonsense. He trusted her. ‘I’ll do it. I’ve got long arms – made for selfies.’ He whisked her phone from her fingers and took a photo of them grinning like Cheshire cats in front of the wall. Before he handed the phone back, he glowered at the picture. They didn’t look remotely romantic. His long-armed shot included the young couple in the background, and a smattering of other tourists, all peering at writing on the volcanic lava tiles, trying to find ‘I love you’ in their language.
He couldn’t show her romance, but she loved all things art – and in Paris, he could do art. Having wandered the narrow streets of Montmartre, they hopped on the Metro and headed for the Musée d’Orsay. After spending two appalling days at the former train station shooting rooftop scenes, he didn’t care if he never set foot in the gallery again, but since he’d promised himself that Layla would have a lovely time in Paris, he’d made a couple of calls and arranged to be let in through a side entrance immediately after closing for a private viewing of the collection.
Discreetly shadowed by two security guards they wandered through the empty gallery in complete silence. He watched carefully for her reactions as she studied the paintings. When they emerged onto the high promontory that overlooked the vast space filled with art he leaned against a wall, fighting the beginnings of panic and seeking out something to grasp onto. Throat dry, he swallowed down a gulp of air and pushed back the sick feeling in his stomach.
‘This is amazing. This whole place is unbelievable.’
‘Yep,’ he agreed through gritted teeth. ‘I had a feeling you’d like it here.’ He was dizzy and his guts churned with all too familiar irrational fear but it was worth it to see how she lit up.
‘Like it? That’s an understatement. I love, love, love it! I’ve seen these paintings in books. But seeing them for real? Oh Nick – I can hardly begin to put it into words. It’s beyond amazing. Thank you for bringing me here.’
She turned to him and bit her lip, unconsciously sexy as hell, distracting him and reminding him exactly why he’d brought her to this place he loathed. She made him happy, and he wanted to make her happy, and right at this moment he longed to put his arms around her and hold on as if his life depended on it. A furtive glance at the security people, faces stony as sculptures, warned him off.
‘Well if you’ve well and truly overdosed on amazing French paintings, I reckon it’s a good time to show you where we shot my rooftop scenes.’
In front of the giant station clock face she handed him her phone and he snapped another selfie. Heads tipped together they studied the result.
‘It’s perfect,’ she gasped, her voice breathily quiet. Impatience to be alone with her flickered through him. ‘It looks quite arty with that halo of back-to-front roman numerals around our heads.’
He laughed, wondering whether she’d choose to share the selfies on the internet, use them to have a go at Joe. He hoped not. He wanted to keep these moments just for them, no one else. With Layla, every day in the Cornish seaside village had had a calm simplicity about it. She had a way of making just being enough. Around her he’d stopped trying to figure out how his life should be. He was content with the easiness of being together, spiked with the awesome anticipation of more phenomenal sex. Suddenly keeping his personal life private had never mattered so much.
‘Come see.’ He beckoned her over to the windows. The River Seine flowed below and way beyond on a hilltop in the far-off distance sat the white-domed shape of the Sacré Coeur. ‘We shot a chase scene up there.’
‘Wow,’ she murmured. ‘I think I’d get vertigo too out on that roof. How did it go?’
‘Not so good. Most of the real work was done in a studio, but the time spent on that roof was the longest two days of my life.’
‘I guess that’s why they have stunt guys.’
He groaned. The combination of embarrassment and nausea he’d felt during the shoot flashed through his head like a recurring nightmare. ‘The stunt team was awesome. But the heights thing is a real issue. It’s limiting. And I want to do as much of my own work as possible.’
‘Why?’ Her warm smile washed through him like a ray of summer sun, but it did nothing to dispel the fear of failing as an action hero that plagued him.
‘Because it goes with the territory. I’ve got to be able to convince cinema-goers that I have what it takes to play the character.’
‘I bet you smashed it. But you’re human just like the rest of us. So why not tell the truth in interviews and publicity and stuff. Admit you don’t like heights – just be yourself.’
‘’Fess up to being a coward?’ he asked incredulous, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? People respect honesty. So what have you got to fear? It’s a no-brainer. Deconstruct the image you created around yourself by revealing the real Nick Wells.’
‘Suddenly you’re a PR guru?’
‘Nope. But I’m getting to be quite the expert in all things Nick Wells and in my considered opinion you’re a pretty nice guy.’
‘Being myself is risky. If the movie doesn’t do well at the box office, I’ll be dropped. I need to project tough and fearless.’
‘No offence but what’s the point in replacing one fake image with another?’
‘I’m not tough and fearless? Thanks.’
She shook her head despairingly. ‘The playboy love rat thing worked for you while you were in Mercy of the Vampires, but are you going to go through life reinventing yourself every time you take on a new role? It doesn’t make sense, if you ask me.’ She hesitated, adding with a giggle, ‘Which I know you didn’t, so I’ll just shut up.’
‘I’m not convinced. One.’ He held up his thumb. ‘I’m an action hero with a phobia. Two.’ Up went his index finger. ‘I’m afraid to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower for a few promotional photographs. And three, I’ve already delayed the promo. If I show up on Monday with my knees knocking and a face like a wet weekend word’s going to get out that I’m a liability and the producers are going to lose faith in me.’
There was that heavenly hot bottom lip bite again. ‘I believe in you. I know you can do it. Last night you faced your fear and went for it.”
She had a point. He’d focused, he’d breathed, and – apart from the bit where he’d felt woozy and told her about Beth – it had been okay. And although he’d convinced himself that he’d hated every minute of the museum shoot, thinking about it now – really thinking about it – he realized that there had been spells during that couple of days when the fear had been second to everything else, working with a brilliant director, the crew, the stunt team. If he’d been honest about his phobia he’d have made things easier for everyone.
‘How about we go up the Eiffel Tower for a trial run? That way you’ll know what to expect on Monday.’
‘Good idea. It’s worth a shot.’
‘We can go tomorrow. And if all else fails,’ she went on, ‘I guess you could try medication. Or cognac. Or both!’ She cut her words dead, holding a hand over her mouth to silence herself.
‘Thanks. But no thanks!’ he growled, unintentionally harsh. ‘Drunk and drugged to the eyeballs isn’t a place I want to go. Quite aside from the family history, it doesn’t really say action hero to me.’ The venom in his reaction shocked them both.
She mumbled from behind her hand. ‘That was a stupid thing to say.’ She shrank in on herself flattened like a lifeless subject in one of the paintings on the walls. Avoiding his glare, she added, ‘Tactless.’
He stepped towards her. ‘I shouldn’t have lashed out. My mother has turned her life around. Her rough times are something I try not to think about. I don’t want you to think badly of her.’
‘I don’t.’ Injured her eyes clouded. ‘I’m sad for what you went through. But I don’t judge her. Do you think so little of me?’
A cold shiver ran down his spine and he pushed down the urge to try and explain that one of his mother’s out-of-control episodes had been on his mind.
‘I’ve told you too much. About everything. You didn’t sign up to get dragged into my downers.’
‘If you think I’ll go to the press and tell them everything I know, you needn’t worry. That’s not my style.’
‘I know that, ignore me, I overreacted.’
The first memory he had of his mother drunk was suddenly clear in his mind once more. He’d found her collapsed on the bathroom tiles. She’d been sick. His beautiful mother, always so elegant on screen, crumpled and incoherent, mascara streaked across her tear-drenched face. She was a wreck.
‘My mother fell to pieces after my dad left.’ Bitterness batted back and forth between his parents throughout his childhood, mostly played out in the full glare of the media. Fatalistically aware that he was in danger of sucking all the fun out of Paris he added, ‘He destroyed her.’
‘That must have been hard.’
‘The first time I saw her paralytic, yes. In the end, it happened so often I got numb to it.’
Layla touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
The strangest feeling hit him. No one had ever said sorry before.
Sorry for being paralytic drunk. Sorry for going to rehab. Sorry for sending you away to school. Sorry for not being there.
It was easier to hate his dad for breaking his mother’s heart, and hate her for not coping, than miss them. Most of all he’d felt a failure for not being able to make it alright.
‘It’s all in the past.’
He was beginning to see that love didn’t always equate to high stakes and inevitable chaos. Just because his parents’ happiness had been short-lived and highly volatile didn’t mean it always panned out like that. Alex had found all that he wanted with Maggie.
He jabbed a finger at the button for the elevator. The doors slid open and he stood aside so that she could step in.
Inside, claustrophobically accompanied by the two cheerless security guards, the silence intensified his bad mood. He was mad at himself for burdening her with the Beth worry and for being unable to keep Layla separate from the ugliness of his feelings.
Back on the ground floor Layla walked nonchalantly out of the elevator, apparently choosing to be unaffected by his moroseness.
‘Look at these,’ she called to him, artfully changing the subject, giving her attention to a row of glass cases displaying miniature set designs from the Paris opera house. ‘The scenery is so detailed. It’s awesome.’
The smile that twitched the corners of her lips masked the fact that he’d offended her, he’d hurt her feelings. Her delight with the model scenes gave him an idea. There was something he knew she’d like and he wanted to make it happen.
The agitated appeal of getting back to being carefree with Layla gnawed at him. The desire to hold her close and explain how he felt without words consumed him. He was impatient to be alone with her at the hotel and lock out the world.
‘What do you say we give these security people the slip and go hang the do not disturb sign on the door handle of our hotel suite?’ she whispered.
‘I can’t believe you said that,’ he murmured back. ‘You read my thoughts exactly.’