We'll Always Have Paris

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‘No, I don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘I don’t resemble him at all.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘WOW.’ A-glitter with lights, London lay spread out below Simon’s apartment. Across the Thames, the bridges were illuminated as if strung with fairy lights, and Clara could see right down to the Houses of Parliament and the huge circle of the London Eye. In the darkness, the streets seemed to be shimmering with energy.

‘Wow,’ she said again. ‘What a fabulous view! It feels like you’re on top of the world, doesn’t it?’

She turned back to admire the rest of the apartment, which was stark and stylish, and somehow not at all what she had expected of someone as conventional as Simon Valentine. ‘What an amazing place.’

Simon shrugged as he pocketed his car keys. ‘It’s a convenient location for the City, and these properties make sound investments.’

‘Right,’ said Clara, who had never invested in property in her life.

‘I think it’s ghastly!’ said Frances. She had changed and was looking remarkably relaxed and elegant for someone who had been mugged hours earlier. ‘I keep telling him that he should at least put up some curtains.’

She looked around her disparagingly. ‘Soulless is the only word for it. What this place needs is a woman’s touch,’ she said as Simon blew out an exasperated breath, having clearly heard it all before. ‘Don’t you agree, Clara?’

Clara thought of the cluttered flat she shared with Allegra. It was cosier than Simon’s apartment, that was for sure, but she couldn’t see Simon wanting cushions and throws and magazines scattered on the sofa. He wouldn’t like cold mugs of tea left lying around, shoes discarded on the floor or bras and tights drying over the radiators. That coffee table would never be buried under nail polishes and phone chargers and old newspapers and empty crisp packets and menus from the Indian takeaway round the corner.

In fact, the woman’s touch was probably the last thing Simon needed.

‘It’s very spacious,’ she said diplomatically.

Frances sniffed. ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t buy a nice house in Chelsea or somewhere. It would be so much nicer for me to visit.’ She heaved an exaggerated sigh but, when Simon remained unmoved, turned back to Clara.

‘Anyway, come and sit down.’ Without giving Clara an opportunity to protest, she drew her over towards one of the cream sofas and spoke over her shoulder to her son.

‘Darling, do get Clara a drink. You must be gasping for a G&T,’ she told Clara. ‘I know I am! Or I suppose Simon could make tea,’ she added doubtfully.

‘Mother—’ Simon’s teeth were audibly gritted ‘—Clara’s anxious to get home. She might not want a drink.’

‘Nonsense, of course she does. Don’t you, Clara?’

Clara was torn. Simon was clearly desperate to get rid of her, but it had been a long day and now that Frances had mentioned gin …

‘I’d love a gin and tonic,’ she confessed.

‘There you are!’ Frances turned triumphantly to her son. ‘And I’ll have one too, darling, to keep her company.’

Simon sucked in a breath. ‘Of course,’ he said tightly and disappeared to what Clara presumed was a kitchen.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Frances said with a sunny smile. ‘He likes to disapprove, but it’s good for him to relax a bit. He works so hard, poor darling, and now he’s on his own again …’ She leant towards Clara confidentially. ‘Well, I always thought Astrid was a bit of a cold fish, but at least she would make him go out.’

Clara was dying to gossip, but didn’t think she ought to. She asked Frances how long she was visiting instead, and Frances chatted happily about herself until Simon reappeared with drinks.

‘Now you must tell us all about you,’ she insisted, and proceeded to grill Clara about her family, background and job.

‘Oh, you work in television? How exciting! Simon’s on television sometimes.’

Clara’s eyes met Simon’s fleetingly over the rim of her glass. ‘Yes, I know.’ She had to give him points for being able to pour a mean gin and tonic. It was long and fizzy, with just the right amount of lime and ice. She was feeling better already and she settled back into the sofa, prepared to enjoy herself before she had to face the reality of failure again.

‘You must be very proud,’ she said to Frances.

‘Oh, I am, terribly. Of course, the idea of him being a pin-up is a bit of a hoot. Not that he wasn’t a gorgeous baby.’

‘Mother …’

Clara smothered a smile at Simon’s expression as Frances rattled on. ‘I see him on the news, and he sounds so clever and sensible. You’d never guess what a reckless little boy he was, would you?’

‘Mother—’ said Simon again, warning in his voice ‘—Clara’s had a long day. She doesn’t want to listen to a lot of boring family stories.’

Frances ignored him and spoke to a fascinated Clara. ‘He was full of mischief when he was little. Your hair would stand on end if I told you half the things he got up to! But then his father died …’ She trailed off sadly. ‘That was a horrible shock. I don’t know what I would have done without Simon then. He sorted everything out, and he’s been looking after us ever since.’

Simon’s jaw was set. ‘That’s not true—’

‘It is true,’ insisted Frances. ‘I always wonder how different you’d have been if your father hadn’t left things in such a mess.’

What mess? Clara wondered. It sounded as if there was an interesting story there, but when Simon caught her eye his expression was so tense that she couldn’t help responding to his unspoken appeal.

‘I really should be going,’ she interrupted Frances, who was clearly ready to tell the whole story. Draining her glass, she put it down and, one-armed, manoeuvred herself awkwardly to her feet from the deep sofa.

‘Must you go?’ Frances looked disappointed. ‘It’s been such fun meeting you, and I’m so, so grateful to you.’

‘It was nothing, really.’

‘It wasn’t nothing. You were an absolute heroine, and you’ve broken your wrist rescuing my wretched bag. I can’t possibly thank you enough. You must promise to tell us if there’s ever anything we can ever do for you. Mustn’t she, Simon?’