A Perfect Heritage (25 page)

‘No thank you,’ said Florence faintly.

They left at three; she felt happy and slightly dizzy, but otherwise totally and dangerously relaxed. Somehow, and by some strange alchemy of the wine and the surroundings, and the view of the sun shining through the chestnut trees, and Cornelius’s dark blue eyes fixed on her, her conscience, so active two hours ago, had been settled. Or was taking at least a siesta, she thought.

She went to the ladies’, and looked at herself in the mirror, and saw a woman a little flushed, her dark eyes brilliant, and smiled at her.

‘
Bonne chance
,’ she said aloud, as she sprayed herself rather liberally with her scent.

‘Right,’ said Cornelius when she had finished her coffee, ‘Galeries Lafayette, and then Sacré Coeur. Come along. No time to waste.’

They did not waste it, and every moment, every step took them nearer to the heart of the Paris that Cornelius knew and she was discovering, the dangerous, sexually beguiling city that Leonard Trentham had so rightly said would suit them both so well.

He was right, Florence decided; Sacré Coeur was astonishing and as lovely as the painting had promised. Standing high above Montmartre, white, dazzling, shining in the evening sun, it was like some heavenly vision in itself.

‘Oh,’ she said, gazing at it in awe, ‘how beautiful it is. I can’t believe it. Thank you so so much Cornelius for bringing me here.’

‘Entirely my pleasure,’ he said, and his eyes on her were very thoughtful. And he suddenly reached out and pushed one of her wild curls behind her ear and then pulled her hat off, and stood back looking at her.

‘Much, much better. It’s a very nice hat, but the hair beneath it is so much more beautiful. You should leave it uncovered whenever you can. Especially when you’re with me.’

Florence said briskly that she really didn’t imagine she would be with him very often and that her hair got very untidy without a hat.

‘Of course. Which is why you should leave it be. All those wonderful curls and tendrils, asking to be set free. Why try to shut them away?’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Florence, laughing. ‘But perhaps in the church I should wear my hat?’

‘Perhaps in the church. Now, you will be glad you have had such a good lunch because it’s quite a climb. Or would you prefer to take the
funiculaire
, it takes us a little of the way?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I want to walk. I feel very energetic suddenly.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘but save some of it for later, that energy, won’t you?’

She tried and failed not to think of what he might mean.

‘Now,’ he said as, sated with the beauties of Sacré Coeur, they returned to their own neighbourhood, ‘I think we should leave finding our courtyard until tomorrow because we are both a little weary. So this evening we will have cocktails at the Lutetia, which is just up the street – indeed, we can walk there on this lovely evening – and you need to wear your new shoes.’

‘And – anything else?’ she asked. ‘Or will they be enough?’

‘For me they would be quite enough,’ he said, ‘but for the Lutetia, perhaps a little more.’

And he suddenly leaned down and kissed her cheek, very lightly, and said, ‘Oh Florence, what wonderful company you are . . .’ Then drawing back immediately, and she was aware of the effort that cost him, and that was oddly exciting too, he said, ‘Now, one hour. Wear your finest.’

‘Is it very grand?’ she asked, nervous again.

‘Quite grand. But it is a carnal place, very, very sexy. So . . . it will suit you.’

‘Cornelius?’

‘Yes, Florence . . . ?’

His voice was innocent; but his expression was not.

‘Only two more weeks, Mills. Sooo exciting. Have you got your clothes yet?’

‘Um, no, not yet,’ said Milly. ‘We’re – we’re going shopping on Saturday. So what have you got?’

‘Oh – some ace bikinis of course. Lots of ripped shorts, white ones, so cool, and some gorgeous dresses.’

‘Will we need many dresses?’

‘Of course! Mummy says we can eat dinner with them at night and if they go ashore, they’ll take us if they can.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I can’t wait. Think of all the pictures we’ll have to put on Facebook.’

‘Yes . . .’

Carey’s brown eyes seemed to pierce Milly’s in a way she had begun to dread.

‘You don’t sound that excited, Mills. You sure you want to come still? Because Bea is just sooo envious. She said she’d give, like, anything, to be coming. I mean if you want to change your mind—’

‘No,’ said Milly, ‘no of course not. I’m terribly excited.’

Her half hope that her mother would say she couldn’t go had not materialised. Bianca had called Nicky as promised and seemed to have no reservations about it.

‘It sounds lovely, darling, and we’ve found a villa for the following two weeks, so it’s all working out beautifully. Lucky girl.’

‘Yes, I know. Did she – did she tell you about the others going?’

‘Oh yes, including two more children, two boys she said. There’ll be snorkelling, water skiing, and swimming and it sounds lovely. Oh, and darling, she did assure me there’d be no champagne cocktails! So I’m very happy about it, darling, really very happy indeed. And so is Daddy.’

‘Cool,’ said Milly. She felt comforted that her father had agreed to it. He was always even more fussy than her mother. Which was saying something.

Chapter 25

She must not do this; she must not give in, and at precisely the same time, knew that she would; it was as if she had become two people, the one wise, the other foolish, the one sweetly cautious, the other joyfully abandoned, the one a little ladylike, the other sexily self-confident. They were waiting on the steps of her
pension
, the two Florences, when Cornelius walked up the street, smiling, to collect her. And one Florence stayed behind, in the small pretty room, and the other took his arm and walked down the street and into the Lutetia.

Which did indeed look very grand, with its superb carved and stuccoed frontage, curving round the Boulevard Raspail, the huge deco letters spelling out its name shining golden in the evening sun.

‘Isn’t it lovely? And you look very worthy of it.’

She hoped so; her finest was the black taffeta cocktail dress she had worn on the night of the exhibition; perhaps he would not remember it.

But, ‘I love that dress,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of our wonderful evening together. Come along.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Florence, following him into the bar, ‘oh my goodness!’

The bar was absurdly exotic, occupied with life-size nude figures in bronze, elaborately fringed hanging lights, mirrors set square on every inch of wall; Cornelius ushered her into a deep, low, curved backed chair that somehow seemed too big for her and ordered two Grand Royales.

‘Cornelius, what is a Grand Royale? And how do you know I’ll like it?’

‘I just do. It’s champagne, and Grand Marnier. Quite exotic. Really the only cocktail for this place.’

She looked around her in silence, unable to think of anything to say that might be clever enough for such surroundings.

He smiled.

‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I feel very quiet. Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. It’s marvellous, isn’t it? It makes no concession to the passing of time, it is as it was, a simple statement of its era.’

‘Which was?’

‘Oh, it was built in 1910. The end of the
belle époque
. It was considered awfully daring.
Le tout Paris
gathered here, not just the social set, but artists, dancers, writers, and they drank champagne, ate wonderful food, danced, and, I am quite sure, took lots of drugs. Then it was requisitioned during the war and was used to house and entertain the officers in command of the occupation. Afterwards it became a hospital for refugees from the camps and prisoners of war. And it is now restored to its incredible splendour as you see. It is, of course, all about sex.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes, it is. Don’t you feel it? It’s a very sensuous place. Or am I talking nonsense?’

‘Whether it’s nonsense or not, Cornelius, it’s exactly the sort of conversation we agreed we should not be having.’

‘No, Florence, that is not what we agreed. It is impossible to be in Paris and not talk about sex. The agreement was that there should be no impropriety between us. That is very different.’ He sighed. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Well . . .’ she said, her voice tailing away.

‘Oh, Florence,’ he said, his tone different suddenly, solemn, oddly gentle, ‘this has been so very special. Such a very special day.’

‘It has indeed,’ she said. ‘Very special. Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘It has been entirely my pleasure. Now, I have decided we should eat dinner at the Brasserie Lipp. It’s very near, on the Boulevard St Germain, and I am hoping very much we shall be allowed a table.’

And the two Florences once again took his arm and walked into the rest of the evening.

The Brasserie Lipp was indeed just a walk away: more painted ceilings, lamps,
belle époque
flowers, and decorated mirrors (artfully tilted, Cornelius told Florence, so that every part of the main room could be seen from every other part of it) and
le tout Paris
were slowly filing in. Not the dazzling, show-offy Paris of the Ritz, or the Crillon, but chic, intelligent Paris, writers, artists, musicians, the
vrai beau monde
, for all of whom Lipp approval was required before admission to a table. It was impossible to book; you had to stake your claim and were either told to wait twenty minutes, in which case you had a drink on the
terrasse
, or to wait an hour ‘
au moins
’, in which case the only thing to do was dine elsewhere. But a smile was bestowed on Cornelius and a table on the terrace and Florence sat entranced, watching people come and go. She saw an elderly lady carrying a small dog admitted; she saw people overdressed and people seriously underdressed; she saw men on their own and women together; she saw . . . ‘Oh my goodness Cornelius, is that – yes it
is
, Yves Montand! And I can’t believe this, Simone Signoret, and—’

‘Hush,’ said Cornelius laughing, ‘you will have us banned. This is a place for discretion. But yes, it is Montand and Signoret. We are lucky to be here. And I am very lucky to be here with you. I hope you feel the same way.’

Then it was that the one Florence withdrew, and the other stepped forward: she felt outside time, outside reality, outside conscience, that this was an evening of pure class and style, and that it would be a crime against Paris to primly refuse, albeit for several very good reasons, a sexual adventure.

And so they were launched on this sweetly promising journey; for Cornelius read her answer as she suddenly, and with an unmistakable sexuality, pulled out the pins that held back her wild hair, and shook it out, her eyes fixed on his the while.

‘Give me your hands,’ he said, and he took them, her small pretty hands, in both of his and turned her palms upwards and bent his head over them and kissed them, one at a time; and she felt a reckless excitement that completely overcame any sense of guilt or even fear, and kissed both his hands in return.

‘Good,’ was all he said, his eyes probing hers very fiercely, very hard, and she felt that too, felt it as a physical thing, a promise of what was to come.

They deliberately postponed then, with an agonising pleasure, the joys that they knew lay before them, as they drank and ate and talked and laughed.

‘Now,’ he said, as they finally went outside into the night, she holding his arm, her head resting against him, ‘now we must find a safe harbour, Little Flo.’ And she agreed, laughing now, with excitement and recklessness, that they could go neither to Cornelius’s hotel nor hers, for his would be too risky, and hers too undeserving of what was to follow.

And he led her through the narrow, maze-like streets of St Germain, and they paused outside one small restaurant where a crowd of people sat on the pavement, drinking and smoking, enjoying the Parisian air, full as it was of laughter and camaraderie and music, drifting from street musicians and cafés; they waved to them and called them over, offering them cigarettes and wine, but they could wait no longer, by mutual consent, simply smiled back and shook their heads and Cornelius, his arm around Florence’s shoulders, now bent and kissed her on the mouth, making their intentions very clear. Which delighted the group who raised their glasses to them as one man and called ‘
bonne chance
’. To which Cornelius tipped his hat and Florence made a small mock curtsey.

They went to a small hotel, little more than a
pension
, where Cornelius seemed to know the proprietor. Shown to a small but charming room, with a large, brass bed, quite unafraid or even anxious, she lay down on the bed with Cornelius beside her and asked to be kissed.

‘I wonder,’ he said, leaning over her and slowly, very slowly, playing with her hair, stroking her face, kissing her neck, ‘my dearest Little Flo, if there was pleasure with your husband?’

‘Cornelius, of course there was. Wonderful pleasure. I loved every moment of every time, even the first.’

‘I see,’ he said, ‘a challenge then.’

‘Yes. But I think it will be all right.’

And it was: wonderfully, brilliantly, shakingly, explosively all right. She lay there, hungry for pleasure, aching for release, laughing as he professed surprise at her lack of inhibition.

‘Really, Cornelius, what do you take me for?’

‘I take you,’ he said, kissing first one breast, then the other, ‘for what you are, the most sexually intriguing woman I have ever known.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ she said, pushing her hands through his hair, arching her back, half shouting already, throbbing, aching with pleasure, and: ‘Oh be quiet,’ he said, ‘and let me have you.’

He did have her; and more than once, the first time swift, almost desperate; and again and then again, each time sweeter, more intense, more ferocious than the last. She had not forgotten the pleasure, but time had softened the memory, and she was surprised, almost startled, by the fierce, probing hunger, the desperation as her body neared release, and then the sweet, bright freedom as she broke through, found it, found the unfolding pleasure, over and over, wave upon wave, found herself.

‘Oh, Miss Hamilton,’ said Cornelius finally, as the early dawn of midsummer was just breaking over Paris, ‘you have exhausted me.’

‘And you me,’ she said, lying back on the lace-edged pillows, smiling at him.

‘But not for long I suspect,’ he said.

‘Oh, a while. You may have a little sleep now. And then I think you should return to the Hotel d’Angleterre and I to the
pension
, and we should become ourselves again, and remember who we are.’

‘Must we?’

‘We must.’

And of course, he knew she was right.

They had two more days, and they spent as little time as possible working.

‘I think that might be the thing that Athina might mind most,’ said Cornelius with a grin when she pointed it out.

He showed her the real Paris, the Seine with its bridges and walks, the twisting and turning of the huddled narrow streets of the Marais, the winding criss-cross lanes of Montmartre, the boulevard of Montparnasse and its wonderful cemetery, with its writers’ graves and its romantic embellishments – a couple sitting in bed on one grave, a version of Brancusi’s
The Kiss
on another.

‘How can a cemetery be sexy?’ Florence asked, smiling. ‘But it is.’

And on and on it went, until she was confused, almost wanting to be weary of it, so that leaving would not be so hard.

And on their last evening, in the still bright light, they went to find their courtyard, wandering up and down the streets, peering into alleys and pushing open half-open doors, and after many false starts:

‘Look!’ cried Florence, ‘there it is, look Cornelius, there, see.’

And they stood there on the edge of it, peering inside at their courtyard, small and green and filled with light even then. ‘Stay there,’ said Cornelius, and he took his camera and photographed her standing there, laughing, and a second one as she blew him a kiss; and then she took one of him, blowing a kiss back, and then a passing stranger, as would only happen in Paris, asked if they would like him to photograph them together and they thanked him and posed together, smiling, he with his arm round her shoulders.

‘You’d better take good care of those,’ said Florence, suddenly sober, when the stranger had moved on. ‘Here, give the film to me and I’ll have it developed. Safer that way.’

And on their last evening, they dined at the Café de Flore. ‘Only I shall think of it as the Café de Flo for ever more,’ Cornelius said, and they looked at one another in a sort of wonder that they had travelled so far in so short a time.

‘I don’t know how to go back,’ he said, ‘how to be Mr Farrell again, husband to the famous Mrs Farrell.’

‘You are quite famous yourself,’ said Florence briskly, ‘and you have to go back, and so do I, to our other lives. They are real, they are what matters and—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘This has been real too, and this matters too, and we must not lose it, it is too precious. And, with your agreement, I see no reason why not.’

‘I see many reasons,’ said Florence, ‘but I am prepared to let you try and persuade me.’

‘I shall try and I shall succeed,’ said Cornelius. ‘And I should warn you, I am not accustomed to failure.’ And he smiled at her with great self-confidence.