Holiday with the Best Man (9 page)

An evening in Paris. It sounded incredibly romantic. And he said he'd planned things. ‘What do you have in mind?' she asked.

‘Come with me,' he said.

He'd retained the plush car from before. ‘It would take us an hour to walk where I'm taking you, and the Métro journey means a lot of messing about, so that's why we're taking a car now,' he explained. ‘We can walk through the city and explore tomorrow.'

‘OK,' she said.

They ended up at what he told her was the fifth
arrondissement
. ‘This is Quai St Bernard,' he said, ‘and it's the perfect place for a summer evening.'

There was a mini amphitheatre on the side of the Seine. People were sitting on the side of the river, picnicking or drinking wine and listening to the DJ playing what sounded like tango music; and there was a crowd of people dancing.

‘Tangoing in Paris?' she asked. ‘Roland—this is fabulous, but I'm afraid I don't know how to tango. Though I'm very happy to watch the dancing,' she added swiftly, not wanting him to think she was ungrateful. ‘I can still soak up the atmosphere and enjoy it.'

‘I know you do dance aerobics with Bella, so you can follow a routine,' he said. ‘Don't worry that you've never danced a tango before. You'll pick it up. Just follow my lead.'

And what could she do but give in to the steady, hypnotic beat and dance with him? He held her really close, sliding one thigh between hers and spinning her round, and it was his nearness rather than the dancing that took her breath away.

When he bent her back over his arm, his mouth skimmed the curve of her throat and she went hot all over. If there hadn't been so many strangers dancing around them—if he'd danced with her like this in the privacy of their hotel suite—she knew this would've been the prelude to a much deeper intimacy. She could see from the expression in Roland's dark eyes that right now he felt exactly the same way. And although part of her felt shy about it, part of her revelled in it. In being totally swept off her feet, dancing the tango by the river in Paris at night.

The music changed to a salsa—something she did know, from her aerobics classes—and Roland smiled as she segued into the step-ball-change routine, side to side and back to front.

‘What?' she asked, aware that he was watching her.

‘It's lovely to see you letting go,' he said.

‘Are you saying I'm uptight?'

‘No. More that you hide yourself. But tonight you're
la belle étoile
.'

Her schoolgirl French was enough to let her translate: he thought she was a beautiful star?

She realised she'd spoken aloud when he stole a kiss. ‘Right now you're shining. And you're beautiful.'

Tears pricked her eyelids. ‘Thank you.
Merci beaucoup.
'

‘Je t'en prie,'
he said, and spun her round so they could salsa together, holding her close enough at times so she could feel his arousal pressing against her, and at others standing facing her and shimmying along with her.

The DJ changed to playing slower, sultrier music, and they ended up swaying together, dancing cheek to cheek. Grace felt cherished and adored—something she wasn't used to, and something she had a nasty feeling she could find addictive.

She really had to keep it in mind that this wasn't real. Roland saw this as dating practice, nothing more. Wishing it could be otherwise was the quickest route to heartache. She needed to remember her fall-back position: being sensible, the way she always was.

When the music finally ended, they took the car back to their hotel.

‘That was fantastic,' she said. ‘I enjoyed that so much.'

‘Me, too.'

‘Obviously you know the city well.' She swallowed hard. Time for a reality check. ‘I assume you've done that before?'

He shook his head. ‘I've been to Paris a few times with Lynette, yes—but we didn't stay at the hotel where we are tonight and I'm not retracing our footsteps.'

Which made her feel a bit better; and she was impressed that he realised she'd been worrying about that. ‘So how did you know about the dancing?'

‘You want the truth?' he asked. At her nod, he laughed. ‘The Internet is a wonderful thing. I looked up romantic things to do in Paris. And that one struck me as being a lot of fun.'

‘It was.' And she loved the fact that he'd gone to that much trouble for her. ‘Your dating skills really don't need any practice, Roland. That's absolutely the way to melt someone's heart. To think about what they might like and surprise them.'

His fingers tightened around hers. ‘That's what these couple of days are about. Exploring and having fun. I'm not trying to recreate the past. This is just you and me.'

As they pulled up at the hotel, he gestured across the river. ‘Look.'

‘The Eiffel Tower's sparkling!' she said in delight. ‘I had no idea it did that at night.'

‘It sparkles on the hour,' he said.

Grace was so tempted to take a photograph of the Eiffel Tower on her phone and send it to Bella—but then her sister would call her and ask why she was in Paris, and it would get too complicated. Pushing back the wistfulness and disappointment that she couldn't share this with the one person she knew would understand how much she was enjoying the chance to travel, she said, ‘This is just like I imagined Paris to be. The City of Light.'

‘I'll show you more tomorrow,' he promised.

Despite what he'd said on their arrival, Grace wondered if Roland expected her to share his room that night. But he kissed her at her bedroom door. ‘Good night, sweet Grace.'

It took the pressure off; but, at the same time, she felt disappointment swooping in her stomach. She lay awake, wondering if she had the nerve to walk into his room. If she did, would he open his arms to her? Or would he reject her? In the end, she didn't quite have the nerve, and she fell asleep full of regret.

The next morning, she felt a bit shy with him; but he was relaxed and easy. ‘Are you up for a lot of walking?' he asked.

She nodded. ‘Bring it on.'

After a breakfast of excellent coffee and the best croissants she'd ever had in her life, he took her to the Tuileries and they wandered through the pretty gardens. ‘I know this is a bit touristy, but we can't miss it.'

‘With you being a glass fiend, you're going to show me the pyramid at the Louvre, right?' she guessed.

He laughed. ‘Not just the one everyone knows about in the courtyard. This is a bit of a whistlestop tour. I hope you don't mind.'

‘No. It's fabulous,' she said, meaning it.

They walked through the museum itself, and Grace was stunned to come across pieces of art she'd known about for years, just casually dotted through the building. It didn't seem quite real, and she pinched herself surreptitiously.

And then Roland took her to the other pyramid.

‘And this is what I love, here. The perfect symmetry of glass,' he said with a grin, and took a selfie of the two of them on his phone, standing under the inverted pyramid with a rainbow of light shining across their faces.

‘You and your glass,' she teased.

From the Louvre, they walked to the Place des Vosges. ‘It's the oldest planned square in the city,' he told her. ‘Victor Hugo lived here when he wrote
Les Misérables
.'

It was utterly beautiful: a terrace of redbrick houses with tall windows and blue-tiled roofs, and little arcades running along the bottom storey. Grace was enchanted, and even more so when they wandered through more of the Marais district. ‘This is lovely,' she said. ‘All cobbled streets and medieval crooked lanes.'

‘It's how Paris was before Napoleon razed most of it and built all the wide avenues and huge squares,' Roland said. ‘What I like about it is the way you've got old-fashioned
boulangeries
mixed in with art galleries and wine shops and jewellery designers.'

‘You could just lose yourself here,' she said.

He nodded. ‘It's the best way to explore.'

They ended up at Place du Marché-Ste-Catherine, a cobblestoned square with pretty plane trees and lots of cream-coloured four-storey eighteenth-century houses. On three sides of the square there were little cafés with parasols and sunshades on; there were wrought iron benches in the centre, and a couple of buskers playing Bach on the violin.

‘Time for lunch,' Grace said. ‘And I'm going to order for us. Even though it's a long time since I've spoken French.'

‘Sure you don't want me to help?'

‘Nope. I'm going outside my comfort zone,' she said. ‘And I've got you to thank for making me that brave.'

‘OK,' he said.
‘Allons-y.'

* * *

Grace's schoolgirl French
was just about up to ordering two coffees and quiche, though she had to resort to sign language and a lot of smiling to order the lamb's lettuce salad, and Roland couldn't help smiling. Grace was oh, so sweet. And wandering through one of the prettiest districts of Paris with her had soothed his soul.

He'd called her a beautiful star, the night before. And even in the daytime she seemed lit up. He loved the fact that she was throwing herself into the whole Parisian experience, enjoying every single moment and sharing his delight in the glorious architecture. And a corner of his heart that he'd thought would stay heavy for ever suddenly seemed lighter, just because she was with him. But he knew she wanted someone who wouldn't let her down. His track record wasn't good enough. Falling in love with Grace Faraday wouldn't be fair to either of them.

That evening, they had dinner in the Michelin-starred hotel restaurant—another treat he knew she'd enjoy as much as he did—and then he took her to the Eiffel Tower. ‘This is the best way to see Paris by night,' he said, ‘with all the streets lit up.'

He showed her the broad boulevards radiating outwards; the River Seine was like a black silk ribbon with its bridges lit up. ‘This is the Champ de Mars,' he said, showing her the south side of the tower, ‘with the military school at the end.' He pointed out the shiny gold dome of the Hôtel des Invalides, and the Trocadéro gardens.

‘This is amazing,' she said. And, to his shock, she threw her arms round him and kissed him.

Time seemed to stop.

And although there were plenty of other tourists enjoying the view from the platform, he felt as if the two of them were alone in a little bubble of time and space.

When Roland finally broke the kiss, he felt almost giddy and had to keep holding her tightly. And then he recovered his customary aplomb and told her more about the tower and pointed out more of the landmarks in the city. Just because if he kept talking, then he'd be able to stop himself kissing her stupid.

Back at the hotel, he had to damp down the urge to carry her across the threshold and straight to his bed. That wasn't the deal. And, even though he was pretty sure she wouldn't say no, it wouldn't be fair to her. So he kissed her good night at the doorway to her room—making very sure he kept the kiss short enough so it didn't play havoc with his self-control—and went to bed alone.

And he spent the next couple of hours lying awake, thinking of Grace.

What if she was the one who really could make him live again?

But the biggest question was, what did she want? And, if they did try to make a go of things, would their relationship splinter in the same way that his marriage had? Would she want children, to the point where nothing else mattered?

It was a risk. And he wasn't sure he had the strength left to take that risk.

So he'd stick to the rules.

Despite the fact that he really wanted to break them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

H
OW
DID
YOU
sweep someone off their feet without losing your own head in the process? Roland still didn't have any clearer ideas the next morning. But after breakfast he took Grace to Montmartre. As he expected, she was charmed by the gorgeous Art Deco Métro signs, loved the beautiful church and the amazing views over the city, and enjoyed walking through the crowded square where the artists sold their wares and did charcoal portraits of tourists. He got her to pose on the steps next to the funicular railway and took a photograph of her; when a passing couple offered to take a photograph of them together, he enjoyed the excuse to wrap his arm round her shoulders and for her to wrap her arm round his waist.

They stopped at one of the street vendors for a cinnamon crêpe, then wandered further through Montmartre, looking for the plaques to show where the famous turn-of-the-century artists had once lived or painted.

‘Bella would love it here,' Grace said.

And for a moment Roland could imagine the two of them coming here with Hugh and Bella, Tarquin and Rupert, lingering at a table outside one of the cafés and talking and laughing until the early hours of the morning.

He shook himself. That wasn't going to happen. His next step was dating again, not finding his true love. And who was to say that he would find The One? Maybe one chance was all you got, and he'd already had that with Lynette. Wanting a second chance was greedy. And he had to look at it from Grace's point of view, too; even if he wanted to try making a go of things with her, she wasn't ready to rush into another long-term relationship.

So he kept it light and fun and did touristy things with her for the rest of the afternoon until it was time to catch the Eurostar back to London. This time their journey was swift and businesslike rather than slow and romantic, the way the Orient Express had been. Which was a good thing, because the brisk and businesslike feeling would stop him doing something stupid.

‘Thank you, Roland,' she said when they were back in Docklands. ‘I've had the nicest time ever.'

‘My pleasure,' he said, meaning it.

He used the excuse of catching up with work for Friday evening and the whole of Saturday, in an attempt to cool his head again; but on Sunday afternoon, when she diffidently suggested that maybe they could go to the Science Museum in search of the seaweed ‘plank', he found himself agreeing. And again he ended up holding hands with her as they walked round.

Disappointingly, they couldn't find the plank.

‘Let's go next door,' he said.

‘Because you want to see the dinosaurs? Or because it's one of the most gorgeous buildings in London and you want to drool over the architecture?' she asked.

He loved it when she teased him like this. Grace really seemed to get who he was and what made him tick. ‘Both?' he suggested.

‘Pfft. It's the brickwork all the way, with you,' she said with a grin. ‘But let's go and see the dinosaurs as well, because I loved those when I was a child.'

‘And I bet you used to count the bones,' he teased back.

‘Absolutely. And I could always talk Dad into getting a dinosaur head on a stick for Bella and me—you know, the sort with a trigger on the end so you can make the mouth snap shut. We used to pretend to be T-Rexes and chase each other round the garden. Bellasaurus and Graciesaurus, that was us.'

Grace, all young and carefree and letting herself shine. When had that stopped? he wondered. He'd really, really liked the carefree Grace who'd danced the salsa with him on the banks of the Seine. Could she be that Grace back in London? And could she take a risk with him?

When they queued up to see the dinosaurs, the little girl in front of them was scared when one of the large animatronic dinosaurs roared unexpectedly, and burst into tears. Her father immediately swung her up in his arms to comfort her.

‘Poor little lass,' Grace said.

Roland gave her a sidelong look. Was he being oversensitive and paranoid, or did she have the same kind of broody expression that he'd seen permanently on Lynette in that last year?

‘Do you want children?' The question was out before he could stop it.

She stared at him and blinked. ‘That's a bit abrupt. Why do you ask?'

‘Just wondering.' Stupid, stupid. Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut?

‘I don't know,' she said.

‘But you were engaged to Howard for four years. Surely you talked about having a family?' He knew he should shut up and leave the subject well alone, but his mouth was running away with him. Big time.

‘Actually, no,' she said. ‘We didn't. What about you? Did you and Lynette...?'

The question made him flinch inwardly, but he knew it was his own fault. He'd been the one to raise the subject. ‘I was still getting my business off the ground.' That was true. Up to a point. But oh, yes, Lynette had wanted a baby. More than anything.

‘But did you want to have children when the business was more settl—?' She stopped herself. ‘Sorry. I'm probably bringing back difficult stuff for you.'

Yes, she was, but not in the way she thought. Roland had never spoken to anyone about the way he and Lyn had struggled and struggled, and how their love had got lost somewhere under her desperate need for a child. Or about the shock news the doctor had given him at the hospital. ‘It's OK,' he said. Even though it wasn't and it hurt like hell.

‘Sorry, anyway,' she said, and squeezed his hand.

Change the subject. Change it now, he told himself.

But it was like prodding a bruise to see if it was getting better yet. And the words just spilled out before he could stop them. ‘I can imagine you as a mum.' She'd bring her child somewhere like here, to point out the wonders of the big blue whale and the dinosaurs and the fossilised lightning and the beautiful colours of the gemstones. And he had a sudden vision of himself at the seaside, building sandcastles with a little girl who had her mother's earnest blue eyes and shy smile.

‘I think I'd like to be a mum,' she said.

And that was the sticking point.

Roland had wanted to be a dad—but not at the expense of his marriage. He'd wanted their life to grow and expand, not for some of it to be excluded.

‘But there are no guarantees,' she said.

It was the last thing he'd expected her to say and it surprised him into asking, ‘What do you mean, no guarantees?'

‘Apart from the fact that I'd need to find someone I wanted to have a family with in the first place, not everyone can have children. I've got friends who couldn't, even after several rounds of IVF,' she said.

That figured. Grace would take the sensible, measured point of view. But then again, he'd thought that Lyn would take that point of view, too, and maybe look at alternative options when things hadn't gone to plan. But, once her biological clock had started ticking, Lyn's views had changed. She'd become obsessive, almost. And, instead of running away and hiding in work, he should've done more to help her. He should've found a middle way that worked for both of them.

‘Not everyone can,' he said, and hoped that Grace couldn't hear the crack in his voice, the way that he could.

She didn't comment on the fact he was quiet for the rest of the afternoon, but she bought him an ice cream in the museum café, and she got him talking about the amazing architecture of the Natural History Museum.

Funny how she understood him so well and knew what was balm to his soul.

‘I never thought to look it up,' she said, ‘but is there a museum of architecture?'

‘Actually, there's something really amazing here in London,' he said. ‘It's the house of Sir John Soane—the architect who designed the Bank of England, and the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. He arranged for the house to become a museum for students and people who loved architecture, after his death. They do candlelit tours in the evening so you get the feel of what life was like there, nearly two hundred years ago.' He smiled at her. ‘Actually, if there's one next week, would you like to go?'

‘Yes, but haven't you been there already?'

‘Several times,' he said, ‘but I see something new every time I go. It's a total maze of rooms with all these hidden compartments and corridors. The collection's arranged by pattern and symmetry rather than by period, and it's a total magpie's nest—everything from Egyptian relics to old clocks and period furniture and incredible art.' And it would be nice to share it with someone. Someone who understood what made him tick.

She smiled back. ‘Sold.'

‘Great.'

They visited the shop on the way out; Roland used the excuse that he wanted to pick up something for his five-year-old niece, but when Grace wasn't looking he secretly bought one of the dinosaur heads on a stick she'd told him about. Later that evening, he wrote a note on the outside of the paper bag and sneaked it into her briefcase, hoping she'd enjoy it when she found it.

* * *

On Monday morning, Grace opened her briefcase at her desk and discovered an unfamiliar paper bag resting on the top of her things.

In Roland's precise handwriting was a note.

Saw this and thought of you. Rrrr.

Intrigued, she opened the bag, and she burst out laughing when she saw the dinosaur head on a stick.

It was the last thing she would've expected from the man she'd met at Bella's wedding. But the Roland she'd got to know over the last few days had a keen sense of humour—and he made her feel more light-hearted and carefree than anyone she'd ever met. Like the teenager she'd never really been, because she'd always been the serious type.

Roland made her feel different.

And she liked that feeling.

Smiling, she texted him.

Thanks for the T-Rex. Am sure it will scare the numbers into behaving.

On impulse, she added a kiss to the end of the message, and sent it before she could chicken out.

Pleasure
, came the immediate response.

Checked and is candlelit evening at museum tomorrow. Entry limited to first two hundred so we need to be there by five p.m. latest. Can you make it? R x

The fact that he'd sent her a kiss at the end of his own text made her heart flutter. It would be so easy to lose her heart to him. But that wasn't what he was looking for, and she needed to remember that. This was their last week together. They'd just enjoy it, and part as...well, hopefully, friends.

* * *

On Tuesday evening, Roland met Grace at Lincoln's Inn Fields and they joined the queue—early enough to guarantee their admission, to his relief.

He took her to the catacombs in the crypt, so she could see the sarcophagus by candlelight; there was lots of dramatic up-lighting. ‘This is the spooky bit,' he said. ‘It always feels like being in the middle of a gothic novel.'

‘Your architect liked drama, then,' she said. ‘I can't believe this is all a private collection. Imagine living here with this in your basement.'

‘And this is probably how he would've lit it,' he said.

She shivered. ‘It's a little bit too spooky for me.'

‘Come and see my favourite bit,' he said, and took her to the model room.

‘Oh, I can see why you love this,' she said with a smile.

‘My favourite one is the Pantheon. I loved the model, when I was a child—and then, when I visited the real thing in Rome, I was totally blown away by it. I think it's my favourite building in the whole world.'

‘So what is it about it that grabs you most?' she asked.

‘The dome. It still amazes me how they constructed that dome nearly two thousand years ago, without all the modern equipment we have now. It's the most incredible feat of engineering.'

‘It's impressive,' she agreed.

‘I used to come here a lot when I was a student,' he said. ‘Soane used to open these rooms up to his students before and after lectures, so they could get more of a feel for the subject. I could just imagine being taught architecture here with these models.' He guided her round to see the miniature Parthenon. ‘These models are incredible. Even the acanthus leaves on the Corinthian capitals here are accurate copies of the real thing. It's like being on a mini Grand Tour.'

‘Have you actually done the Grand Tour?' she asked.

‘I did think about doing it, the year I graduated,' he admitted, ‘but a real Grand Tour could last anything from several months to several years. That wasn't really an option if I wanted to get my career up and running, so I did the whistlestop version, concentrating on Italian architecture and pretty much missing out the art and sculpture.'

‘What was your favourite building? After the Pantheon, that is,' she added.

‘The Coliseum's a close second,' he said, ‘and the Duomo in Florence is something else, especially if you go inside the dome.'

‘So would you think about building something with a dome?'

‘Maybe.' He smiled at her. ‘I guess I could pitch to Dad and Will that we ought to have a folly—as in a mini Pantheon—in the grounds, but I have a feeling they'd both laugh until they collapsed.'

‘I thought your family supported your architecture?'

‘The serious stuff, they do. A mini Pantheon is pure fantasy.' He laughed. ‘And if they actually let me do it, in two hundred years' time people would point at it and refer to me as Roland “the Mad Architect” Devereux. Though I guess it'd make us stand out from the crowd if we could offer weddings held in the English Pantheon.'

‘I have a nasty feeling that I could be a bad influence on you,' she said.

He tightened his fingers around hers. ‘And that's probably a good thing.'

* * *

They'd planned to
go to the cinema the following evening; but at lunchtime Grace found a text on her phone from Roland.