52
NOW
She was almost euphoric when she left work two hours later. She and Claudine had stayed behind, ushering the other guests to their rooms, making sure the cleaning staff had started work before they departed. They’d sat down afterwards and drunk coffee, something to take the edge off the fizz of the wine and the fizz of excitement they both felt.
‘It went well, I think?’ Claudine kept saying.
‘Yes. I think it did.’
Bella wasn’t sure whether Henri had taken her words on board, she wasn’t sure what he’d say to his father. But he’d said enough to give her hope.
And whatever happened next, it was over. There was nothing more they could do. There was a kind of relief at being briefly powerless, the sort of feeling she remembered from exiting her A levels, knowing she’d possibly not done as well as she could have, but also knowing that she had a few weeks to at least live in a limbo in which she could hope. And in which revision was useless.
Claudine had elected to stay at the hotel, to see the delegates off in the morning for their early flight. But although Bella had offered to stay too, she had been relieved when her boss had told her she needn’t. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You go home. You’ve earned a rest.’
It was the time of night where the sky was at its darkest – evening had faded to black, and the first tendrils of morning light had yet to touch the sky and give a sense of approaching light. But it was Paris, the city was very much still alive – lights emanated from the windows of closed shops and there were still people, walking home arm in arm from nights out, a man in the doorway, smoking a cigarette, a woman sporting a large jumper, bare legs and furry boots, shivering by a poodle who refused to pee.
The street lights glowed, their classic black design making them seem like something from a past era, and for a moment she could imagine she was stepping onto the street fifty, even a hundred years ago.
She’d promised Juliette she’d get a cab, and she would. But instead of calling an Uber to meet her outside, she decided to walk to the station and pick up one of the cars that would be waiting there to catch travellers on their exit.
Feeling the colder air start to infiltrate her clothing, she wrapped her coat more tightly around her and was about to descend the steps to the street when a voice called. ‘Bella?’
She looked up and gasped. Standing a few metres away, dressed in a shirt and tie, jacket over his arm, was Pete. It took a second to register, to understand that he was here, in Paris. ‘Pete? What are you doing here?’
He walked towards her, put his hand on the railing. ‘You said you’d think about it. Then you didn’t call. I— I suppose I wanted to show you that I was serious about this, about us. I knew you had this big thing on. I was going to— I suppose I was going to come in, surprise you. But then it was too—’ He gestured at the hotel. ‘Well, it’s a bit fancy, isn’t it? I felt like a bit of a dick. I mean, I’d probably have been chucked out for not having an invite.’
She smiled, trying to disguise the fact that she felt shaky. ‘Probably.’
‘So I went and I waited.’ His voice, she realised, was slightly slurry.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Not really. A tiny bit maybe.’
‘Perhaps we should talk tomorrow.’
He shook his head. ‘You said twenty-four hours and it’s already been more than that. At least—’ He stopped, seemed to be trying to work out the exact number, holding up fingers and counting them off. ‘You know,’ he said at last.
‘Oh, Pete.’
‘So?’ he said, looking up at her.
‘So?’
‘Are you prepared to give me – us – a chance?’ He stumbled slightly, grabbed the rail again.
She shook her head. ‘Oh Pete, I’m so sorry. I just think— I mean, we’re so different. I see that now. We want different things. And I’m sorry you came all this way – I should have called. It’s just been?—’
‘But face it, Bella. You don’t belong here any more than I do. This isn’t you!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This… businesswoman thing you’re trying to be. I know you, don’t forget. You’re a school dropout like me. We don’t do fancy. We’re not like that. Pretentious.’
‘I’m not being pretentious. I’m trying to better myself, yes. But?—’
‘But look at you!’ he gestured. ‘Not sure who you’re trying to fool.’
