The Husband She'd Never Met

She found it hard to match that image with a sophisticated and cultured city like Paris.

‘Did—did I choose Paris?’

He lifted a dark eyebrow. ‘We chose it together. We were tossing up between New York, Paris and Rome, and we couldn’t choose, so we ended up throwing the three names in a hat.’

‘And then, when we drew the winner, we went for best of three?’

‘Yes.’ He frowned, then leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his gaze suddenly serious and searching. ‘How did you know that, Carrie? Can you remember?’

She shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I can’t remember anything about Paris, but I’ve always gone for the best out of three. Ever since I was little, if I was tossing up, trying to make any kind of decision, I’ve always tried three times.’ She gave an embarrassed little shrug. ‘Just to make sure.’

‘Of course.’ His smile was wry, and Carrie felt somehow that she’d disappointed him.

She took a sip of her drink, lemon and lime and bitters, with clinking ice cubes. ‘I know this will probably sound weird, but I’d love to hear about it,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Paris and I’d really like to know what you thought of it. Not—not the honeymoon bit,’ she added quickly.

The sudden knowing shimmer in Max’s blue eyes made her blush.

‘I mean the city itself,’ she said. ‘Did you like it?’

At first Max didn’t answer...and there was an unsettling, faraway look in his eyes.

What was he thinking about?

‘Paris was wonderful, of course,’ he said suddenly. ‘Amazing. Or at least I found it amazing once we’d survived the hair-raising taxi ride from the airport to our hotel.’

‘Is the traffic in Paris crazy?’

‘Mad.’

‘Where did we stay?’

‘In a small hotel in St-Germain-des-Prés.’

‘Wow.’

‘It was a brilliant position. We could walk to the Seine, or to the Louvre, or Nôtre Dame. The café Les Deux Magots was just around the corner and we had lunch there several times. It was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite place to hang out, along with Pablo Picasso and a mob of intellectuals.’

Max’s face broke into a warm grin.

‘We drank amazing red wine and French champagne, and we ate enough foie gras to give ourselves heart attacks.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’ Carrie closed her eyes, willing herself to remember. But nothing came. ‘And what about the sights?’

‘The sights?’ Max repeated, then lifted his hands in a helpless gesture as he shrugged. ‘How do you do Paris justice? It was all so beautiful, Carrie—the Seine and the bridges, the parks with their spring flowers and avenues of trees. The skyline. All those rooftops and church spires. The whole place was just dripping with history.’

‘So you really liked it?’ Carrie’s voice was little more than a whisper.

‘Yeah, I loved it,’ Max said simply.

Goose bumps were breaking out all over her skin. Their honeymoon sounded so perfect, so-o-o romantic, so exactly what she’d always dreamed of.

‘And it was Paris in the springtime?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t May, was it?’

‘Yes, you were dead-set to go there in May.’

‘It’s always been my favourite month.’

‘I know.’

They shared a tentative smile.

‘You’re not making this up, are you?’ she asked. ‘About Paris?’

Max frowned. ‘Of course not. Why would I?’

She gave a sad shrug. ‘I don’t know. It’s just so hard, not being able to remember any of it. To be honest I feel cheated that I had a honeymoon in Paris and can’t remember a single thing.’

‘Well, everything must be weird at the moment.’

In the candlelight, she saw his sympathetic smile.

‘Your memory will come back, Carrie.’

‘Yes.’ She knew she shouldn’t give up hope. After all, she’d had amnesia for less than a day. She thought about her memory’s eventual return and wondered how it would happen. Would everything come in a rush, like switching on a light? Or would it dribble into her consciousness in little bits and pieces, slowly coming together like a jigsaw puzzle?

Patience, Carrie.

‘Tell me more,’ she said. ‘Did we have coffee in those little pavement cafés with the striped awnings?’

‘Every day. And you developed a fondness for Parisian hot chocolate.’

She tried to imagine how the hot chocolate had tasted. For a moment the rich flavour was almost there on her tongue, but she was sure the real thing had surpassed her imagination. Giving up, she said, ‘And were we served by handsome waiters with starched white napkins over their arms?’

‘We were, indeed, and they spoke surprisingly good English.’

‘But with charming French accents?’

‘Yes to that, too.’ Max narrowed his eyes at her and his smile was teasing. ‘You were very taken by their accents.’

‘Were you jealous?’

He gave a small huffing laugh. ‘Hardly. We were on our honeymoon, after all.’

Their honeymoon. Her mind flashed up an image of the two of them in bed. She could almost imagine it...their naked bodies, the exquisite anticipation...

But then the barriers came up.

She had no idea what it was like to touch Max, to kiss him, to know the shape of his muscles and the texture of his skin, to have his big hands gliding over her, making love to her.