We'll Always Have Paris

‘All right, I’m going!’ she said hastily. Digging in her purse, she produced a business card and pushed it into his hand. ‘But here are my contact details, just in case you change your mind.’

Shaking his head with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration at her persistence, Simon permitted himself a last look at her legs as she left, clearly disappointed but still with plenty of verve to the swing of her hips. As the click of those precipitous heels faded and she disappeared around the corner, he found that he was turning her card round and round between his fingers, and he stopped himself irritably.

Clara Sterne, Production Assistant, MediaOchre Productions, the card read. Who in God’s name would want to have anything to do with a company that called itself MediaOchre? The name was either prescient or indicated an ominous taste for puns. Simon had no intention of getting involved either way.

Unable to spot a bin, he shoved the card in his jacket pocket. He would dispose of it later, as he certainly wouldn’t be needing it. That was the last he would see of Clara Sterne.

Simon drummed his fingers on his desk. When they were going out, it had been very convenient that Astrid worked in the same office, but now it felt … well, awkward.

Simon didn’t like feeling awkward. He had always liked the fact that it had been so comfortable being with Astrid. She didn’t make scenes or get all emotional, and she never got personal in the office.

So why she wanted to spoil it all by throwing everything up for a pretty Italian, Simon couldn’t begin to fathom. He thought she had been happy with him. She had said she had been happy. And then one day it had been all about being swept off her feet and wanting ‘passion’ and ‘romance’.

Madness.

Astrid had put her head round his door earlier and asked if she could have a word. He’d been glad to see her. If they could have sat down together and chatted about financial sustainability for NGOs or risk analysis, he was sure she would have remembered how much better off she was with him. It wasn’t as if she could have a meaningful conversation with a man who carried a handbag, after all. Surely she would get bored with Paolo soon?

Not that he was jealous, whatever Clara Sterne had had to say about it. That was nonsense. He didn’t get jealous. That wasn’t how he and Astrid had operated, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Simon had every faith that Astrid would come to her senses but, apparently, it wasn’t yet. She had no time for economic policy nowadays, and was determined to talk about bloody Paolo instead. How he made her feel. How guilty she then felt about Simon. Feelings, feelings, feelings … Simon couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike her.

Now Astrid was pacing. That was another thing she had never used to do.

‘Who was that you were with last night?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Last night?’

‘That girl. Clara. I got the impression she was with you.’

Simon opened his mouth to deny any acquaintance with Clara Sterne, but the words died on his tongue as her words came back to him.

She’s clearly still got a thing about you. Instead of glaring at Paolo, you need to make her jealous.

Was it possible that Clara was right?

Simon was unsettled by how clearly he could remember her. Clara wasn’t a beautiful woman like Astrid, of course, but there had been a sort of quirky appeal to her undistinguished features, he had to admit. Something to do with the warm brown eyes, perhaps, or that mouth that seemed permanently tilted at the corners.

Or maybe those spectacular legs.

Simon was prepared to admit to a sneaking admiration for her daring, too, if he were honest, although he had no intention of changing his mind.

In his jacket pocket he’d found her card, which he’d forgotten to put in the bin. Now he turned it on the desk, frowning slightly.

‘How long have you known her?’

To his relief, Astrid stopped pacing and sat down on the other side of his desk. A tiny crease had appeared between her immaculately groomed brows.

‘Not long.’ Simon shifted, uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t being entirely truthful.

‘It’s just that I worry about you,’ Astrid said unexpectedly. ‘I know we’re not together any more, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, and I’d hate it if you were to do anything foolish.’

Simon paused in the middle of turning the card on its side. ‘Foolish?’ Pretty rich coming from someone who had thrown over a perfectly satisfactory relationship for a handbag-carrying Italian!

‘Clara’s very …’ Astrid paused delicately ‘… colourful, but she’s hardly your type, Simon. And that dress! Totally inappropriate, I thought.’

It had been, but Simon couldn’t help remembering how good Clara’s legs had looked in it.

‘I know you’re too intelligent to be taken in by a girl in a miniskirt,’ Astrid went on, ‘but I hope you’ll be careful.’

‘I’m always careful,’ said Simon.

It was true. He liked his life firmly under control. Risk analysis was his speciality. He didn’t do reckless or spontaneous. And he certainly didn’t do foolish. He’d seen just how disastrous recklessness and foolishness could be, and neither were mistakes he would be making.

‘I know.’ Astrid’s expression softened. ‘Look, it’s hard to talk about these things in the office. Why don’t we meet for a drink later?’ Then, just when he was congratulating himself on being right about her returning to her senses, she spoiled things by adding, ‘I’d really like you to get to know Paolo.’

So much for a quiet drink sorting things out. Simon wanted to be with Astrid, but he had no desire to get to know any more about Paolo. As far as he was concerned, he already knew more than enough.

‘I’m sorry, Astrid,’ he said, ‘but my mother is coming to town this evening, and I promised to take her out to dinner. I’m expecting her any minute, in fact. Another time, perhaps.’

Preferably when Paolo was unavailable.

As if on cue, his PA buzzed him from her office. Not sorry for the distraction, Simon flipped the switch. ‘Yes, Molly?’

‘I’ve just had a call from Reception,’ said Molly. ‘Your mother’s there. She’s fine, but there’s been some kind of incident. Could you go down?’

When the lift doors opened, Simon spotted his mother straight away. She was at the centre of a cluster of people on the far side of the atrium, but when she saw him she hurried over to meet him. ‘Thank goodness you’re here!’

Simon’s brows snapped together at the sight of her flustered appearance. Frances Valentine was still an attractive woman, but now her highlighted blonde hair was dishevelled, and there were spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘What on earth has happened?’

‘I’ve been mugged!’ she announced with her usual flair for the dramatic.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in quick concern.

‘I’m fine. It’s Clara I’m worried about.’

‘Clara?’

‘She saw what happened, and tackled the mugger,’ Frances said admiringly, tugging him over to a bedraggled figure sitting on one of the low leather sofas, nursing one arm. ‘Wasn’t it brave of her?’

With a sinking sense of inevitability, Simon recognized the long legs first. His gaze travelled up over the torn tights, mud-splattered skirt and top to a face that was already unsettlingly familiar. Above the colourfully striped scarf that was wound several times around her neck, Clara Sterne’s face was paler than the night before but, even shaken, she managed to look more vivid than the other women clucking over her and, as her brown eyes widened at the sight of him, he felt an odd little zing pass through him.

‘You’re Frances’s son?’ she exclaimed.

‘You know each other?’ his mother said in delight.

‘No,’ said Simon.

Just as Clara said, ‘Yes.’