Page 7 of That Weekend in Paris
Farther down, he motions toward the hotel’s Michelin award-winning restaurant where I could have breakfast, lunch, or dinner. As we continue along, he asks if I know of the hotel’s history.
“A little,” I say.
“You might know then that your American novelist Ernest Hemingway spent time here at the Ritz Paris. Our most well-known bar is named after him. It is an excellent spot to have a drink in the evenings.”
“Thank you. I will have to try it.”
We take an elevator to my floor, and the luggage arrives at the same time.
Henri points to the right and says, “After you.” He takes the key from me and opens the door, waiting while I step inside. Since I’d taken an overnight flight, it’s only a little after eight Thursday morning, French time.
A silver tray with a matching pot and a white porcelain cup sit on the table in the middle of the room.
“For you, madame,” he says. “There’s also a basket of buttered toast and jam. If you should like anything else from room service, please call that extension. We will be happy to bring it to you.”
The coffee is a welcome sight. I wait while he pulls my suitcase from the cart and arranges it next to the luggage stand by the closet. He asks if there’s anything else he can do for me. I tell him no and thank him, handing him a tip. He takes it without looking at it, nods once, and lets himself out of the room.
I take off my lightweight coat, drop it on the bed, and immediately pour myself a cup of the steaming coffee. The tray holds heavy cream and white sugar cubes. In a moment of indulgence, I add a bit of both, taking a sip and closing my eyes for a moment against the wonderfully robust flavor.
I carry the cup to the balcony, staring out the window at the magnificent city before me. Cars, taxis, and mopeds,horns honking, all vie for position on the street below. It’s early June, and vibrantly colored flowers adorn the window boxes of the building across the street. The sky is a vivid blue today, the sun lending its light to a late spring day.
My thoughts veer back to the realization that Josh had intended this room and its incredible views to be for his girlfriend. I wait for the familiar stab of hurt that always accompanies reminders of his infidelity, but it isn’t as sharp this morning. I wonder why. Is it because I’ve one-upped him by coming to Paris to meet with Klein? Righted the ship of justice a bit?
I’m human. So maybe.
But somehow I don’t think that’s it.
I try to remember the love I once felt for him. Try to recall the sense of security I knew in never questioning what I thought we had.
It isn’t there. In its place, there’s just a hole of sadness where happiness had once been.
I want to put all the blame on him, but I’ve logged enough hours with the counselor I’ve been seeing to know I played some part in it, knowingly or not.
I turn from the window, stare at the enormous bed, and torture myself with a vision of Josh and his twenty-something making use of it.
I close my eyes hard and blink it away.
Enough.
I have a canvas of blank hours before me. The show is tonight. Until now, I haven’t thought about what I would do for the duration of the day. The thought of sleeping for a few hours tugs at me with an irresistible pull, but the desire to see the city has more appeal. I decide on a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a walk on the streets of Paris. I pour another cup of coffee, this time leaving out the heavy cream, and head for the shower.
Josh
“There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”
?Charles Dickens,Great Expectations
DOES SHE REALLY think she will get away with this?
Josh paces the marble floor of the Tuscan-inspired kitchen he and Dillon had planned together in the early years of their marriage. Anger boils inside him. What the hell was she thinking? Canceling his trip to Paris and going there on her own, as if Klein Matthews is going to leave Top Dog Publishing for her no-name startup.
Fury grips him by the throat, and it is all he can do not to slam his fist into the oversized mirror hanging on the main wall of the kitchen. He hates being one-upped by anyone, least of all the wife who chose to leave him.
The nerve required to do what Dillon has done is what gets him the most. What happened to the mousy, no-confidence songwriter who timidly appeared in his office on a winter afternoon, hopeful that he might at least give her some indication she wasn’t wasting her time in this town?
Her talent had been undeniable then. It still is, but if Josh regrets anything, it is the fact that he has let her get too sure of herself. Think that she has something, anything really, to do with his success, because nothing could be further from the truth.
He has an enviable roster of songwriters and artists, many of whom perform their own work, unlike Dillon. She’s never had the courage to sing her songs, and even though he personally believes she could have made a career as an artist as well, he’s never let her get too far with that thinking. He likes keeping the reins a little tight. Likes being the one with the ultimate control in the relationship.
