By all accounts, Paris has been fantastic for the last ten weeks.
And so have England, and Spain, and Germany. I’ve been all over, shooting right in the thick of the action.
The gig is everything. The lifestyle, even more so.
Truly, I can’t complain.
Well, not about much.
And definitely not about the weather, since rain can make for great photos.
With my phone, I snap a shot of my English friends on the other side of the table at the Parisian brasserie while silvery drops of water hit the cobblestone street in a faint drizzle.
“Make sure I look pretty,” Felicity chirps, tilting her blonde head next to her husband’s.
“You always do, love,” he says.
“And Oscar is correct,” I say as I set down the phone. “I’ll send it your way later.”
As we return to the debate on the merits of skiing in Switzerland versus France, my mind meanders to New York. Does Mark ski? No. Too risky. Bet he even has a risk analysis spreadsheet for skiing versus . . . walking in the city.
And why do I find that idea so fucking endearing?
“Should we all go later this year then?”
I snap my attention to my friends. “Name the date,” I say, since that's my mantra.
Felicity suggests the first week of December, then goes quiet. “Asher . . .”
The sound of my name is full of import. “Yes?”
“You don’t quite seem yourself.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“You’re here, but every now and then you’re . . . not,” she says, far too observant for my own good. “Like, your mind is elsewhere. And I know it’s not us, because we’re brilliant company.” She adds a wink.
“You are.” I finish my wine, then wave a hand. “It’s nothing.”
Oscar arches a bushy brow. “Nothing? Since when do you, mate, ever live in anything but the present?”
That’s an excellent question. With a very easy answer.
Since Mark Banks.
I just shrug, but then flash a grin. “Since never.”
Felicity taps her chin. “I call bullshit.”
Well, then. Maybe serving up the short story will help me forget him. “I met someone. Had a fling. Can’t quite get him out of my mind. But don’t worry. Soon, he’ll be gone from here.” I tap my temple.
I’m met with eyebrow arches from both of them. “But what about in here?” Felicity asks, tapping her heart.
That’s a question I don’t want to contemplate.
I came to Paris for this dream job, not to moon over a man. If there’s any place I can get over someone, it ought to be the City of Love.
But I’ve had no interest in getting on top of or under anyone.
Totally fucking annoying.
“Yup, I’m fine there,” I say as the rain falls harder.
Oscar cranes his gaze to the sky. “Well, that’s a sign,” he remarks, giving his wife a naughty look.
His wife laughs. “A sign you want to get home and shag?”
“You know me so well, love,” he says.
“And on that note,” I say, pushing back in my chair since we’ve already paid the bill, “I better let you get right to it.”
Oscar wraps an arm around her. “Actually, we were going to watch An Arranged Marriage first. The final episode runs tonight. Have you been watching this summer?”
Well, well. This just got more interesting than their sex life. “You two like that show?”
Felicity gives a coy shrug. “I like Ollie and Trevor. They get me in the mood.”
Join the club.
Oscar squeezes her shoulder. “And I like what she likes,” he says, and he sounds like he’s already in the mood.
Which is as good a reason as any for me to say goodnight. Not that Englishmen from the Victorian era aren’t reason enough. Is Mark still watching? What does he think of the twist last week when Ollie’s long-lost brother showed up, the rake who’d lost his fortune and begged his brother for help?
After I say goodnight to my friends, I make my way along Rue Saint-Dominique as the rain patters down. Absently, I run my finger across the phone screen in my pocket, tempted once again to text Mark like I did last month when Lord Ollie was sent back to the country. You called it, but so did I . . .
Sir Trevor had indeed chased Ollie down. The poet is mad about his lord, and can’t resist the dashing Ollie.
Understandable.
You were right too, Asher, Mark had replied. As I cross the avenue, I swipe my thumb on the text thread, re-reading our last string of messages from August as a few raindrops hit the phone.
That’s the last time we texted. I probably shouldn’t message him again.
After all, it’s nine o’clock in Paris, and I’m heading to my flat to watch my favorite TV show as I re-read old notes from the guy I left behind in New York.
Pretty sure this isn’t what I signed up for when I volunteered as tribute.