Read Online Harm's Way by Celia Walden - Free Book Online

the pavement from an adjacent table. She fell sensuously on to one, obliterating our sunlight.
    â€˜What a night that was, eh? What kind of state were you in Steve!’ Kicking the leg of his chair teasingly, she scolded him for ignoring a mutual friend of theirs in the club, with whom he’d had a romantic dalliance several weeks ago.
    I stole a sideways glance at Christian. With one brown elbow on the table, he was studying the menu, his eyelashes hard black fans against his cheeks.
    â€˜What are you having, darling?’ Beth asked softly in French.
    Both Christian and I looked up.
    â€˜Anna.’ Beth smiled at my confusion. ‘You’ll have the “orange-scented” madeleines, won’t you? Just to please me? Oh to have the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old again – and you, Christian?’
    â€˜I’m not that hungry. I’ll just have a coffee and a bit of whatever you’re having,’ he answered in French.
    The intimacy of his reply irritated me like an itch beneath the skin. And since when did Beth understand French so well? Complaining of a headache, and ignoring the three surprised upturned faces, I left.
    That afternoon I walked from République to the pont de l’Alma, willing every step to alter my mood. Instead, I felt more alone than during my first two weeks in the city. Even the river, glinting placidly in the sunlight like a young girl unaware of her own attractions, served only to heighten mysense of irritation. I was not an envious person. Nor did I normally covet other people’s happiness. And yet something about Christian had upset the balance of my friendship with Beth, bringing my nerves up like a rash.
    During my lunch hour the next day, I pulled a folded flyer from my pocket and dialled the seven-figure number scribbled in the corner, conscious of my motivations, but prepared to try anything
‘pour me changer les idées’
. The pleasure in Vincent’s voice was audible in the first sentence he uttered, and I appreciated his easy phone manner. He suggested booking a table that night at a seafood restaurant in the eighth arrondissement and I agreed. Over a tiered platter of shellfish, a little embarrassed amusement over the plastic bibs and a bottle of Riesling, I was surprised to find myself enjoying Vincent’s company. His features were finer than I’d remembered: a high forehead tumbling into deep-set eyes fringed with donkey-straight lashes. A self-deprecating humour gradually emerged which would have been more attractive were it not for the occasional downtrodden expression betraying various neuroses I had no intention of exploring. Simultaneously I decided two things: that I could never feel anything other than fondness for Vincent and that I would take him home that night.
    The following week took an unexpected form. Vincent and I spent nearly every night together. I was taken aback by his ardour, by the pleasure I derived from him in bed, and found the almost daily gifts of flowers and eighteenth-century novels – love and intellect are symbiotic forces in France – both baffling and amusing. One of the things I have always feltalienates me from most of my sex is the lack of excitement with which I receive flowers. For me the problem lies in the implicit emotional pressure in that seemingly benign gift. If presented to you with a flourish in a restaurant, the gesture is enjoyable for him, but leaves you burdened for the rest of the evening. They betray a kind of desperation in the giver – and remind me of our neighbour back in London, who bought his wife a puppy when he found out she was having an affair.
    The determination of Vincent’s attack bore results of a kind. I began to adopt the language and gestures of passion, without experiencing any of its emotions, marvelling at my lack of feeling, like a child who runs his finger quickly through a flame and is astonished to feel no pain. I learned then