Read Online Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella by Jojo Moyes - Free Book Online
Authors: Jojo Moyes
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had wanted to wait for Édouard to return, but I could not sit in our home, not with those women, with the prospect of my husband’s future infidelities hanging over me. I kept seeing the hurt in his eyes, hearing the rage in his voice.
Who is this pinch-faced accuser?
He no longer saw me as the best of myself, and who could blame him? He had seen me as I truly knew myself to be: plain, provincial, an invisible shop girl. He had been trapped into marriage by a fit of jealousy, his fleeting conviction that he needed to secure my love. Now he was regretting his haste. And I had made him conscious of it.
I wondered briefly if I should simply pack my case and leave. But every time that thought flickered through my feverish mind, the answer came back immediately: I loved him. The thought of life without him was unbearable. How could I return to St Peronne and live the life of a spinster, knowing what I knew of how love could feel? How could I bear the thought that he lived, somewhere, miles away from me? Even when he left the room I felt his absence like an aching limb. My physical need for him still overwhelmed me. And I could hardly return home a matter of weeks after our wedding.
But there was the problem: I would always be provincial. I could not share my husband, as the Parisiennes apparently did, turning a blind eye to their indiscretions. How could I live with Édouard and face the possibility of him returning home smelling of another woman’s scent? Even if I could not be sure of his faithlessness, how could I walk into our home and see Mimi Einsbacher, or any of these women, naked on our bed as she posed for him? What was I supposed to do? Simply disappear into a back room? Go for a walk? Sit and watch over them? He would hate me. He would see me as the gaoler that Mimi Einsbacher already considered me.
I understood now that I had not thought at all about what marriage would mean for us. I could not see further than his voice, his hands, his kisses. I could not see further than my own vanity – dazzled as I was by the reflection of me I had seen in his paintings, and in his eyes.
And now his magic dust had blown away, and I was left – a wife: this pinch-faced accuser. And I did not like this version of myself.
I walked the length of Paris, along the rue de Rivoli, up to avenue Foch and down the backstreets of Invalides, ignoring the curious glances of the men, the catcalls of the drunks, my feet growing sore on the cobbles, my face turned away from passers-by so they did not see the tears that brimmed in my eyes. I grieved for the marriage I had already lost. I grieved for the Édouard who had seen only the best in me. I missed our intense happiness together, the sense that we had been impenetrable, immune to the rest of the world. How could we have come to this so soon? I walked, so lost in my thoughts that I barely noticed it had begun to grow light.
‘Madame Lefèvre?’
I turned as a woman stepped out of the shadows. When she stood under the guttering streetlight, I saw it was the girl to whom Édouard had introduced me on the night of the fight in the Bar Tripoli – I struggled to recall her name: Lisette? Laure?
‘It is no hour for a lady to be out here, Madame,’ she said, glancing back up the street.
I had no answer for her. I wasn’t sure I could actually speak. I recalled one of the girls at La Femme Marché nudging me as he approached:
He consorts with the street girls of Pigalle.
‘I had no idea of the hour.’ I glanced up at the clock. A quarter to five. I had been walking the whole night.
Her face was in shadow, but I felt her studying me. ‘Are you quite well?’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
She kept looking at me. Then she took a step forwards and touched my elbow lightly. ‘I’m not sure this is a good place for a married woman to walk alone. Would you like to join me for a drink? I know a warm bar not far from here.’
When I hesitated she released my arm, took the smallest of
Who is this pinch-faced accuser?
He no longer saw me as the best of myself, and who could blame him? He had seen me as I truly knew myself to be: plain, provincial, an invisible shop girl. He had been trapped into marriage by a fit of jealousy, his fleeting conviction that he needed to secure my love. Now he was regretting his haste. And I had made him conscious of it.
I wondered briefly if I should simply pack my case and leave. But every time that thought flickered through my feverish mind, the answer came back immediately: I loved him. The thought of life without him was unbearable. How could I return to St Peronne and live the life of a spinster, knowing what I knew of how love could feel? How could I bear the thought that he lived, somewhere, miles away from me? Even when he left the room I felt his absence like an aching limb. My physical need for him still overwhelmed me. And I could hardly return home a matter of weeks after our wedding.
But there was the problem: I would always be provincial. I could not share my husband, as the Parisiennes apparently did, turning a blind eye to their indiscretions. How could I live with Édouard and face the possibility of him returning home smelling of another woman’s scent? Even if I could not be sure of his faithlessness, how could I walk into our home and see Mimi Einsbacher, or any of these women, naked on our bed as she posed for him? What was I supposed to do? Simply disappear into a back room? Go for a walk? Sit and watch over them? He would hate me. He would see me as the gaoler that Mimi Einsbacher already considered me.
I understood now that I had not thought at all about what marriage would mean for us. I could not see further than his voice, his hands, his kisses. I could not see further than my own vanity – dazzled as I was by the reflection of me I had seen in his paintings, and in his eyes.
And now his magic dust had blown away, and I was left – a wife: this pinch-faced accuser. And I did not like this version of myself.
I walked the length of Paris, along the rue de Rivoli, up to avenue Foch and down the backstreets of Invalides, ignoring the curious glances of the men, the catcalls of the drunks, my feet growing sore on the cobbles, my face turned away from passers-by so they did not see the tears that brimmed in my eyes. I grieved for the marriage I had already lost. I grieved for the Édouard who had seen only the best in me. I missed our intense happiness together, the sense that we had been impenetrable, immune to the rest of the world. How could we have come to this so soon? I walked, so lost in my thoughts that I barely noticed it had begun to grow light.
‘Madame Lefèvre?’
I turned as a woman stepped out of the shadows. When she stood under the guttering streetlight, I saw it was the girl to whom Édouard had introduced me on the night of the fight in the Bar Tripoli – I struggled to recall her name: Lisette? Laure?
‘It is no hour for a lady to be out here, Madame,’ she said, glancing back up the street.
I had no answer for her. I wasn’t sure I could actually speak. I recalled one of the girls at La Femme Marché nudging me as he approached:
He consorts with the street girls of Pigalle.
‘I had no idea of the hour.’ I glanced up at the clock. A quarter to five. I had been walking the whole night.
Her face was in shadow, but I felt her studying me. ‘Are you quite well?’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
She kept looking at me. Then she took a step forwards and touched my elbow lightly. ‘I’m not sure this is a good place for a married woman to walk alone. Would you like to join me for a drink? I know a warm bar not far from here.’
When I hesitated she released my arm, took the smallest of
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