Never Tell by Seeber Claire

Author:Seeber, Claire [Tell, Never]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007334681
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2010-07-08T22:00:00+00:00

A warm summer’s afternoon, July 2000. I was at the Gare du Nord in Paris nursing a hangover and an aching heart, staring dispiritedly at the dry old chicken baguette I’d just bought as I waited for the Eurostar after a disastrous and unusually alcoholic sojourn in Paris with yet another unsuitable boyfriend. My mobile rang: I hoped it might be him, phoning to explain, but actually Concorde had just crashed fatally outside the city.

The World Service asked me to file an on-the-scene report, which I did. Later that evening, sad and exhausted, I flopped alone on the huge and empty bed at my hotel in St-Germain. I tried to ring my old friend Jen, hoping she might be in town with the French Ambassador, but her voicemail was on. I chucked the phone on the bed, where it promptly rang again.

‘Guy on the other line says he is your friend. Saw you on the news apparently. Wants your number, chérie. He’s in La Ville Lumière too,’ my old colleague Bernard at the Paris bureau sounded world-weary. ‘Shall I tell ‘im where to go?’

I tucked the phone beneath my chin and kneeled in front of the mini-bar, debating vodka or gin. Alcohol might be no longer my thing, but I felt I was going down tonight: the grief of the Concorde tragedy; my own disillusionment with the lover whom I’d just discovered had a wife he hadn’t yet divorced, and two small children. His protestations about not being able to keep away from me, my irresistible sex appeal et al. simply weren’t soothing the heartache I now felt. Yet again, I’d chosen wrongly.

‘What’s his name?’ I broke the seal on the vodka. In for a penny …

‘James something. From your college, he said.’

‘James?’ I put the bottle down. ‘Not James Miller?’

Nervous but oddly exhilarated, we met that night for dinner on the Left Bank. It was a small Moroccan restaurant lit by a hundred tiny flickering candles; we sat on silk cushions beneath stained-glass lanterns and they served couscous from brightly coloured tagines.

James looked well. He was tanned and toned, dressed in a pale blue cashmere jumper and jeans. He was relaxed and charming, and full of funny stories about pop stars and actors he’d met in LA.

‘I miss England, though,’ he said as he topped up my glass of red. ‘I’ve been away so long. I miss the greenness.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ I thought of all the deserts I’d seen, the collapsed cities, bomb-torn buildings, ramshackle poor suburbs, half-naked kids in the slums.

‘But you know, Rose, most of all I miss the – familiarity.’

Something in his voice made my stomach lurch slightly. ‘It’s so nice to see you,’ I said quietly and, at the time, I meant it. He put his hand over mine.

‘Do you ever – have you ever seen anyone … ‘ He trailed off.

‘No.’ I shook my head vehemently and picked up my wineglass.

‘Rosie. Petal.’ He put his hand out for a moment and I felt myself start to exhale.

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