The Diamond Ring by Primula Bond

Author:Primula Bond [Bond, Primula]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-04-30T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The car drops me in the Boulevard de Clichy. Right outside the Moulin Rouge theatre, in fact.

Gustav isn’t here yet so I ask the driver to wait. I look up at the famous façade. The association with Pierre is unavoidable. The burlesque show I photographed for him back in February was modelled directly on this very venue and its colourful history. And at last I can see that show for what it was. The vision of my future brother-in-law, and his entertaining, sexy spectacle.

Anyway, I’m continents away from midtown Manhattan and any machinations, misunderstandings and menaces. I’m sitting in a French film company limousine after another hard day’s graft at the château. And with Pierre’s help, I’ve even managed to turn Margot and her red shoes into a bad joke.

I see Gustav striding along the noisy street lined with cheap shops, and I get out of the car, dismissing the driver. I want to run to him, but instead I watch him, his long legs in indigo blue jeans, his ripped torso in a dark blue T-shirt with another paler one underneath clinging to him as he hurries towards me. I stand and wait, my whole body smiling with joy.

And soon I’m in his arms, searching those shining black eyes for the love I feel for him, and feeling it in the way he’s squeezing me tight, nuzzling into my neck.

‘Let’s not go in there,’ Gustav murmurs, moving his mouth round to mine.

‘Let’s go back to the hotel?’

‘You horny devil. I could have you right here in the street!’ He laughs, pulling me as people push past.

We start to walk through the place des Abbesses towards rue Drevet.

I pause at the foot of the steep flight of stairs leading up to the butte de Montmartre.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to probe a little, to ask him where he’s been, but I remember Pierre’s assurances. And just as quickly, I push Pierre out of my mind again. Why spoil a beautiful moment?

‘Come on, mademoiselle, I’m hungry, so allow me to push this cute butt of yours up to a little place I know.’

We start the long, steep climb and emerge on the place du Calvaire.

‘Here?’ I ask, pointing at Le Plumeau with its tempting fenced-in terrace and solemn cello player, but Gustav shakes his head and pulls me on through the crowds, down the Bis rue Norvins and through a tiny door which looks from the outside as if it might be the entrance to a dusty old shop. But Le Vieux Chalet turns out to be an adorable restaurant, an oasis of calm amongst the tourist trails. We walk into a small, enclosed garden full of greenery. There’s just one other couple in here, looking as happily surprised as I am. You can hear nothing but the tinkle of hanging glass candle-holders and the twitter of birds in the trees. A distinguished man greets Gustav and takes our order before leaving us alone.

The late May sun filters through the new leaves on to my skin.

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