A Year Like No Other Page 11

  “Major men problems . . . plural,” she sighed. She then told Ashling all about Hans.

  “I’m really sorry, Jazz. You never know, maybe it will work out between you.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t want it to work out any more. I realise that I don’t love him. He rings me once a week but I need to go to Frankfurt to tell him it’s over. I don’t want to finish with him on the phone. I don’t think that’s fair, do you?” She looked to Ashling for confirmation that she was doing the right thing.

  “I agree, but the sooner you tell him, the better.”

  Jazz sipped her wine slowly and, moved by the concern in Ashling’s eyes, blurted out, “You see, I love someone else.”

  “Who?” Ashling was mystified. Could her friend have fallen in love with Hugh already?

  “Yves.”

  Ashling almost fell off her chair. Choking on her wine, she repeated, “Yves?”

  “Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  The waiter brought their meal but Jazz hardly touched hers. He refilled their glasses and Jazz ordered another bottle.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit early to get sozzled?” Ashling asked gently, visions of her having to carry a drunken Jazz out of the bistro flooding her mind.

  “Not at all! It’s five o’clock somewhere, as I’ve often heard you say.”

  She then told a shocked Ashling about the romance she’d had with Yves when she was twenty-one. Ashling couldn’t believe her ears. Now she stopped eating and listened in disbelief.

  “So that’s why you acted so strangely that first day we met at his house,” she exclaimed.

  “Yes. You can imagine the shock I got when I saw him again.” Jazz looked stricken.

  “Oh my God, I can’t begin to imagine! Has he said anything to you?”

  “He said that he wants to talk to me . . . alone. The thing is, I don’t think that he remembers me,” she said miserably.

  “Surely he does,” Ashling reached for her friend’s hand. “You can’t just forget someone like that – not after you’ve been nine months together.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Ash. I’m so confused.”

  She had taken to calling her Ash, like Kieran did. Somehow, it sounded right.

  “Are you going to meet him? It’s a bit difficult, isn’t it, what with working with him and of course there’s Sophie to think about.” Ashling bit the side of her thumb as she thought about this.

  “Well, you heard her say that it’s perfectly acceptable for French men to take a lover, didn’t you?” Jazz asked, hopefully.

  “True, but I’m not sure how serious she was – and, in any case, I’m not sure she’d be too happy if it was you.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Jazz poured another glass of wine for herself. Ashling refused any more.

  “I suppose it won’t hurt to meet him and talk. Maybe then you’ll be clearer about your feelings,” Ashling advised. Her heart went out to Jazz. What a predicament to be in.

  “That’s the problem. I’m afraid of what my feelings will be. I just find him irresistible.”

  “He is pretty dishy, I must say. What about Hugh?”

  “Oh, Hugh’s just a pal. Nothing more,” she smiled. “Besides, he’s much too young for me but I do enjoy his company a lot and that of his friends.” She sighed.

  “Well, that was a pretty enlightening lunch,” Ashling laughed, trying to lighten the mood, as the waiter brought the bill.

  “My treat,” Jazz insisted. “After bending your ear like that, it’s the least I can do.” Her voice was beginning to slur ever so slightly.

  “That’s what friends are for.” Ashling patted her hand. “No doubt, I’ll be bending your ear at some future date. I’m sure things will work themselves out, but please go carefully.” She tried to sound convincing but deep down she wasn’t so sure. What a mess!

  “I will. Thanks for listening. There’s no one else I could confide in here. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “Do that,” Ashling said as she helped Jazz out of the restaurant and into a taxi.

  18

  Taylor had had a great five days in New York and had driven the maid, Maria, mad with all her demands. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the Big Apple. She’d lunched and dined every day with various friends and greatly embellished her life in Paris. They’d been, as she’d hoped, all green with envy when she casually mentioned that she’d met the President of France. She’d regaled them with the fact that her best friend was the daughter of Lord and Lady Delmere of England and gloated when she saw their envious glances. Only her old friend, Marilyn, seemed to be delighted for her good fortune.

  “I’m so happy for you, honey,” she’d drawled in her south Texan drawl. “How I would love to be in your shoes, living in the city of lovvve.” She sighed dramatically. “How great is that!”

  “Why don’t you come over for a visit? I’d love to have you there,” Taylor had said, excitedly.

  “I’d sure love to, honey,” Marilyn drawled, “but I’m in the middle of a verrrrry hot affair at the moment. Mum’s the word, you know how it is,” she’d winked.

  Taylor had guessed that the guy in question was married.

  It was with some reluctance that Taylor had left New York. She was very disgruntled when she arrived back in Paris. She would have liked to have stayed away longer but Brandon had booked a tour of the Champagne region for the weekend and so she’d had no choice.

  They travelled down on a luxury coach to Ay and the guide explained all about how champagne was made and what Champagne Houses they would be visiting. Brandon found it fascinating but Taylor was bored and quickly went to sleep. She slept all through the drive through the vineyards and when they arrived in the tiny village of Hautvillers, Brandon had to wake her up.

  “Where are we?” she asked, yawning.

  “We’re at the abbey where the monk Dom Perignon discovered how to make champagne,” he explained.

  “Will there be champagne to drink here?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Taylor. It’s a church.”

  “I’m going back to sleep,” she replied, closing her eyes.

  Furious with her, he had no choice but to let her be and he left the coach with the other passengers, mostly Americans, who had witnessed the scene. How embarrassing!

  Their next stop was the Champagne House of Moët & Chandon and Taylor accompanied him reluctantly for this one.

  While the tour guide was explaining the method of making champagne, she called out in a loud voice, “When the hell are we going to get to drink it?” Brandon was mortified as all the other people on the tour looked at her strangely. The tour guide, who was French, stared her down.

  “French people are abominably rude,” she exclaimed in a loud voice.

  “Not half as rude as you,” commented another American in the group. “It’s people like you who give Americans a bad name in Europe,” he added, his voice angry.

  Brandon was so embarrassed that he felt like walking off and leaving her. The guy was right, of course. She was being unacceptably rude. He couldn’t understand it. She drank a lot but never normally got drunk yet here she was going hell for leather at it. She drank ‘shampoo’ – as she called champagne – for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every hour in between.

  As he put her to bed that night, she ranted on about bloody France and French people. She then started crying and saying how much she missed New York. He felt pretty bad about that but unfortunately he couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t transport the New York social scene to Paris. Thank God!

  Later, sitting alone on the terrace of a restaurant in Epernay, he wondered where they were heading. He was honest enough to admit that he didn’t love his wife any more – well, not the woman she’d become – but yet, he had loved her once. She’d been different then of course.

  She’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks of a small country town in South Dakota. Her family were dirt-poor
and Taylor longed to escape from the poverty and hopelessness she saw all around her. She was a wild child and very beautiful and impatient to get away from the small town where everyone knew everyone’s business. At sixteen, she’d made her escape and headed for the Big Apple. New York mesmerised her and she loved its fast pace and air of excitement. This was living! She took a variety of jobs from waitressing to bar girl and finally, having worked hard to shake off her country gaucheness, landed a job in Saks 5th Avenue, first as a packer and then as a salesgirl in the perfume department. The women she saw every day filled her with envy. Spoilt, pampered and oh-so-chic, she longed to be like them.

  Her opportunity came one Christmas when Brandon came in to buy perfume for his mother. She saw instantly that he was upper-crust and it didn’t hurt that he was also extremely handsome. With every ounce of charm that she possessed she set about ensnaring him. He obviously fell for it as three days later he was back to buy perfume – for his grandmother this time, or so he said. By the end of the sale he had asked her out to dinner and six months later she was Mrs Brandon Cartwright Hartford the Third, with the dream wedding that she’d always wanted, minus her family of course.

  His parents and family were horrified at his choice of bride but could not dissuade him. Brandon had to admit that for the first couple of years they’d been happy as Taylor settled into the lifestyle she’d only ever dreamed about. Then along came the twins and her lack of interest in them shocked him. That, and the fact that she thereafter refused to have sex with him, started the rot. He tried to ignore the problem as he immersed himself in his work but it didn’t go away.

  That was when she started her frantic climb up the social ladder of New York, but no matter how hard she tried, she was never accepted by the old-moneyed East Coast matrons. Her only friends – if you could call them that – were the nouveau riche, all desperately trying to climb the ladder with her.

  And so it had festered on until it had come to this. Sitting alone in a restaurant in Champagne, seeing other happy couples all around him, made him realise just what he was missing. Life was too short to spend it without love and he’d done it for long enough. He felt desperately sad that somehow he’d failed Taylor but he knew for certain that he did not want to spend the rest of his life with her.

  19

  On Saturday night Kieran arrived home just as Yves and Sophie dropped the girls off, after their trip to Disney Paris. Ashling tried to usher them out as quickly as possible, not wanting them to see the state Kieran was in. Clearly, he’d had quite a few drinks after his golf game and was much the worse for wear. Normally it never bothered her but tonight it did. Ignoring him, she got the girls ready for bed. They were hyper after their very exciting day and, although they were desperately tired, it took her ages to settle them down. When she got back to the living room, Kieran was snoring away on the sofa. Angrily, she went to bed and left him there. Hours later she heard him coming into bed but she pretended to be sleeping. Jazz was right. Men were the root of all women’s problems!

  Kieran, realising that he was in the doghouse, suggested that they all go out for breakfast on Sunday morning. Ashling loved how all of Paris thronged the cafés on a Sunday morning, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee and freshly baked baguettes and croissants was like an aphrodisiac. She couldn’t resist having just one croissant but without the butter and jam that Kieran and the girls were piling on theirs.

  “Mmmm . . . this is the life,” she murmured, much to Kieran’s delight.

  “How about we take a trip on a boat down the Seine?” he suggested, which elicited squeals of delight from the girls. “And then,” he whispered, “we’ll go into the Tuileries Gardens and you can go on the carousel and the big slide.”

  Orna and Ciara jumped up and down, clapping their hands at the thought of such treats. Ashling couldn’t help smiling at their excitement.

  “Merci, Papa, merci, Papa!” they chorused, making her laugh out loud.

  Diners at other tables smiled at the two pretty golden-haired girls and their handsome parents. Such a happy family, they thought.

  As they walked to catch the Bateau Mouche for the boat journey, Kieran stopped at a flower-seller’s stall and bought a bunch of freesia for Ashling.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like a little boy. “I promise, I’ll try to be home earlier from now on.”

  She couldn’t stay angry with him any longer. Reaching up, she kissed him and they walked on happy again, hand in hand, towards the Seine.

  At the same time, Max and Felicity were strolling in the gardens of Versailles. As a treat, Max had booked the tickets earlier in the week, knowing how much Felicity wanted to see the château and the musical fountains. She was overcome with emotion as the fountains started up. What a ninny she was to have been afraid to come to Paris, she thought. Penelope was right. Thank goodness they hadn’t gone to Dubai or Hong Kong. Best of all, they were travelling back to London the weekend after next, to collect the girls – Penelope was on half-term break and Alexandra was taking time off university. Although she found them very difficult since they’d become teenagers, she missed them dreadfully.

  She had to admit, life in Paris was much better than she’d expected it to be. She was actually quite enjoying it! Of course, not having Mummy around constantly berating her and telling her she was useless, was a bonus. She was putting off ringing her mother but she knew she’d have to face it soon. In the meantime, she’d forget all about her and just enjoy herself.

  Jazz spent Sunday with Hugh and ‘the gang’, as they referred to themselves.

  She was glad that she’d confided in Ashling the day before. It had lifted a weight off her shoulders although her friend had no solution for her problem. Well, she’d just let things take their course, she decided, accepting another glass of wine from Hugh. Although her mind was constantly on Yves she cheered up as the day wore on. The gang were so ebullient and effervescent that it was hard to be down for long in their company. They went to a steak house in St Denis where Jazz ate possibly the best steak she’d ever had.

  “Argentine beef – you can’t beat it,” Hugh grinned. The owner of the restaurant, a friend of his, was from Argentina.

  “Do you have contacts all over this city?” Jazz asked laughingly, as she cut into the deliciously tender rib-eye.

  “Pretty much,” he grinned, chewing as he spoke.

  Later that evening as they strolled home, Jazz said, “I hear that you’re planning to go to America. How long do you think you’ll stay in Paris?”

  “Oh, probably another six months or so. I want to visit Ireland and from there I’ll head to the US. That’s my final destination.”

  “What do you plan to do there?” Jazz was curious.

  “I hope to open my own gym in California. That’s my goal. They say America is the land of opportunity!”

  “What about girlfriends and romance?”

  “I had my fill of that in Australia,” he replied, making a face. “I just haven’t met the right girl yet.” He flashed his gorgeous smile at her and she pitied all the poor young girls that he’d probably left in his wake. “Although, after meeting you, maybe I have?” He cocked an eyebrow at her hopefully.

  Though she wasn’t sure how serious he was, she decided to make a statement to make things absolutely clear. “Oh no, Hugh, I’m sorry, but thank you for the compliment. Apart from the fact you’re nine years younger than I, my love life has enough complications at the moment. I definitely couldn’t handle any more.”

  “Tell me about this complicated love life of yours. You seem like such a strong woman that I reckon you could cope with anything.”

  “I wish,” she laughed, ruefully. Then, whether it was the wine or the moment or his gentle enquiring face, she found herself telling him all about Yves and her past relationship with him. Then she mentioned Hans and how he wanted to marry her.

  “Whew! See what you mean by complicated.” He let out a long whistle. “What are you goi
ng to do about it?”

  “No idea,” she replied honestly.

  “You’ll sort it out,” he told her confidently. “If I was ready to settle down, you would be the first woman I’d want to be with,” he said gallantly.

  “You’re very kind,” she said, touched by his words, “but honestly, I’m much too old for you. You’ll find a nice young girl eventually, when the time is right.”

  “I’m not being kind. I’m being honest,” he replied, reaching over to kiss her cheek.

  Somehow, she felt better after that and lying in bed that night she thought how lovely he was and how, in the future, some young girl would be very lucky indeed to find love with him. Talking to him decided her on one thing – she couldn’t go on prevaricating like this. She would agree to meet with Yves and take it from there.

  20

  Brandon was relieved that the dreadful weekend was over as he walked into the office on Monday morning. He noticed that Jazz was much perkier than she had been the previous week.

  “Had a good weekend?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, very good – and you?”

  “Don’t ask!”

  She guessed that meant a no and didn’t pursue it. She was waiting nervously for Yves to come into their office, as he did every morning, but instead of Yves it was his secretary, Chantal, who came instead. She really was a very pretty girl, with very long blonde hair, a great body and fantastic legs. She perched on the edge of Brandon’s desk, her already short skirt riding up another few inches. Jazz had to hand it to her – she knew how to highlight her assets. She was wearing exquisite, nude-patent Jimmy Choo shoes, the heels of which must have been five inches at least.

  “I am sorry,” she said in her attractive broken English, “but Yves can not come today because ’e go in the ’ospital . . . ’ow you say . . . appendix . . . non?” She threw Brandon a dazzling smile. “Okay now. No problem, but ’e can not come work this week.”