We had separate rooms, as the booking was made through work, but we had no intention of using one of them. As soon as we were alone he was kissing me, up against the door, as though we’d just met.
When we finally made it back to the bar, I watched him as he spoke to the waiter in French, talking about the wine list. He seemed nervous, on edge, and I panicked in case he was regretting things, but then he turned to me and smiled and said, “I got myself tied up in knots there. I have no idea what I’ve just ordered,” and I relaxed.
We were discussing where to go for dinner when it started to rain and we decided to stay put and order food there. The barman explained they didn’t serve dinner, just bar snacks, then brought us an array of delicious tapas: little cubes of Emmentaler cheese sprinkled with celery salt, polenta cakes garnished with cherry tomatoes and pomegranate seeds, and bruschetta with black olives and roasted red peppers. I was nervous about that; I always found it difficult to eat in front of other people after Tom made a sarcastic comment about the way I ate when we were first together, so I made sure I was really careful. We sat in the window of the hotel with our wine and tapas, looking out at the bustling street and talking about our memories of how we first met. It was one of those moments in my life that was just perfect. And yes, I had to go up to my room half an hour before Harry did, so that I could call Tom and tell him I was okay. He didn’t answer, of course. He didn’t answer his phone all weekend and I knew he was annoyed with me for going. I was annoyed, too, as I knew if I hadn’t answered my phone when he called he’d have been furious, but when I got home he actually apologized and told me he’d been out with work friends and hadn’t heard it ring. It was such an unexpected reprieve, I felt light with relief.
* * *
? ? ?
It was on Saturday night that Harry first suggested we should live together.
We’d had to go to the conference that morning so that he could do his presentation. As usual, everyone was wowed by him. I felt so proud of him as he talked, engaging everyone, making them laugh. He had so many people come up to him afterward, pressing business cards into his hand, asking to set up meetings with him. The day was a success and he was on a high as a result.
But the reason he’d done so well, he told me, was because of me. I still feel a full-body blush at the thought of the night before. It was the first time we’d had so much time together. Complete privacy. He was so gentle, so lovely. The way he held me, kissed me: I knew that he had feelings for me, that it wasn’t just sex. After he slept I lay snuggled up alongside him and felt so sad and low at the thought of going back to Tom, of seeing Harry go home to Emma. I knew that I wanted to leave Tom. I think I’d known for years, but I hadn’t felt able to, had thought I wouldn’t cope alone.
On Saturday night we walked for miles through the streets of Paris. I don’t know whether we thought nobody would recognize us or whether we just didn’t care by then, but we were holding hands and it would’ve been clear to anyone that we were a couple. When we arrived back at our hotel, Harry pulled me to him just before we reached the door.
“Ruby, I’ve got something to say to you.” He kissed me. “I love you.”
Just as it had a hundred times since I met him, my stomach flipped. “I know,” I said. “You’ve told me that before.”
He laughed. “I tell you every day.”
He was right. He did.
“But it’s different now. This isn’t enough for me, just seeing you at work and whenever Tom goes away. I want us to be together.” He looked so serious. “What