RACHEL RESTED HER HEAD ON ALEX’S SHOULDER and slid a hand onto his thigh. His arm was curled around her in a way that was not entirely comfortable given the taxi’s safety belt and the tightness of her silk cheongsam dress, but she didn’t give a fig. Through the window, the lights of Paris blurred against the night sky. She inhaled the scent of him, and mused that she was exquisitely happy. Her heart was full to the brim with happiness. How many moments in life could you say that about?
Earlier that evening, back in their stylishly stark hotel room, while Rachel was applying scarlet lipstick and checking her reflection in a gold compact mirror, Alex had begun to speak, then stopped.
‘Darling, there was something I was going to ask you tonight, but I don’t know . . . maybe in the restaurant . . .’
He seemed flustered and uncertain, quite unlike himself.
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
He turned to look out of the window, then faced her again. ‘No, I’ll do it later . . .’
She regarded him with affection. ‘For goodness’ sake, spit it out. You’ve started now.’
He paced around, one hand fumbling in his trouser pocket. ‘The thing is . . . Oh God, Rachel, do you think we should get married? I mean, will you marry me? Please?’
It was such a surprise that she stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Do you mean it?’ He had a habit of winding her up, but surely he wouldn’t joke about such a momentous subject?
‘Of course.’ He produced a tiny dark blue jewellery box and handed it to her.
She felt like bursting into tears. At thirty-eight, with the carnage of several disastrous relationships behind her, she had thought this moment would never come. The man she was desperately in love with was asking her to spend her life with him. It was so overwhelming she couldn’t find words.
‘Are you going to open it?’ Alex asked.
Inside there was an antique diamond ring: two decent-sized stones nestled in a marcasite setting on a rose-gold band. It was beautiful.
She blurted the first thing that came into her head: ‘I want to have babies. Are you up for that?’
How unromantic I must sound, she thought, biting her lip. As if negotiating a business deal.
‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Me too.’
‘What if we have to make our children the high-tech way, in a tube at a fertility clinic?’
‘Whatever it takes,’ he promised. His hand was shaking as he slipped the ring onto her finger, and she realised how nervous he was. This clearly meant a lot. She looped her arms round his waist and clung to him. They had always felt right for each other: her head at the perfect height for his shoulder, hip bone touching hip bone.
‘Time for a spot of baby-making practice before dinner, Mrs Greene?’ he asked, his voice a little husky. He started to unfasten the shoulder buttons of her dress.
‘Whoever said I would take your name?’ She kissed him. ‘I think you should take mine.’
He pulled her down onto the bed. Fortunately the restaurant held their dinner reservation.
Thinking back as she sat in the taxi, Rachel realised she hadn’t actually said yes, but they were engaged all the same. She examined the ring on her finger, turning her hand this way and that. It was the most extraordinary compliment a man could pay you. She and Alex had been living together for eighteen months, but he’d never mentioned marriage before and she’d got the impression he was an independent type who might never settle down. It seemed she’d been wrong.
They were driving along a tree-lined road beside the Seine. On the opposite bank, the iconic shape of the Eiffel Tower was glowing against the dark sky like an arty postcard. The taxi was heading down into a concrete underpass, had just entered it when suddenly the driver swerved and braked hard. Rachel was thrown forward, the seat belt cutting into her collarbone, then her head jerked back.
‘What the . . .?’ she heard Alex exclaim, as the taxi driver swore in French.
Rachel looked through the windscreen and saw that the road ahead was blocked by motorbikes parked at odd angles. Strobe-style lights were flashing and her first thought was that it might be some kind of theatrical event.
‘Un accident,’ the driver explained. He switched off the meter.
Alex unclicked his seat belt and opened the door. ‘I’ll see what’s happening,’ he said, his TV producer’s instinct for a story kicking in.
Rachel reached over too late to restrain him. She didn’t want him to seem like a voyeur when people could be injured. She watched him walk towards the crowd, and as her eyes adjusted to the rapid flashes she saw they were photographers and the strobe effects were coming from their cameras. Maybe it was a celebrity who had crashed. Alex was talking to a man in a leather jacket holding a crash helmet.
The taxi driver got out as well, leaving Rachel on her own. She opened her door, leaned her head out to get a better view and was stunned by the noise of the cameras. It echoed round the tunnel like the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. In the background, a car horn blared and there was a choking smell of smoke and petrol.
She saw Alex hurrying towards her, his eyes wide with shock, his expression urgent. He waited till he was close before speaking, so she could hear over the din.
‘Jesus Christ, Rachel,’ he said. ‘It’s Princess Diana!’