For the longest moment, they simply stared at each other. Rachael was caught in a trance. The yellow lights bled into her vision as if she’d stumbled into a soap opera flashback. She had nothing to shield her from Matthew’s full impact. Her desire for him was as fresh as it had ever been. If anything it was stronger, as though all the minute refinements since they’d last met had intensified him, like the flavors in a fine wine. She could see the tiny white scar in front of his left ear where he’d split his skin open at the waterhole when they were sixteen. She’d always loved that scar, as though it marked him as hers forever. But he wasn’t, and the despair of it made her quite sick.
She tried to say something, but words wouldn’t come.
Matthew gave her a tentative smile. “Rachael,” he said simply. “How are you?”
Rachael realized she was holding herself by the elbows. She quickly let go, trying to recover her poise, and then didn’t know what to do with her hands. Her fingers scrabbled together in front of her, covering her nails. She’d been biting them earlier while Walter was making his speech.
She found herself returning Matthew’s smile, stupidly and maniacally, her cheeks burning hot. “I’m fine. I—”
“Well, it’s good to see you,” he said briskly, as though they were old acquaintances who’d met by chance at a bus stop. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
He glanced away, and Rachael realized he must be searching for an escape. Shame burned up her neck and across her powdered cheeks. She was a fool, stupidly caught in the raw, uncontrollable feelings she still had for him, while he had moved on long ago.
Rachael knew her mother would have had the perfect words to make Rachael feel less stupid. But her mother wasn’t here anymore. With supreme effort, she built a shell of composure.
“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m very happy for you.”
His expression rippled and an unexpected frown pulled at his brows. He’d opened his mouth to say something when a yellow blur appeared and Rachael found herself face to chin with a woman whose skin was as flawless as the icing on a wedding cake.
A French-manicured hand extended toward her. “Bonnie Quinn,” the woman said, smiling in such a genuine way that Rachael immediately took her hand. “Thank you so much for helping Uncle Nicholas.”
“Oh, I didn’t do anything,” Rachael said.
“Nonsense. I was told you reacted immediately. You must be one of Matthew’s friends from the country?”
Rachael shot a glance at Matthew, her tongue tied with the complexity of what they’d once been to each other. His face was bland and unreadable.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “From Milton, near Parkes.”
“Ah, one of Matthew’s home crowd,” Bonnie said, her eyes lighting up.
Matthew stepped in. “Bonn, this is Rachael, my girlfriend from high school.”
“Oh, you’re Rachael? How wonderful. Matthew’s told me all about you. Now, you must tell me where you found that amazing dress.”
Rachael didn’t know whether to be more floored by the fact that Matthew had so openly admitted who she was, or the fact that Bonnie seemed pleased about it. Rachael had been to two weddings in the past where the presence of ex-partners had caused fistfights once the bar opened. But the present situation seemed far worse. Clearly Rachael was so inconsequential that Matthew was sure Bonnie wouldn’t care.
“I, um, made it,” she said, her voice squeezed by the casual disregard of their past.
“Are you serious? My goodness, Matthew, she’s a designer. Look at the detail!”
Rachael pulled at her skirt, knowing her smile was about to wobble into tears. Where the hell was Sammy?
“Rachael always did lovely work,” Matthew said.
Rachael. Not Rach, or Rachy, but formal and distant.
“My mother taught me,” Rachael said, as if she was ten years old and speaking to a teacher at school.
She looked around, desperate for escape, then a gray-haired security man appeared, gesturing to Bonnie.
Bonnie took Matthew by the elbow. “Sorry to rush off, but Dad’s probably breaking heads at the hospital. Lovely to meet you, Rachael. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
And with that, they were gone.
Rachael stood frozen for three long breaths before she realized quite a few people were now watching her, including the photographer, from an elevated position at the end of the foyer. His dark eyes seemed like spotlights, his camera half raised as if considering whether to take a shot.
As calmly as she could manage, Rachael turned her back and walked away, stumbling only once, following the curve of the wall to what looked like an unpopulated area. She needed air; time alone to stand outside near the river and breathe space back into her lungs.
All she could think was how wrong she’d been to come to this wedding. Seeing Matthew and Bonnie together had done nothing to move her on. If anything, it had made the hopeless yearning to undo the last ten years even worse.
* * *
She finally paused in an unfamiliar hallway that ended with a door. Not wanting to go back, she tentatively pushed it open, and heard the clatter of crockery and smelled caramelized onions. She must be near the kitchens. Before she could retreat, she spotted bathroom doors. She would wash her face, then go back and find the way outside.
As she entered a surprisingly large bathroom, complete with chairs, the first thing she saw was a pile of discarded clothes on the tiled floor. Odd. She stopped, wondering if she’d missed an out-of-service sign. Then she realized that the pile was a beautifully dressed old woman lying on the floor. She had clearly fallen, her thin arms and legs as fragile as a bird’s.
Despite her age, she had no short blue curls or knitted shawls or sensible shoes. Her hair was a sleek silver bob, her dress an elegant slip of lavender silk and beads, and a fur stole lay crumpled behind her. Long strands of pearls the size of marbles hung from her neck, and a colossal ruby ring had twisted around her middle finger.
Her eyes were open as Rachael bent and put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
The woman struggled to get up.
“No, don’t move,” Rachael said. “I’ll get someone to help.”
“Non!” the woman gasped.
“I’ll be as fast as I can—”
Her hand closed on Rachael’s arm, her wrinkled eyes wide and imploring, her accent thick. “Non, chérie, please. Tell no one. Wait.”
Rachael hesitated, but the woman’s grip was firm, the skin of her hand smooth and warm. She relented. “Do you think you can sit up? Here, use your hand to help.”
She guided the woman’s arm down to the floor to help push up off the tiles. She’d done the same thing for her mother several times when she’d fallen at home. When the woman had eased to sitting, Rachael asked her again if she was hurt, if she had any pain, before helping her to her knees, then pulling over a chair.
The woman sat, took a shuddery breath, smoothed down her hair, and pulled her elegant tasseled bag into her lap. “Thank you,” she said after a long minute of recovery. “It is terrible to grow old.”
“I really think I should find someone, just to make sure you’re okay.”
“Non. I slipped, a silly thing. I am not hurt.”
“Yes, but—”
“Please, chérie.” Her tone was different now, lower and secretive, as if imploring came with difficulty. “I have already lost so much freedom. Besides, this is Bonnie’s party. One ambulance a night, hmmm? You do not have to stay. I will be fine here. Just a few minutes to recover, you see?”
She raised her eyebrows, and from her bag extracted a thin cigarette holder, the kind Rachael had only ever seen in movies. It was a glamorous act from a bygone era, confidently illustrating her improvement. Rachael was fascinated, but not fooled. She might keep the secret of the fall, but there was no way she was leaving the woman here alone.
“I’ll stay awhile,” she said. “Just in case.”
“No, no,” the woman said. “Surely the party is more interesting?”
Rachael shrugged in an elaborate way, but she knew that for a moment her expression had betrayed how much she wanted to stay away.
The woman watched her shrewdly from under her precision-cut fringe. “Who is it you are avoiding, chérie?”
“No one,” Rachael said quickly. “I just wanted some fresh air.”
The woman loaded her holder with a cigarette. “Bon. You may stay. In fact, you may help me outside, as long as you do not talk about business, politics, or polo.”
“I don’t know anything about polo or politics,” Rachael said as she offered her arm. “And the only business I know is wheat farming.”
They passed back through the hallway and then into the foyer, the woman moving smoothly but slowly, her silver bob shifting like a sheet of snow. Calmer now, Rachael’s earlier wrong turn seemed obvious. They soon exited through one of the stone arches, and a security man nodded as they passed. The woman turned toward him and issued a flowing sentence of French, and the man stepped away to speak into his wrist.
Only when the woman was seated on a stone bench under the bridge, her stole pulled around her and her cigarette lit, did she speak again. “I grew up also on a farm,” she said, a thin curl of blue smoke rising from her cigarette. “A lifetime ago, my father and mother grew wheat far from Paris. But I always wanted to run away to the bright lights.” She gave a little flick of her wrist as if to capture all of Paris around them.
Despite the cold, which had turned Rachael’s arms to goose bumps, she leaned forward. “And you did?”
The woman tilted her head. “You do not know who I am, do you, chérie?”
“Oh dear, should I?” Rachael said. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter. It is refreshing to be anonymous. How do you know Bonnie and Matthew?”
Rachael had a moment to think as a waiter appeared with two glasses of red wine. The woman gestured to her to take one, and the slug of wine at least made her chest warm.
“I, um, went to school with Matthew.”
“Ah, a childhood friend.” The woman leaned forward, pearls swinging, the lit end of her cigarette scribing a cedilla in the air. “You know him well?”
“Um, once maybe,” she hedged.
“So what do you think of them?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Has Matthew found a good match?”
“I, uh, I don’t know them like that. I haven’t seen Matthew in years,” Rachael said, and took another gulp of wine.
If she was honest, all she could see was how perfectly Bonnie and Matthew matched. She thought of Matthew calling her “Rachael,” and Bonnie being all pleased to meet someone from his long-ago past.
“A pity. I only met him this week. I am still forming my opinion,” the woman said, tipping her finished cigarette from the holder and taking up her wine. “That is an immaculate dress, chérie. Where did you buy it?”
“I made it,” Rachael said, then at the woman’s lifted eyebrow, added in a rush, “I like to sew.”
“May I?” the woman asked, putting down her glass. Soon her fingers were shifting along the hemline, moving the fabric between the pads of her fingers. She pulled a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from her bag to peer at the stitches. “Exquisite,” she said, retrieving her wineglass and sitting back. “You did not make this from a standard pattern.”
“Well, no. I did use one, but I made some changes to it to match another dress I saw. I like to draw too,” she added.
The woman regarded her steadily. “This dress reminds me of a Tom Ford.”
“Who is that?”
“A designer.” The woman shook her head. “Never mind. What pattern did you use?”
“A fifties’ Vogue. I changed the skirt and added the cutouts. The original design seemed too . . . heavy for the fabric.”
The woman made a satisfied noise. “I see. After I ran away from the farm, I worked in fashion all my life. Your work is very good. But you are a farmer?”
Rachael blushed. “Well, yes. It was my mother’s farm.”
“And will you run away to work in fashion too? Perhaps stay in Paris after this week?” The woman was watching her intently.
“Oh, it’s just a hobby,” Rachael said quickly. “The farm’s a lot of work, especially now it’s just me.” She had to look away as tears rushed into her eyes. “Sorry. My mum died a few months ago.”
“Ah.” The woman clucked her tongue. “I am so sorry to hear it.” She reached out to pat Rachael’s arm. Her skin was soft as chamois. “You are a kind person, I think. You need to be with people you know. Are you here with friends?”
“My best friend.”
The woman drew her hand back and used it to push herself up off the seat. “I will leave you to find her. Do not be out too long in the cold. And be careful of the river. Remember, one ambulance is enough. I must go be sociable again.” She paused. “What is your name, chérie?”
“Rachael. Rachael West.”
“A good name for a designer. I am Yvette. Come and talk to me at the next party. Ask Bonnie if you cannot find me. I am her grandmother.”
She beckoned a security man, who offered his arm and guided her inside. Rachael was left staring after her, the soft slosh of the Seine and the hum of passing boats keeping her company.
* * *
Cold finally drove her inside. Rachael crept through the stone arch back toward the restaurant, trying to stop her teeth chattering. Her toes were pinched in her shoes, and the uneven stone of the pathway was cold through the thin leather soles.
She finally found Sammy searching for her at the end of the bathroom hallway.
Sammy’s face lit like sunshine. “There you are! I was worried something had happened to you. Did you know someone collapsed?”
Rachael was forced to give a quick account. She stuck to the facts, leaving out her worst reactions and everything about Yvette, hoping that if she didn’t acknowledge her feelings for Matthew, it couldn’t be true that she still loved him.
Sammy didn’t let her off the hook. “And how do you feel now?”
Rachael put her hands over her face. “I don’t know if coming here was a good idea after all, Sam.”
Three men emerged into the foyer, dapper in their suits, cigars in hand. One, Rachael didn’t recognize. The other two were Peter and Matthew. Peter saw them first and waved.
Sammy grabbed Rachael’s hand. “Okay, how about we call it a night?”
Rachael didn’t need encouragement. Heedless of the cold, she clipped along the stone path by the river and up a long uneven ramp, hoping this was the way back to the Maison Lutetia.
“Slow down, Rach,” Sammy panted. “You’ll break your ankle.”
At the top of the ramp, a security man barred their way. Despite Rachael’s protests, he wouldn’t allow them past. Prepared to break through by force if necessary, Rachael was disarmed when he calmly asked them to wait, and spoke into his wrist. A car arrived two minutes later to take them to the hotel.
On the ride back, Rachael thought with dismay about how many events the week still held. She rushed through the lobby, and by the time she’d climbed the staircase, she’d sweated through the blue fabric of her dress, her hair had separated into curly chunks, and the bolero had swung sideways like an oversize bib. She tugged it off, breaking the stitches on the clasp in her haste.
“Okay, something’s clearly wrong. What really happened?” Sammy asked as soon as they were in Rachael’s room.
Rachael pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her fingers felt like icy water on her burning skin.
“What on earth did he say to you?”
“Nothing,” Rachael said, unable to voice how much the exchange had hurt. “He didn’t say anything. But still . . .” She faltered.
“You felt like the last time you saw him?”
“Yes. And meanwhile, he’s completely over it. He has a gorgeous fiancée and a career and this amazing life, and I’m just . . .” She waved her arms, then dropped them, her energy gone. She sank leaden onto the bed. “I’m still the girl from the farm who hasn’t been anywhere or done anything, and still isn’t over the man who left her years and years ago. Pathetic.”
“You don’t look it in that dress,” Sammy said. “Everyone was talking about it.”
“They were?”
“Oh yes. You don’t realize how amazing you look. Are you sure he just didn’t know what to say to you?”
Rachael shook her head. “He was pretty clear he couldn’t care less. He’d even told Bonnie about me.”
Sammy made a dismissive noise. “So is that where you were the whole time? I was looking for you.”
“Um, not the whole time. I was outside for a while, talking to Bonnie’s grandmother.”
“Yvette de Richelieu?” When Rachael expressed her surprise, Sammy added, “Beverley was gossiping about her. She must have read up on the family. Yvette is a reclusive fashion icon who started out as a model, then became a muse and then a designer herself. She’s supposed to be releasing a new collection, but it’s long overdue and no one thinks it will ever happen. Apparently, she’s famously prickly and never gives interviews. Anyway, then Bernie showed up and Bev stopped talking—you know, to give him the silent treatment as always—and do you want to hear something funny?”
“What?” Rachael asked.
“As I left, the photographer was getting them to pose together and Bev was pulling her best cat’s-bum mouth.”
Rachael tried to smile, but her body hurt like it was harvesttime and she’d been up from dawn till midnight. Both her heels were blistered, her calves ached, and her dress was rumpled.
“Sam, I know I said coming here would help me move on, but I think it’s just going to make it worse.”
“Don’t say that. This is just the wobbly beginning.”
Rachael shook her head. She didn’t tell Sammy how lost she still felt without her mother, how she missed hearing her voice. She thought of her mother’s tree all alone on the top of the rise. It would be late morning now, the sun shining on the river and the fields. She was so far away from it all here, in her tight dress and a room that someone else deserved, just pretending it would help her get on with her life. She was frightened. She wanted to see the familiar fields of home, smell the straw and the gardenias and even the diesel of the machinery. To feel safe.
“Bev reckons all Walter’s business buddies are on their third heart attack,” Sammy was saying. “So there’s bound to be more entertainment at the next party. Sorry, that wasn’t very funny.”
Rachael lifted her eyes. Sammy was trying, but she didn’t have the strength.
“I want to go home,” she said.