Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella Read Online Free PDF

spreads across her face. ‘I’m a horrible, needy, grumpy wife.’
    He grins and kisses her, and they sit on the edge of the place des Vosges, listening to the roar of the mopeds outside, the traffic crawling up towards rue Beaumarchais. ‘Luckily, I happen to find horrible and grumpy desperately attractive traits in a woman.’
    ‘You forgot needy.’
    ‘That’s my favourite.’
    ‘Go,’ she said, pulling away from him gently. ‘Go now, you smooth-talking architect, before I drag you back to that hotel bed and make sure you don’t get to your very annoying meeting at all.’
    The air between them expands and relaxes. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
    ‘What will you do?’
    She watches him collect up his belongings: keys, wallet, jacket, phone. ‘Go and look at some art, probably.’
    ‘I’ll text you the moment we’re through. I’ll come and meet you.’ He blows a kiss. ‘And then we can continue this pinning-to-the-bed discussion.’
    He’s halfway up the road when he turns and lifts a hand. ‘
À bientôt
, Mrs Halston!’
    Her smile lasts until he disappears from view.
    The concierge had warned her that the queue for the Louvre would be hours long at this time, so she heads to the Musée d’Orsay instead. David had told her the architecture of the building was almost as impressive as the art it housed. But even at ten o’clock in the morning the queue here stretches backwards and forwards around the front of the building, like a coiled snake. The sun is fierce already, and she has forgotten to bring a hat.
    ‘Oh, great,’ she mutters to herself, as she takes her place at the back. She wonders whether she will even make it into the building before David has finished his meeting.
    ‘It shouldn’t take too long. They shift people through pretty quickly.’ The man in front of her turns and nods towards the front of the queue. ‘They do free entry sometimes. Now that’s a queue.’ He wears a crisp linen jacket and the air of the independently wealthy.
    When he smiles at her, she wonders if the fact that she’s English is actually writ large all over her. ‘I’m not sure all these people will even fit inside.’
    ‘Oh, they will. It’s like the Tardis in there.’ When she smiles, he holds out a hand. ‘Tim Freeland.’
    ‘Liv Worth – Halston. Liv Halston.’ The change of name still wrongfoots her.
    ‘Ah. That poster says there’s a big Matisse exhibition on. I suspect that’s the reason for our queue. Here. Let me put up my umbrella. That will protect you from the worst of the sun.’
    He comes over for the tennis every year, he tells her, as they shuffle forwards a few paces at a time, zigzagging their way towards the front of the queue. And then fills his non-tennis time with a few of his favourite places. He much prefers this gallery to the Louvre, which is too full of tourists to see the paintings. He half smiles as he says this, apparently aware of the irony.
    He is tall and tanned with dark blond hair, which is swept back in a way she imagines it has been since his teens. The way he talks about his life suggests freedom from financial concerns. His reference to children and the lack of a wedding ring suggest some distant divorce.
    He is attentive and charming. They discuss restaurants in Paris, tennis, the unpredictability of Parisian taxi drivers. It is a relief to have a conversation that is not loaded with unspoken resentment or littered with traps. By the time they reach the front of the queue she is oddly cheerful.
    ‘Well, you made the time pass wonderfully quickly.’ Tim Freeland folds up his umbrella and holds out his hand. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Olivia Halston. And I’d recommend the Impressionists on the top floor. You should get the best views now, before the crowds get too unbearable.’
    He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling, and then he is gone, striding off into the cavernous interior of the museum as if he is already sure