Harm's Way by Celia Walden Page B

Frenchmen, and less slight-shouldered, he became an instant target. We danced a couple of feet apart – held together by our eyes alone – and when the DJ made a bad choice of record, I pulled back a little, checking an imaginary message on my mobile, and waited for his approach.
    â€˜I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he started in loud but unsure tones.
    â€˜No – I was bored and decided at the last minute to pop down,’ I lied pointlessly.
    Behind him a girl with a sticky aubergine bob and too much eye make-up appeared.
    â€˜Vincent,’ she shouted, without acknowledging me,
‘viens dancer.’
    â€˜In a second,’ he replied into a curved palm as he tried to light a cigarette.
    Scowling, the bob approached and blew out the flame before he was able, then disappeared into the crowd. I laughed.
    â€˜Sorry about that. She’s an ex-girlfriend: I guess she felt threatened by you.’
    Making any French girl feel insecure was so flattering as to be worth celebrating, so I let Vincent lead the way to the bar where we downed bitter cocktails from tall glasses. Our conversation was dull, but its subtext, adolescent in its essence, kept me interested. Spotting an opportunity I pulled Vincent over towards where Stephen, Beth and Christian were half-swaying, half-chatting on the dance floor. Vincent moved in behind me, linking his arms loosely around my waist, his breath warm against my bare shoulder. Beth was oblivious, lids semi-closed and arms held high above her head, too intent on keeping moving to notice. And while Stephen interrupted his conversation with Christian long enough to lift an eyebrow suggestively in my direction, a flicker of sobriety crossed Christian’s face as he took in the picture. One tiny glance, if you’re looking for it, will tell you all you need to know: those quiescent eyes were unmistakable.
    A little before five we stumbled into the dark-red shadowsand sobering chill of boulevard Poissonnière, where cackling parties dispersed throughout the street. Beth had been desperate to leave for some time, but stood alongside the others, hugging herself as Vincent and I exchanged numbers and a forgettable parting kiss. Left too late in the evening, it had inspired only a kind of enjoyable indifference on my part. As our shared cab sped across a Paris still glittering with timid lights, our ears ringing, a silence descended. Wedged in between Stephen and Christian, his arm protectively around a somnolent Beth leaning her forehead against the window, I suddenly felt that the evening had ended too soon. Christian stared ahead, seriously, but as we neared my flat, where I was to be dropped first, he turned and, so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath, whispered, ‘I didn’t realise you were the kind of English girl who kisses anyone who asks.’
    The taxi had stopped, and Stephen was holding the car door open for me. I might have thought I’d misheard, were it not for the feel of Christian’s cool eyes on my back as I climbed out, without even a polite kiss goodnight.
    Next morning, not wanting to get hold of Beth on the phone, I called Stephen’s mobile and suggested brunch at Le Café Charbon in Oberkampf. We sat on the over-heated terrace discussing the events of the previous night, pausing with closed lids to absorb the sunshine pounding our faces. I felt grateful I hadn’t mentioned Christian’s comment when I saw him and Beth weaving their way through the tables towards us. Pale-faced and smiling, Beth led the way. Christian followed with downcast eyes.
    â€˜Did you ask them to come along?’ I whispered to Stephen, angered by the ubiquitous couple.
    â€˜Well, I mentioned we were coming here,’ he replied defensively. ‘Why? Shouldn’t I have?’
    â€˜I just thought it would be nice to …’ but before I could invent an explanation, Beth was pulling iron chairs gratingly across