Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella by Jojo Moyes Page B

through, her dress clinging to her wet legs. As she walks through Reception she swears the concierge gives her the look reserved for the kind of woman whose husband takes business meetings on their honeymoon.
    David is on the telephone when she walks into their room. He turns, spies her, and breaks the call. ‘Where have you been? I was getting worried.’
    She pulls her wet cardigan from her shoulders, reaches into the wardrobe for a hanger. ‘I went up the Eiffel Tower. And walked back.’
    ‘You’re soaked. I’ll run you a bath.’
    ‘I don’t want a bath.’ She does. She’s thought of nothing else the whole, long, miserable walk back.
    ‘I’ll order up some tea, then.’
    As he picks up the phone for room service she turns away, walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. She can feel David looking after her long after it has closed. She doesn’t know why she’s being mulish. She’d planned to be nice when she got back, to recover the day. It was only one meeting after all. And she
had
known what he was like, from their very first date, when he had driven her around London and told her about the background and design of modern glass and steel structures they passed.
    But something had happened as she’d crossed the threshold of the hotel room. She’d seen him on the telephone and just the simple fact that she’d known, immediately, it was a work call had skewed her fragile sense of goodwill. You weren’t worried about me, she thinks crossly. You were discussing what thickness of glass to use on the new building entrance, or whether the roof brace could support the weight of the extra ventilation shaft.
    She runs a bath, filling it with expensive hotel bubbles, then slides in, letting out a sigh of relief as she immerses herself in the hot water.
    Some minutes later, David knocks on the door and enters.
    ‘Tea,’ he says, and puts the cup on the side of the marble bath.
    ‘Thank you.’
    She waits for him to leave, but he sits down on the closed lid of the lavatory, leaning forwards, and watches her.
    ‘I booked us a table at La Coupole.’
    ‘For tonight?’ ‘Yes. I told you about it. It’s the brasserie with the amazing murals painted by artists who –’
    ‘David, I’m really tired. I walked a long way. I don’t think I want to go out tonight.’ She doesn’t look at him as she speaks.
    ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to get us reservations for another night.’
    ‘Sorry. I just want to have some room service and go to bed.’
    Why are you doing this?
she yells at herself silently.
Why are you sabotaging your own honeymoon?
    ‘Look. I’m sorry about today, okay? It’s just that I’ve been trying to get a meeting with the Goldsteins for months. And it just turns out they’re in Paris, and they finally agreed to see my designs. This is the building I was telling you about, Liv. The big one. And I think they liked it.’
    Liv stares at her toes, which emerge pink and shining from the water. ‘Well, I’m glad it went well.’
    They sit in silence.
    ‘I hate this. I hate that you’re so unhappy.’
    She looks up at him, his blue eyes, the way his hair is always a bit messy, the way he is resting his face in his hands. After a moment’s hesitation she reaches out a hand, and he takes it. ‘Ignore me. I’m being silly. You’re right. I know this building’s a big deal for you.’
    ‘It really is, Liv. I wouldn’t have left you for anything else. This is the thing I’ve been working towards for months. Years. If I can pull it off, the partnership is made. My reputation is made.’
    ‘I know. Look, don’t cancel dinner. We’ll go. I’ll feel better after my bath. And we can plan our day tomorrow.’
    His fingers close around hers. Because of the soapsuds it’s hard for hers not to slip away.
    ‘Well … here’s the thing. They want me to meet their project manager tomorrow.’
    Liv goes very still. ‘What?’
    ‘They’re flying him over specially. They want me to meet