The Last Time I Saw Paris by Elizabeth Adler Page B

matrimonial,
the double bed that Bill had specifically requested; angry, stiff, blaming each other, their marriage still unconsummated. And Lara had wanted to go home so bad she had cried.
    Then how had she remembered it all these years as perfection? In her memory were only the facts that there had been flowers in the room, a brass bed, beautiful gold brocade curtains and gilded furnishings, and that the tiny balcony had looked out onto the stars.
    The next day Bill had walked her everywhere, guidebook in hand. She thought they might as well have had placards on their backs announcing they were American tourists. She had wanted to browse in every little boutique, sit and people-watch in small cafes sipping glamorous French drinks like Ricard or Pastis, which were the names she saw on those huge yellow ashtrays that graced every outdoor table. She had wanted
to feel
French, and Bill had wanted to
look at
France. That was the difference between them. But,typically, Bill had planned his schedule and he intended to get through it.
    By day three, Lara’s feet were killing her. She had huge blisters on every toe, and that night they were going to what was then Paris’s grandest restaurant. It was to be the highlight of their stay.
    She spent hours soaking her swollen feet in ice water, until she feared frostbite, trying to force them into the black suede heels that went with the smart little black dress she had bought specially. It was no good; the only shoes she could get on her feet were sneakers. She longed to stay in bed and just send for room service, but Bill wouldn’t hear of it.
    â€œPut the sneakers on, Lara,” he ordered impatiently. “We’re going to the Tour d’Argent.”
    Heads had turned her way as she limped, mortified, into the elegant restaurant on the quai de la Tournelle, and she could see people smiling, commenting behind their hands. But the maître d’ was full of Gallic charm, sympathetic to her youth.
    â€œBlisters,” she explained in a whisper, agonized with embarrassment.
    â€œAh, madame, Paris can be very hard on the feet,” he murmured, understandingly, as he showed them to a table near the window with a stupendous view of Notre Dame.
    Food was different all those years ago, especially French food, still all butter and cream and smoothly rich. She had been a student until she married, living as cheaply as possible, eating pizza and burgers, and Bill was an impecunious intern, existing on whatever the hospital cafeteria offered. Now Bill ordered lavishly.
    â€œWe’ll start with the foie gras,” he decided without consulting her. “And with it, a glass of the sauternes.”
    Young Lara stared at him, all wide smudgy eyes and soft open mouth, impressed by his sudden knowledge of French food. He even knew the right wine to order.
    â€œThen what?” Bill glanced inquiringly at her. Pushing her long dark hair out of her eyes, she hastily studied the menu, all of it written in French.
    â€œMonsieur should, of course, try the duck,” the waiter said helpfully. “The Tour d’Argent is famous for it. After that, perhaps a green salad, a little cheese. And then dessert.”
    The sommelier was their next hurdle as Bill frantically scanned the wine list, hot under the collar at the prices, searching for a bottle to suit their budget.
    â€œMonsieur and madame are perhaps on their honeymoon?” The sommelier had them pegged perfectly. “Then, of course, you must have champagne.” So, of course, Bill ordered champagne, grandly refusing even to look at the cost.
    They toasted each other, sipping the delicious bubbles, and Lara remembered thinking how handsome and distinguished Bill looked. Her husband, the doctor. And she could taste, even now, the silky-smooth foie gras as it slid down her throat, followed by the sumptuous sweetness of the golden sauternes.
    By the time they had eaten their salad they had also finished