One Night on the French Riviera
Auteur
Ella Hayes
Lezers
18,9K
Hoofdstukken
22
CHAPTER ONE
‘JULES, PLEASE! Open the door...’
She felt her heart constricting, a fierce heat seizing her throat, aching behind her lids. Why wasn’t he taking no for an answer? Why was he torturing her like this?
She swallowed hard, steeling herself. ‘Go away, Alden.’
She was trying to hold it in, but it was no good. She could feel her heart tearing, ripping at the seams, tears sliding down her cheeks.
In all the years they had known each other she’d never told him to go away, and it cut like a knife, stung like blazes, but she wasn’t opening that door just because suddenly he was on the other side of it.
Did he really expect her to fling it open, smiling, after taking off like that, after abandoning her in Cannes with nothing but a kiss on the forehead, and that splintered whisper that might have been, ‘Sorry,’ but could have been a dream because she’d been floating at the edges, too sleep-dazed to grasp what was happening?
Until she did. Alden. Gone. No explanation. No ‘Sorry, Jules, but they want me in Cairo a day earlier’—which was what she’d told Franc. It was where he’d been, all right. His agent, Jacklyn, had confirmed it. A city with a phone network. Internet! No excuse for not returning her calls, responding to her frantic messages.
Five whole days of heartbreak. Five whole days of nothing but empty, aching silence.
Until this morning. Call after call after call. What she’d wanted for days, but the bruise inside wouldn’t let her swipe right. She’d wanted to bruise him back, wanted him to be the one left dangling for once in his life.
Because, the thing was, she always picked up, didn’t she? Even when he was on the other side of the world, calling in the wee small hours because he’d forgotten about the time difference, she was always happy to hear his voice because he was her best friend. Even at stupid o’clock in the morning, when every fibre of her being was craving sleep, she wanted to hear his news, wanted to feel her lips curving and her belly vibrating, because no one could make her laugh the way Alden could.
But she wasn’t laughing now. She was broken because of him. And there he was on the other side of that door, wanting her to let him in, wanting her to...what...forgive him?
‘Jules...’ There was a heavy thud, as if a holdall had been dropped. ‘I’m not leaving. I’m setting up camp right here.’ And then there was a single hard thud on the door—his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Really, really, sorry. Please, Jules, please open the door...’
She felt a fresh scald prickling behind her lids. His voice was stretched tight now, not the kind of tight it was when one of his auditions didn’t go well. He always managed to paint over that kind with a pale shade of merry bravado. This was the same kind of strangled, urgent choke that filled his voice when he was talking about his parents—about their refusal to accept that he didn’t want to be a surgeon like them, like his brother and sister were, like his grandfather had been—their refusal to approve of him, to concede that acting, not medicine, was his life.
You get me, Jules, so why don’t they?
Her heart twisted.
She’d thought she got him, but maybe she’d just indulged him because of that irresistible twinkle in his eyes, because of that amusing way he had of talking all the time, of taking himself apart, searching for the truth shard that could explain himself to himself.
All those late-night calls, listening to him pouring his heart out over this lover or that lover—how they were perfect, then not. She had always taken his side. And after his first few movies, when the press had started seizing on his love life, daubing him a playboy, she’d taken his side too—told him they didn’t know what they were talking about—and she’d meant every word.
Because to her he had never been flimsy. He’d been warm, dependable. Always there for her. Like when Mum had taken off with that man she’d met at a conference...
She’d been fifteen, hurt, angry, struggling to cope with Dad, who’d been in tatters. And she’d struggled to focus on schoolwork, panicking about exams. And her sister, Emily, had just started uni, so wasn’t around to help. But Alden was. He’d got her through it, coming over so they could revise together, shoring her up with moral support and mugs of terrible tea.
And, every time a boyfriend broke her heart, Alden was there like a shot. When Sam had slammed out of the door four months ago, and she’d called him to say she was contemplating a bottle of tequila, he’d told his director he had a family emergency and had come right over.
And, like the consummate actor he was, he’d delivered all the right lines. Sam was a jerk for leaving. Sam was a jerk, full-stop. He’d never liked him—hated him, in fact. She was too good for Sam. In fact, she might as well know that, as far as he was concerned, she was too good for every single one of the boyfriends she’d ever had! She’d clapped then, laughing and crying at the same time. Award-winning performance, much!
And later, when her stomach had rebelled, he’d held her hair back until she was done, then made her cup after cup of terrible coffee, finally cradling her to sleep on his lap.
That was the Alden she knew. Solid. Kind. Infinitely warm. But also chronically insecure, searching for love-slash-approval from someone who mattered, trying so hard to find it that maybe he had developed a tendency to fancy himself in love when he wasn’t really. And maybe, because of that, he’d bruised some hearts, but Alden didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He didn’t have it in him...
That was what she’d thought.
She felt a sob rising. But what to think now? She’d thought they were in love; thought that what they’d revealed and shared that last night in Cannes was real. It had felt real—pure, true. It had felt meant! And, if for some reason he’d got cold feet, then the right way to deal with it, the right way, would have been to wake up beside her and talk about it like an adult—not vanish into the pale blue yonder when she was only half-conscious.
How could he have done that when he knew first-hand what Mum’s sudden flight had cost her, done to her?
Oh, but even so, she’d made excuses for him, hadn’t she? To save herself from embarrassment, yes, but also to keep up the ruse so as not to let him down, so that he’d still have a chance at the coveted role that had put them on this treacherous path in the first place.
She swallowed hard. Indulging him to the last, even after he’d wronged her so spectacularly, indulging him because she couldn’t not. Because she loved him. Always had. And maybe he had a reason for doing what he’d done but she didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t. He’d trampled her love, shattered her trust.
And now, somehow, he was on the other side of that door—rehearsing his apology, no doubt, getting his lines down, gestures, phrasing, finding his motivation.
She felt her jaw tightening. That would be smoothing things over, of course, rowing them back into the friend zone because he needed her, didn’t he, to keep on indulging him, supporting him, plugging the gap his parents weren’t filling?
Her heart clenched. Too late! Whatever he was hoping for, she couldn’t rewind. If it were possible, she’d have done it already. She would have flat-out refused to go with him to Franc’s party and she definitely, definitely, wouldn’t have told Franc that she was his fiancée...
