We'll Always Have Paris. Jessica Hart
involuntarily and then glowered some more, furious with himself for such a revealing remark.
‘Well, you could have hung a sign saying “jealous loser” round your neck,’ said Clara, evidently quite undaunted by his thunderous expression, ‘but otherwise it’s hard to see how you could have made it more obvious!’
Feeling his mouth fall open in a gape, Simon snapped it shut. Who was this girl? She had some nerve, he had to give her that! Nobody else he knew—apart from his mother, perhaps—would think of talking to him that way.
‘Astrid didn’t like me being with you, you know,’ she went on knowledgeably.
‘You’re not with me!’
‘But she doesn’t know that, does she?’
Simon was beginning to wonder if he was having a particularly vivid and unsettling dream. His life was black and white and firmly under control. He didn’t talk about relationships. He didn’t let himself get trapped into bizarre conversations with young women who wore vibrant colours and inappropriately short skirts and who appeared to have no compunction about barging in on other people’s conversations or offering unsolicited advice.
‘Any fool can see why Astrid is with Paolo—I mean, he’s seriously hot—but she’s clearly still got a thing about you.’ Clara couldn’t quite manage to keep the bafflement from her voice, Simon noted. ‘Instead of you glaring at Paolo, you need to make her jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ echoed Simon, even as he wondered why he was even having this conversation.
Clara nodded encouragingly. ‘Make her wonder what she’s missing,’ she said.
‘And this is any of your business because …?’
‘Like I say, I can help you. I don’t mind hanging around and simpering at you whenever you’re likely to meet Astrid. She won’t like the idea that you’re with me at all, and if you can’t make the most of the situation when she tells you how jealous she is, I wash my hands of you.’
Unbelievable. What kind of world was Clara Sterne living in? Simon regarded her with his most sardonic expression.
‘And in return for this sacrifice on your part? Or can I guess?’
‘Well, you’re not stupid,’ said Clara, ‘so yes, you probably can. All you’d have to do in return is present a one-hour film.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘Well? Do we have a deal?’
She didn’t seriously expect him to agree to that nonsense, did she? Ruin his reputation as a serious economist by taking part in some sentimental twaddle?
‘Not exactly,’ said Simon, ‘but I do have a deal to offer you.’
He crooked a finger in conspiratorial fashion and her face lit up. ‘Really?’ she said, leaning closer. Simon got a whiff of a fresh citrusy scent.
‘Really,’ he said.
‘What’s the deal?’
‘It’s a very simple one. You go away and leave me alone, and I won’t call Security to throw you out. How’s that for an offer?’
Clara recoiled in disappointment. ‘Oh, but please …’
Unmoved by the pleading brown eyes, Simon looked at his watch. ‘I’ll count to ten, then I’m calling Security.’
‘All right, I’m going!’ she said hastily. Digging in her purse, she produced a business card and pushed it into his hand. ‘But here are my contact details, just in case you change your mind.’
Shaking his head with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration at her persistence, Simon permitted himself a last look at her legs as she left, clearly disappointed but still with plenty of verve to the swing of her hips. As the click of those precipitous heels faded and she disappeared around the corner, he found that he was turning her card round and round between his fingers, and he stopped himself irritably.
Clara Sterne, Production Assistant, MediaOchre Productions, the card read. Who in God’s name would want to have anything to do with a company that called itself MediaOchre? The name was either prescient or indicated an ominous taste for puns. Simon had no intention of getting involved either way.
Unable to spot a bin, he shoved the card in his jacket pocket. He would dispose of it later, as he certainly wouldn’t be needing it. That was the last he would see of Clara Sterne.
Simon drummed his fingers on his desk. When they were going out, it had been very convenient that Astrid worked in the same office, but now it felt … well, awkward.
Simon didn’t like feeling awkward. He had always liked the fact that it had been so comfortable being with Astrid. She didn’t make scenes or get all emotional, and she never got personal in the office.
So why she wanted to spoil it all by throwing everything up for a pretty Italian, Simon couldn’t begin to fathom. He thought she had been happy with him. She had said she had been happy. And then one day it had been all about being swept off her feet and wanting ‘passion’ and ‘romance’.
Madness.
Astrid had put her head round his door earlier and asked if she could have a word. He’d been glad to see her. If they could have sat down together and chatted about financial sustainability for NGOs or risk analysis, he was sure she would have remembered how much better off she was with him. It wasn’t as if she could have a meaningful conversation with a man who carried a handbag, after all. Surely she would get bored with Paolo soon?
Not that he was jealous, whatever Clara Sterne had had to say about it. That was nonsense. He didn’t get jealous. That wasn’t how he and Astrid had operated, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Simon had every faith that Astrid would come to her senses but, apparently, it wasn’t yet. She had no time for economic policy nowadays, and was determined to talk about bloody Paolo instead. How he made her feel. How guilty she then felt about Simon. Feelings, feelings, feelings … Simon couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike her.
Now Astrid was pacing. That was another thing she had never used to do.
‘Who was that you were with last night?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Last night?’
‘That girl. Clara. I got the impression she was with you.’
Simon opened his mouth to deny any acquaintance with Clara Sterne, but the words died on his tongue as her words came back to him.
She’s clearly still got a thing about you. Instead of glaring at Paolo, you need to make her jealous.
Was it possible that Clara was right?
Simon was unsettled by how clearly he could remember her. Clara wasn’t a beautiful woman like Astrid, of course, but there had been a sort of quirky appeal to her undistinguished features, he had to admit. Something to do with the warm brown eyes, perhaps, or that mouth that seemed permanently tilted at the corners.
Or maybe those spectacular legs.
Simon was prepared to admit to a sneaking admiration for her daring, too, if he were honest, although he had no intention of changing his mind.
In his jacket pocket he’d found her card, which he’d forgotten to put in the bin. Now he turned it on the desk, frowning slightly.
‘How long have you known her?’
To his relief, Astrid stopped pacing and sat down on the other side of his desk. A tiny crease had appeared between her immaculately groomed brows.
‘Not long.’ Simon shifted, uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
‘It’s just that I worry about you,’ Astrid said unexpectedly. ‘I know we’re not together any more, but that doesn’t mean I don’t