Harm's Way by Celia Walden Page B

the emotions they stirred in me. The procession seemed interminable. Nobody noticed or cared when Chirac finally passed by.
    â€˜Remind me again why we didn’t watch it on telly?’ said Stephen as we fought through the slowly moving crowds to seek refuge in a nearby café.
    â€˜Oh come on Stephen. You’re just grouchy because for once you haven’t got a date,’ I laughed.
    â€˜Something I’m going to deal with pretty swiftly,’ he rejoined easily, pinching the skin on the back of my arm.
    Inside it was cooler, and the crispness of the gin and tonic cut through my stomach, unsteady and thick in the heat. Thankful that the group was large enough for me to allow myself to watch Christian unnoticed, I deliberately placed myself on the fringe of a discussion which required only the occasional nod. Vincent was discussing the pros and cons of de Villepin with a slight, pretty friend of Beth’s, so I permitted myself a few moments of sensual contemplation. Talking casually to Stephen, and dressed in a white cheesecloth shirt pulled tight against his broad shoulders, Christian had his sleeves rolled to the elbow, yet there were dots of dampness beneath his right armpit thatmerged into a small, transparent oval. There was something so sensual, so base in the suggestion of the warm body under that shirt that I had to look away. I needn’t have bothered: he’d barely glanced at me all day. Stephen had rapidly turned his attention to an elfin girl on the adjoining table, and I leant forward to ask Christian whether his restaurant would be full that night.
    â€˜From the looks of things earlier on, I guess so. The place is crammed full of bloody Americans at the moment,’ he replied. ‘All they ever want is a beer for themselves and a cosmopolitan for the wife. Still, it keeps things ticking over nicely and the staff are grateful for the tips.’
    His was an apparently unexceptional life, yet there was nothing about it that didn’t interest me. I wanted to discover whether he liked Beth for the same reasons I did, what position he slept in, and what his school reports had said about him as a child. As soon as Christian stopped talking, the expression drained from his eyes and was replaced with a vacuous glaze. He looked stupid and beautiful, like a model in a magazine.
    By the time we left to make our way to the Salle Wagram, the streetlights had turned the café’s white awning a burnt orange colour. After queueing round the side of the building, we were greeted by a sight I would never forget. Ushers in wigs and Napoleonic costume were taking people’s coats, while a ten-foot drag queen dressed as Marianne, the emblem of France, complete with stilt-like stilettos filled with gloopy glitter, inspected the outfits before allowing people into the main room.
    It was a quarter to twelve, yet everywhere bodies gyrated to an insistent Raï beat and the mournful cries of an Arabwoman, sun-flushed faces miming words to songs they didn’t know, smiles going cheap. Sucked into the whirlwind of dancers, Vincent and I soon found ourselves swaying together. Had he always been this keen to touch me? His arms were everywhere, whistling around my hips, brushing against my shoulders, detaching damp hair from my neck. The tiny kisses he inflicted on each inch of bare flesh were leaving trails of saliva down my arms, his stubble irritating my skin. I pushed him back roughly.
    â€˜I’m going to get a drink!’ I shouted across the din, desperate to escape from him and thankful that he made no attempt to accompany me. By the time I’d reached the bar my dress was sticking to my back, and I could see that there were people four deep waiting to be served.
    Turning, parched and exasperated, to go back the way I came, I registered Christian alone, standing a little way off by one of the carved stone columns. As I approached, he saw me and smiled. He was holding a large