Never to Love by Anne Weale

Justin that he was undoubtedly bankrupt.
    Justin studied the swirl of pale green chiffon and lilies of the valley that Andrea had been trying on when they came in.
    “Very pretty,” he said. “I can see you enjoyed yourself.” He indicated the disorder of parcels, but this time there was no cutting edge to his tone.
    When the Bechets had left Andrea set about clearing up her shopping and Justin had a bath. She was still busy when he brought her an aperitif and stayed to talk.
    “How did you get on with Leonie?” he asked.
    “Very well, she’s such a friendly person. Actually we were rushing about too fast to talk much. Have they any children? She didn’t mention any.”
    “Not now. They had one boy, Charles, but he died two years ago in a polio epidemic and Leonie can’t have any more. Naturally it was a great blow to them, particularly as the child had always been very robust and lively.”
    “Oh, how dreadfully sad!” Andrea exclaimed compassionately. “What a good thing I didn’t ask her if she had any.”
    “She wouldn’t have minded. Oddly enough, neither of them is embittered. In fact Jacques was telling me today that they are considering adopting a boy. They feel that all the things they would have given their own son shouldn’t be wasted.”
    Andrea put the last parcel away and sat down to relax with her drink.
    “Do you think there always has to be some flaw in people’s lives?” she asked thoughtfully. “I mean that one can never have everything one wants.”
    “It depends what you mean by everything. Most people I have one basic objective—money, power, fame or perhaps love. They want other things as well, but to a lesser degree. Some reach the basic goal, some don’t. Quite a few get what they want and find it isn’t as good as it looked from a distance, or they spend their lives chasing a rainbow without noticing the pot of gold under their noses. It is said that contentment doesn’t come from having all you want, but from making the best of what you have.”
    She would have liked to ask him what his own basic objective was, but something held her back.
    The days passed with surprising swiftness, and all the time Andrea was discovering unsuspected facets of his character. On their last night in Paris they dined at Maxim’s before going to the opera and then to a nightclub in Montmartre. Unlike the noisy overcrowded “bals” and students’ clubs in St. Germain des Pres, it was a quiet place with tables secluded by high wooden partitions and lighted by candles. A s they arrived a girl was leaning against the piano singing a melancholy blues number in a husky contralto, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, her hips undulating in time to the languorous rhythm.
    A fter a light supper they danced. Perhaps it was only as a concession to the intimate atmosphere of the club that Justin held Andrea closer than usual, but she was very conscious of their nearness and the strength of his arm about her. It was after three o’clock when they left and the streets were deserted.
    “Are you tired or do you feel like a stroll?” he said.
    “I’m not a bit tired.”
    It was true. She felt the renewed vitality that comes in the early hours of the morning, and after the close atmosphere of the club, the night air was cool and refreshing.
    Justin tucked her hand through his arm and they walked at a leisurely pace, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
    “Will you be glad to get home?” he asked, looking down at her in the dimness.
    “In some ways. I’m looking forward to showing Jill the things I’ve bought and telling her about the opera and our o nion soup breakfast at Les Hailes the other morning and all the other places we’ve seen.”
    “So you have enjoyed it?”
    “You know I have. It’s been wonderful—like something out of a dream.”
    “And now we have to come back to reality,” he said in an odd tone.
    He must have felt her stiffen slightly, for he said, “Are you still