By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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      Tante Laraine lived in the seventh arrondissement. Luc pressed a button in what looked like an ordinary wall in the street, and a panel slid open to reveal a security plaque. He dialled in a code and a door opened. Inside, to Shari’s surprise, was a beautifully manicured garden with a fountain. A gravelled path led to the side entrance of a gracious old building with the distinctive Parisian mansard roof and dormer windows.

      Several children were darting here and there among the shrubbery, playing a game that required sudden shrieks and bursts of laughter. A couple of them called to Luc, and he waved back.

      As she approached the entrance Shari’s nerve began to fail. The people inside all thought she was Rémy’s fiancée, and here she was, fresh from Luc’s bed, pregnant with Luc’s child and planning to … what? How could she possibly carry off such a dilemma?

      ‘Luc.’ She started to breathe faster than a woman approaching the finish line in the London marathon. ‘Do you mind if we don’t go here?’

      His brows lifted in surprise. ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Could we just go to a café or …’ She tried to swallow but she was all out of saliva.

      His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Que veux-tu …?’

      ‘There’s something I might have to tell you.’

      Some people burst through the doors then, exclaiming when they saw her and Luc. Amidst all the embraces and introductions, her moment was lost, though on the way up in the lift with the others Luc kept looking searchingly at her. He whispered, ‘Are you feeling well? Is everything fine?’

      ‘Yep. Fine,’ she lied through her lying teeth.

      Laraine’s apartment was on the top floor below what Shari imagined would be a garret for starving artists and bohemians. When she was ushered inside, though, it seemed possible Laraine kept an army of maids and footmen up there.

      The ceilings were extraordinarily high and ornate. As for the furnishings … Shari doubted if the precious pieces had been created any later than the eighteenth century.

      Several other family members were present, some Shari recognised from the funeral. Tante Marise. Oncle Georges, whose eyes lit up when he saw her. A couple of younger cousins, Anne-Sophie and Sophie-Louise, with spouses. She’d never remember which Sophie was which. Though warmly welcomed and kissed by all, Shari suddenly felt burningly aware of her casual attire.

      A scarf could only go so far to catapult an ordinary Aussie girl into Parisian society. If only she’d done something with her hair. The Sophies looked chic, even in jeans.

      Luc glanced at her often, a slight frown in his eyes that made her heart quake. Trust her to choose the exact right moment. She’d alerted him to trouble, and she could see he was speculating.

      Contrary to things she’d read, the family seemed happy to converse in English on her behalf, except when they forgot. Luc poured her a sherry and handed her the glass. Feeling his mother’s quick glance flick between them, Shari accepted it, taking care not to touch him.

      Laraine suspected, Shari saw suddenly. Though how much? Was the Ritz etched into their body language? Or did Laraine have X-ray vision?

      Even imagining the impossibility made Shari a tiny bit giddy. With the family all believing she was Rémy’s woman, how must it look?

      As she allowed her restless glance to wander her nerve jumped. On a side table where some family photos were displayed, the lovely couple blazed out at her. Luc in evening dress, Manon in a beautiful bare-shouldered gown, her hair up, on this occasion honey-blonde. Another of them in relaxed weekend mode with several of the present company. Clearly, Manon had been part of the family.

      Excruciatingly out of her comfort zone, Shari answered questions about her journey, Sydney, Emilie and her children, the new twins about to be born, smiling, smiling. Babies, mothers, newborns—all were popular here, apparently.

      Shari gazed at her sherry. Would it look suspicious if she didn’t drink it? In a limbo of indecision, she held the glass in her hand, untouched.

      Not that any of those pregnancy rules would have to apply to her, necessarily. After all, if she didn’t stay pregnant … Why was it so hard to control one’s breathing and slow it down?

      There was a bit of discussion about Rémy, then the conversation moved on to other things. People appealed to Luc often for his opinion, and when he replied he was always pleasant, measured, amused. Occasionally though he seemed not to hear them. He kept staring at the floor, or at Shari. Then he looked grave and so darkly handsome she felt the twist in her heart that signalled trouble ahead.

      As if she didn’t have enough.

      At a point where the conversation grew loud and lively, Luc strolled over to her and murmured, ‘What did you want to talk about?’

      ‘Nothing, nothing. Shh.’ She smiled as if everything were as normal as gramma pie while on the inside she was imagining herself growing huge, going to hospital all by herself and coming home to her flat in Paddington, with a … Well, not quite by herself.

      The meal was an exquisitely prepared torture.

      At first there was foie gras on slivers of toast on her plate. In her strangely disconnected state she couldn’t help wondering how many poor geese had died to produce it. Lucky there was some lettuce she could chew on, a few curls of celery.

      Sensing Luc’s gaze, she was tempted to let their eyes tangle for an instant. His compelled her, questioning, uncertain, and she skittered hers away.

      Oh, God. Had he guessed?

      ‘You have made a journey très, très, vraiment long, Shari,’ Laraine said. ‘A pity the occasion is so melancholy.’

      The family showed their concern for the grieving fiancée with a series of questions, punctuated by discussions about the food and family concerns Shari wasn’t privy to, interrupting themselves and each other so rapidly she found it barely possible to get in a word.

      ‘Oui, les pois, s’il te plait. How long were you and Rémy engaged, Shari?’

      ‘Not long. You see—’

      ‘Try some of this, Sophie-Louise. So, Shari … had you planned your wedding soon?’

      ‘No. Well, actually—’

      ‘You are not enjoying your wine, ma chérie?’ That was Tante Marise, worrying she wasn’t partaking of enough sustenance.

      Not to be outdone in the hospitality stakes, Laraine quickly asserted her authority. ‘Vite, Gilbert, apportes ce Sancerre. Shari, you have had a terrible ordeal. You must eat to recover your vitality. You will find this chablis is very fine.’ She beamed.

      It looked beautiful, pale and chill in its crystal glass. Without a doubt, all the food was of the finest, though Shari could barely do more than taste. A rabbit that had scampered across meadows fragrant with thyme before it was murdered. Artichokes dressed in a manner a duke from the Perigord had only recently demanded on his deathbed.

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