Beneath the Parisian Skies Read online

  If she walked a few blocks from where her traitorous feet stood, she’d be at Avenue Victor Hugo, the site where she’d lost the man she’d planned to marry. Even Victor Hugo’s name made her shudder. Aiden had adored Hugo’s works, especially The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and he’d insisted, in his charming and convincing way, that they should go and check out the avenue named after the author. After a long day of rehearsals, she hadn’t been in the mood but decided to humour him. Perhaps if she’d dug her heels in they wouldn’t have gone and he wouldn’t…

  A cacophony of horns drew her back to the present as stationary drivers rolled down their windows and screamed at each other. Lily turned and started the long trek back to her apartment. Even though she’d had plenty of time on her flight from Melbourne to Paris, she hadn’t given any thought as to how a visit to Avenue Victor Hugo would play out. She certainly hadn’t envisioned an impromptu visit during Parisian peak hour but really, what would be the perfect way to return to the place where she’d lost a piece of her heart forever? Her clammy skin and thudding heart told her she was far from ready to go to the avenue, and most likely never would be.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The next morning, Lily’s feet had once again taken her to a place she hadn’t set out to visit. With so much beautiful architecture and green space to appreciate around the city, she hadn’t planned on returning to Jardin Marco Polo. Though something had pulled her back there, helping her navigate the narrow cobblestoned laneways and wide busy streets to arrive at this park. Rather than resist, she allowed herself to spend the morning strolling through the gardens taking photos. She loved the way the sun left a dappled effect on the grass and the soft rays of light cast intriguing shadows on the statues and trees. It didn’t surprise her that photography had become her passion because, just like dance, it required hours of practice, an immense amount of patience and a desire to capture the physical world in an artistic manner.

  Wandering down the path, she pulled out a bag of croissants from her backpack. How French. She bit into the flaky pastry, savouring the buttery sweetness as the gravel crunched beneath her feet. Even though her trip had been emotionally torturous, she certainly hadn’t lost her appetite. How could she, with a slew of mouth-watering delicacies on offer?

  Rounding the corner, she spotted the guy from yesterday, his pen poised. She wondered if he treated this park as his office, although the way he was staring into space right now, it didn’t look like he was having a particularly productive day.

  The croissant made her thirsty so she took a seat on the same bench as the day before and searched in her backpack for the water bottle. Unable to help herself, Lily glanced over at the man. His hair hung over his eyes as he scribbled furiously, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. She smiled, aware she did the same when concentrating. How many times had the choreographers yelled at her to ‘put that damn tongue back where it belongs!’?

  He looked up and their eyes met. This time he didn’t break eye contact and allowed his lips to curl up at the ends. The smile reached his eyes and his entire demeanour lightened.

  He should do that more often.

  He bowed his head and scribbled again, glancing in her direction every so often. Lily studied him openly, not worried he might think her creepy. The fact he cracked a smile helped her feel a little less lonely. She’d barely spoken to anyone since arriving in Paris, aside from the usual ‘hello’, ‘lovely day’, ‘I’ll order…’, and ‘goodbye’. Her French was passable, but not enough to start a long discussion, not that she really wanted to. She could barely control the thoughts rushing around her head, let alone have a conversation with a stranger in another language. Of course, that meant she spent more time than was healthy by herself, but it had been that way since moving back to Rutherford Creek.

  Pushing out a sigh, she shoved her bottle into the backpack and stood. The man looked up and she gave a small wave as she hoisted the pack on her shoulders. Lily moved to exit the park but halted when someone cleared their throat directly behind her.

  ‘Excusez-moi, je peux vous parler?’

  Lily turned to find the man towering over her. He tucked a renegade chunk of hair behind his ears. Had he practised that very sexy move in front of the mirror?

  ‘Je suis désolé, mon Français n’est pas très bon.’ She’d spent hours practising this one phrase and had used it countless times, even though she was telling people in French that she couldn’t speak much French.

  ‘Ah, but you say it so well. You must speak more French than this, oui?’ he said in English, his deep melodic voice bringing joy to her ears.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s about the extent of it,’ she said. ‘Unless you want me to order a coffee, croissant or wine. Oh, and cheese, I’m good at ordering cheese and bread.’ Gawd, a total stranger strikes up a conversation and she goes running off at the mouth. She really needed to get out more. Way more.

  His eyes crinkled and a warm laugh filled the air. ‘Unless we are to only talk about food then we must stay with English. Are you from London?’

  ‘I’m actually Australian.’ Why did everyone assume she’s English? Because of her pale skin that burned to a crisp in the Australian summer?

  ‘Australian…’ He furrowed his brows for a moment. ‘I will not make any comment about Australian English versus English English. Or American English. It is like me talking about Canadian French or French from the New Caledonia. It is the same language but at times very different. Some people get upset but me, it does not matter what the language is, if people wish to converse, they will find a way and accents and slang do not matter.’

  ‘Exactly!’ She was enjoying this conversation but a question kept popping up in her mind. ‘Um…’

  When he tilted his head to the side, the sun highlighted his five o’clock shadow. Man, she was such a sucker for that stylishly rugged look. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but why are you talking to me?’ She looked down at her cardigan and brushed off the remnants of the croissant. Surely he wasn’t trying to do the pick-up thing with her in this dishevelled state. And even though she hadn’t met any axe murderers—that she knew of—she doubted he had intentions of dragging her off into a dark alley.

  He shifted from foot to foot and looked back at the bench where his paperwork and bag sat. Grinning, he said, ‘This will sound strange but would you like to come and look at what I am doing? It will help explain why I wish to speak with you.’

  Lily looked around the park. People of all ages strolled, ran or sat and they were all only a yelp away. The bench was out in the open and the idea of finding out what had him scrawling so furiously intrigued her.

  ‘Okay.’ She hoisted her pack on her shoulder and followed him. His long legs worked in a smooth gait and his green check shirt clung nicely to his broad shoulders. Sitting on the bench, he moved his bag and paperwork to make space for her.

  ‘By the way, my name is Yves Rousseau.’

  ‘Lily Johansson.’

  His long fingers enveloped hers and they shook hands. His skin was smoother than she’d expected and she glanced at his well-manicured fingernails.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘this, here, is a music score I am working on.’

  ‘You’re a composer?’

  ‘Oui.’ He passed her the sheet music like it was a baby. Black and red ink had been scrawled all over the page, with clefs and notes dancing across the staff. ‘Can you read music?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t elaborate that she’d studied the cello as a kid, suddenly uncertain about this man who called himself Yves. Why would he choose her, a random stranger in a park, to show his music to?

  Lily waited for him to continue but he appeared to be struggling with finding the right words. His English was close to perfect, so she figured it wasn’t a language barrier. The silence grew uncomfortable so she passed the pages back to him.

  ‘You inspire me,’ he said quietly.

  �
�Pardon?’

  He cleared his throat. Louder, he said, ‘You inspire me.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t. I…’ Lily let the sentence fall away as she studied his earnest eyes. ‘Really? But you don’t know me.’

  ‘You are right. We do not know each other but there is something…intriguing about you. I would easily notice you in a crowd.’

  Maybe he did go for women who looked like they’d slept in their clothes. That was beside the point, though. Talking to a charming man in a park in Paris was not on her list of things to do and, if she were entirely honest, it scared her how much she was drawn to him. Especially since she was in the midst of grieving for her fiancé.

  ‘Thanks so much for showing me your music. I wish you much success.’ She stood.

  ‘Please, do not go.’ He wrapped his strong fingers around her wrist.

  Wrenching her hand away, she said sternly, ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘I am sorry! I am so, so sorry.’ He hung his head then looked up at her. The remorse in his wide blue eyes and sincerity in his voice stopped her from bolting to the nearest exit. Plus, she couldn’t help but be flattered a complete stranger thought she was special enough to inspire him to compose some music. Still…

  ‘I need to go.’ For almost two years she’d secluded herself from the world—especially from handsome men—and it would not do to open herself to the possibilities of actually enjoying the company of a man she found appealing.

  God, would she ever be able to move forward with her life? Lily’s eyes locked on the composer and her heart slammed against her chest. Nope. She could not do this.

  ‘I have to go.’ She stepped back then turned and started a half-jog. For a fleeting moment her head told her she’d overreacted but she’d spent so long living in her own bubble that she didn’t trust her feelings.

  ‘Lily!’

  She increased her speed, keen to get some distance between her and this man who made her skin break out into goosebumps. Reaching the boundary of the park, she rushed out onto the street, trying to ignore the pain in her back. Glancing behind, she saw him hitching a bag on his shoulders, his stride one to her two. Picking up the pace, she reached the traffic lights but they’d turned red. Before the accident she would have bolted between the traffic but…

  ‘Lily!’ Yves drew up to her. He hadn’t raised a sweat yet she had a small pool at her lower back.

  ‘Please, leave me be.’ Her tone reflected the panic rising within.

  ‘I am very sorry. It was wrong of me to touch you.’

  ‘Exactly, you shouldn’t have.’ Come on, traffic lights. Change!

  If her bearings were correct, there was a hotel nearby and she could duck in until he’d gone. If she had to wait for a few hours in the bar, so be it. It had to be five o’clock somewhere in the world, right?

  ‘My intensity about my music can frighten people sometimes, so if I—’

  ‘Thank you for apologising but this is all me, okay?’

  ‘Please, I do not expect you to understand but I’ve been struggling with writing this ballet—’

  Her body stiffened. ‘What ballet?’

  He didn’t attempt to hide his small smile. ‘For the Bohème Ballet Company. You may have heard of it?’

  Her breath caught in her throat and she croaked, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Well I have had many problems with my muse. She deserted me just after I was asked to write a ballet for them. All day, I sit in the park—normally my best place to write—but my muse has refused to return. Then you came along. I need your help to finish writing this composition.’

  Lily shook her head. She’d never believed in this muse business. ‘It was dumb luck I sat near you when inspiration hit.’

  ‘This is not the case, Lily. My normal muse comes to me in ghost-like form but for some reason, for this ballet, you have helped unblock my creativity.’

  Heat crept up her neck and spread across her face. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t possibly help. I have to leave Paris soon and I am very busy.’

  ‘With what?’

  No way would she be roped in to telling a stranger her affairs. ‘Stuff.’

  ‘I will pay you.’

  What kind of composer offers to pay a complete stranger to hang around while they write music?

  A desperate one, that’s what.

  A tiny ripple of empathy rode through her. Quietly, she said, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t possibly help. Besides, I’m not interested in ballet.’

  ‘How can you not like the ballet? What about the beautiful music, the costumes, the dancers?’

  Now they were loaded questions.

  ‘Some people like it, some people don’t and I’m one of the don’ts.’

  ‘I cannot change your mind?’ He moved his head and that floppy chunk of hair fell over his eyes again. She could tell this wasn’t a rehearsed move to up the sexiness factor, it was genuine and boy, did it get her blood rushing.

  No. No. No!

  Yves pushed the offending hair away from his eyes. ‘Is there anything I can do to convince you to help me? Perhaps a medical certificate to say I am not crazy?’

  Her lips twitched at his attempted humour.

  ‘Yves, it was nice to meet you but I’m afraid I can’t help. Good luck!’ The lights finally changed and she stepped off the kerb, checking for wayward vehicles. She made it across then ducked into the hotel.

  From her hidey spot, she studied Yves. People rushed around him while he stood motionless, his head hanging, his shoulders slumped. He looked like someone who had just realised their lifelong dream would never come true.

  That damn empathy ripple grew bigger. Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps she did bring something out in his composing. But how? And why, out of all the music composers in this massive city, did she run into one who was writing for the ballet company she’d quit?

  She looked out the window again and scanned the crowds, but he’d gone. Heaviness fell on her. Perhaps she was the one who’d just missed a chance.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Paris, 1917

  Viktoriya Budian sat on the cold wooden floor in the empty rehearsal room of Théâtre du Châtelet, ready for her first day with the Ballets Russes. A thin film of perspiration coated her forehead and her shaking fingers could barely tie the ribbons on her shoes as she fought the queasiness growing in her belly. Before the collapse of her life in Russia, she’d been full of confidence, but now, alone in a rehearsal room in Paris, she couldn’t ignore the aching hurt of missing her family and friends; of giving up the only life she’d known. Although her native land was on the brink of civil war, she still longed for her life at the Imperial Ballet, the colourful turrets of Petrograd and the mist rising from the Neva River. Unfortunately, fate had taken matters into its own hands and she’d been forced to make a decision. Those left behind now lived in uncertainty. Her escape had been fortuitous and she owed it to her family, to herself and to her beautiful Dina, to make the most of the opportunity she had with the Ballets Russes.

  Viktoriya’s fingers worked hard, slipping and shaking until she eventually finished tying the ribbons. Sucking air in through her nostrils, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the silence of the room. Not a single footstep outside in the hall. Not a single drip from a tap. Not a single voice in the distance. Her shoulders relaxed while she revelled in a few moments of much-needed peace.

  Feeling calm once more, she opened her eyes and stretched her legs, her arms, her torso, the unease of knowing she’d put herself in a situation she’d avoided for the past year for a moment quelled.

  The rehearsal room door whooshed open and a tall man with slicked-back hair and a thin moustache strode in, his fur coat billowing behind. An entourage of three men in stylish suits followed the impresario, Sergei Diaghilev, founder of the Ballets Russes. Diaghilev had spent years in Russia struggling, and failing, as a painter, musician and composer, but then he’d discovered his talent for getting people to invest in the arts and thus
the Ballets Russes was born.

  ‘You are early.’ Diaghilev’s gruff tone did nothing to allay her nerves.

  ‘Yes…I…’ She stood and adjusted the fuchsia scarf around her waist. She’d been warned by other dancers back in Russia not to let her nerves show as this weakness would be her undoing. Stretching to full height, she said with more bravado than she felt, ‘I like to be the first to arrive. It gives me a chance to prepare myself for the day ahead.’

  ‘Very well.’ He gave a curt nod and she returned the same, waiting for him to introduce himself.

  When nothing ensued, she said, ‘It is very nice to meet you, Gospodin Diaghilev. Please allow me to thank you for accepting me into your ballet.’

  He cocked an eyebrow, giving the impression he didn’t care what she thought. His eyes travelled to the fuchsia material around her waist. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A scarf.’ She felt ridiculous for stating the obvious.

  ‘It is not regulation attire.’ His tone remained even.

  ‘It helps me dance better.’ Even though she shook inside, she was determined not to let him detect her nervousness.

  ‘Why?’

  There was absolutely no way she could divulge the history behind Dina’s scarf, so she went with what she had rehearsed in case she was asked. ‘It helps me learn steps faster and I—’

  ‘It is not regulation.’ Diaghilev cocked his head in the direction of the handsome man with dark wavy hair and large brown eyes. ‘Massine, deal with it.’

  Diaghilev turned on his heel and two men followed, leaving her alone with Léonide Massine, a man whose choreography and dancing was legendary. As a young girl in Russia, she’d witnessed his grace, strength and talent, which had outshone every other dancer on the stage.