Chapters (88)
- Cover
- Praise for The Girl I Used to Be
- ALSO BY MARY TORJUSSEN
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Eighteen months earlier
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Emma
- Ruby
- Emma
- Emma
- Emma
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- Ruby
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Readers Guide
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“Tom was sulking on the flight and when it was time to land, he deliberately turned to talk to the man sitting next to him, knowing I’d need someone to cling to. It was bad weather, too, windy and pouring with rain, which made it even more scary for me. I was in bits when we got off the plane.”
Harry’s mouth tightened. “He’s a really nice guy, your husband.”
I looked away, ashamed suddenly that I was still married to Tom. “Don’t let’s think about him now. I want it just to be us this weekend.”
• • •
Our hotel was small, with only twenty rooms, and in the Pigalle area in northern Paris, where old-style cabarets mixed with hip new bars and restaurants. The Moulin Rouge was right at the end of the street. The other staff from work who would be at the conference were staying in a different hotel near the Champs-Élysées; there was a casino nearby that they wanted to go to. They’d shown no interest in where we were staying, except to check with me that we weren’t staying at their hotel. This was a weekend away for them and they didn’t want their boss hanging around with them at night.
“This is so beautiful,” I said when we entered the lobby. “The last time I was in Pigalle was when I was eighteen and backpacking. We stayed in dormitories and had to bring our own sleeping bags.”
This hotel was as different from that as it could be, with its Moorish tiles and crimson velvet chairs and nineteenth-century oil paintings adorning the walls.
He laughed. “I knew you’d like it.” He held me to him and I felt his breath against my cheek, making me shiver with anticipation. “I chose it especially for you.”
We had separate rooms, as the booking was made through work, but we had no intention of using one of them. As soon as we were alone he was kissing me, up against the door, as though we’d just met.
When we finally made it back to the bar, I watched him as he spoke to the waiter in French, talking about the wine list. He seemed nervous, on edge, and I panicked in case he was regretting things, but then he turned to me and smiled and said, “I got myself tied up in knots there. I have no idea what I’ve just ordered,” and I relaxed.