The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 46

Maxime

My boss, Pierre, rises from his chair and buttons his jacket. "Now, let's move on to our new project," he says.

I turn my head, look at him, but I don't see him. His lips move, but I hear nothing. Aurora's face and her words dominate my thoughts. It's been a week since I definitively moved on from her. Seven days of constantly thinking about her. One hundred and seventy hours of wondering what would have happened if she had trusted me enough back then to talk to me about her fears.

"Maxime will now present the strategy."

What if I went back to Guérande? If I stepped through the wildly overgrown arch of the café and saw her again? It wouldn't change anything, that's the truth.

"Maxime!"

I sigh heavily. Someone shakes my arm roughly. "It's your turn," a voice murmurs to me.

I startle, almost knocking over a coffee cup on the conference table. "Good morning. Nice to see you're awake too," my boss comments grumpily, furrowing his bushy eyebrows into a single line.

"Sorry." I adjust my tie and look around for some guidance.

In front of me on the table is the exposé for the property in London that I put together yesterday. Where did it come from all of a sudden?

"The new project," Sandrine, the architect of La révolution et le luxe , nods at the document.

Ah, yes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please turn to page three in your documents," I say with presence of mind and stand with the exposé in hand to finally focus on what matters.

Aurora should no longer be in my thoughts. It's over between us.

I look expectantly at the faces of my five colleagues. "We are planning to acquire a rental property in London Soho," I say and then list all the important details about the property. "The estimated profit after renovation and resale is around two million euros."

My boss nods tensely, glancing at his watch. "This is the most important project of the year. Maxime will travel to London the day after tomorrow for contract negotiations with the seller," he says, signaling for me to sit down.

My speaking time is over.

"Any questions?" He scans the room, but his expression suggests that it's better if no one speaks up. Everyone remains silent. "Fine. Then I think it's clear to everyone here that this property is an absolute priority. Maxime, the ball is in your court." With these words, he swiftly rises from his chair and marches toward the exit. "We're counting on you," he murmurs to me as he walks away, then disappears from the conference room.

Sandrine pats me on the shoulder. "Good luck. Rumor has it that the seller is a particularly cunning businessman."

And not just that. It's rumored he's part of the London underground scene. "Thanks, I'll need it," I reply with a sigh. When I started this job, I found this new world exciting. But gradually, I realized how dirty and inhumane the real estate business can be. Since then, I've been finding my own ways to close deals. However, will that work in London too?

Weary, I pack up the documents and leave the modern building complex. The sky is clear, and the birds in the nearby park are chirping with life. The faces of the Parisians I pass on my way home all look happy.

However, I feel as if a dark cloud is following me. When I arrive at my apartment building, I pull the keys out of my pocket, enter the hallway, and open my mailbox.

Inside, I find a card.

We can't choose our destiny. But we can decide how to deal with it , I read on the front. There's no picture, just this text, which immediately freezes me in place.

I know this sentence. I will never forget the moment when I said it to Aurora. Back then, in the hospital, a few hours after the miscarriage. I was sure our love was strong enough. I felt deep inside me that we could make it. How unsuspecting I was. Swallowing heavily, I turn the card and recognize Aurora's handwriting on the back.

Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, May 15th, 3:35 p.m.

In this park, five years ago on May 15th, we ran into each other. Probably at 3:35 p.m. Even if I didn't understand anything back then, I was convinced for a long time that I was already in love with her at that time.

"Aurora," I whisper with a mixture of pain and longing in my voice, then I tuck the card into the breast pocket of my jacket and climb the stairs up to my apartment. I feel its edges gently pressing against my skin. Even if it weren't, she would still be in my thoughts.

Which May 15th does Aurora mean? The one when we first touched each other? Or the day after tomorrow?

No. It doesn't matter what she means, and it doesn't matter what she wants. Completely irrelevant. There is nothing she could say that would change anything. Her behavior in Guérande was clear. She is still the same, no matter how vehemently she claims otherwise.

I'm not going to let a stupid postcard tempt me to show up in the park the day after tomorrow to see if she's there too. Besides, on May 15th at 10:15 p.m., my train to London leaves. I have to pack my bags and be at the train station at least three hours before the Eurostar departure for check-in and security screening. So I don't have time to meet her anyway.

Determinedly, I enter the apartment and pull the card out of my breast pocket on my way to the kitchenette. I open the cabinet under the sink, tear the cardboard into such small pieces that no one could put them back together, and stuff the shreds into the trash can.