London Love Story: Everyone Has a Secret

By Chris Haigh

Corinne Roussel is a celebrated French actress. At age 26, she’s created a fortune from a new breakthrough cosmetic formula. But her personal life is a mess as she searches for love and understanding. Harry Smith is age 40, never married, a loner, especially when it comes to women. He works as a management consultant. He’s tough, sharp and speaks his mind. But he’s hiding a secret. They first met ten years ago, when he saved her life on a cold French mountainside and stayed with her until help arrived. The night-time ordeal forged a close bond between them, but they have gone their separate ways and lost contact – that is, until Corinne spots him in London. Their friendship becomes sexual, but Harry can tell she’s being emotionally manipulated by her ex-husband, Jacques, who remains her business manager. Over time Harry finds out more about Jacques: his past, his greed, and his corruption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483483696

Book preview

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London Love Story

Another Romance Thriller in the London Series

C ORINNE ROUSSEL IS A CELEBRATED French actress. At age 26, she has created a fortune from a breakthrough cosmetic formula. But her personal life is a mess as she searches for love and understanding.

Harry Smith is age 40, never married, and a loner, especially when it comes to women. He works as a management consultant. He’s tough and sharp, and he speaks his mind. But he’s hiding a secret.

They first met ten years ago, when he saved her life on a cold French mountainside and stayed with her until help arrived. The night-time ordeal forged a close bond between them, but they have gone their separate ways and lost contact—that is, until Corinne spots him in London.

Their relationship becomes sexual, but Harry can tell she’s being emotionally manipulated by her ex-husband, Jacques, who remains her business manager. Over time Harry finds out more about Jacques: his past, his greed, and his corruption.

Corinne is in danger, and she needs to reach out to Harry for help. As the stakes increase, Harry and Corinne must survive the perils surrounding them while finding a way to confront their personal issues and discover true love.

Chapter 1

Ten Years Ago

T HE MOUNTAINS ARE BEAUTIFUL, ESPECIALLY in winter, thought Harry as he glided on his skis across the virgin snow. For his last run of the day, he’d chosen to take a detour from the prepared, manicured slopes, away from other skiers, to be on his own. But he came to a sudden stop three yards from a set of tracks in the snow. As the late-afternoon sun turned to dusk, he could see another skier had recently been there before him.

The sight was odd; somebody else’s tracks went across and downwards from right to left. Whoever had skied at right angles to Harry’s route had taken a big risk, a risk that even he, with all his experience, wouldn’t take. Only a nutter would go in that direction to the left, off-piste, downhill into a hellhole of deep snow.

He gazed down the slope, noting the technique the idiot had displayed, the obvious jump turns from side to side to slow the speed of descent in the soft snow and remain in control. Perfect. But Harry knew the angle of the tracks led down into a steep bowl from which there wasn’t any way out.

The sun was about to set behind the high mountain range of the French Alps, making it more difficult to ski, to gauge the undulating terrain. Harry stood still, poised to continue his planned route back to his apartment. In the village at the bottom of the mountain, he would alert the French authorities, and they could decide what to do—how to find the crazy lone skier.

At that moment, the distant hum of the telecabine, the main ski lift, stopped, a signal for the end of the day; no further lifts up the mountain were possible. All the skiers would be halfway home by now. An eerie silence sat on the mountain, snuffing out all sound, but the same question kept crowding Harry’s mind: Why would a skier, alone, at the end of the day, go down into that snow bowl?

Harry weighed the risks of following the tracks into the deep shade below him to check if anyone might be there. Nobody could ski out of the bowl. The only way out was to climb back to where he now stood. As the sun edged behind the mountain, a cold breeze came from the west. Some bad weather looked likely; the heavy grey clouds indicated it would soon start snowing. These tracks would be covered, and all traces would disappear. He cupped his hands to yell into the gloom below him. ‘Hello! Anyone there? Hello!’

He called again. Nothing came back.

He knew that if he followed the tracks down, taking his skis off to climb out again would be a disaster. His heavy boots would weigh him down; he’d be up to his waist in deep snow. The only way back would be to keep his skis clipped to his boots to sidestep his way up and out of the bowl, an exercise that would sap the strength of the fittest person. Harry was fit enough to do it, but was the other person?

All his senses were focused on listening for sound. There was no sound.

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Corinne thought back in desperation. The tip of her right ski had hit a boulder hidden just beneath the snow, and she’d somersaulted into a rock as both her skis came off.

When she sat up, the pain in her fractured leg hit home. She moaned in agony. Deep breathing helped to calm her nerves as she felt for her mobile. It wasn’t there in the usual place inside her jacket. She recalled having phoned her parents before she went off-piste and how, in her haste, she had shoved the mobile into her back trouser pocket. She figured the phone must have been dislodged in the crash.

The tears came quickly, followed by a number of French swear words, before she knelt in the snow on her good leg and desperately looked for her phone. Meanwhile, she started shouting for help. The solitude, the carpet of silence, became frightening. In the gloom, it felt impossible to see how she could get out. She realised her mistake in taking this route off the marked run by herself. Pain shot from her right leg below the knee. Another panicked search for her phone confirmed it must have been buried in the snow as she fell. It took all her mental strength to maintain a positive outlook. The consequences of having no phone, being injured, and freezing temperatures could be dire.

With all her strength, she shouted and kept calling every half minute. After ten minutes, her will and fortitude began to fade. She slipped from courage to defeat, from grit to feeling beaten. Already the sun had dipped, and she began to shiver. The clouds to the west confirmed that visibility would last about another half an hour, after which her position would be hopeless.

She heard him first and then turned before she saw the man standing there. He stopped fifty yards away, up the slope above her. ‘Are you OK?’ he shouted.

Her tears wouldn’t stop as she struggled to switch to speaking in English.

In a few seconds, he’d skied down and stopped beside her. His voice sounded gruff, even angry. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Off-piste—alone—in an area you don’t know.’ He quickly looked around as if to assess the problem. Then he eyed her again. ‘Sorry I spoke like that.’

‘Please don’t leave me.’ She gasped as the pain increased. ‘Please—I beg you.’

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Harry passed her his mobile. He watched the big flakes of snow drift down, almost floating before they settled, as he listened to the young girl talk to her parents. There was much to be worried about. The French pisteurs would never find the tracks where she’d traversed off the marked run; the falling snow would make sure of that. While she made the second call to 112, the emergency services, he worked quickly to carve a shelter into the snow, under an overhang of rock, to keep them out of the coming snowstorm. He kept an eye on her as she went through bouts of shivering, partly from the cold, partly from the shock, and partly from the pain of her fractured leg.

She finished the call and handed him his mobile. ‘Thank you.’

‘I think it’s going to be a few hours before help arrives.’ He needed to figure out how to keep her warm. ‘We’re going to go through this together, OK? You must tell me whatever you’re feeling. Right? Pain, cold, sleepy … you tell me. Understand?’

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My leg really hurts. It comes in waves.’

‘Make yourself think of something else. Force your mind away from the pain.’

With his help she moved into the shelter. ‘Thank you. What is your name?’ she asked, as if she didn’t know what else to say.

‘Harry Smith.’ He knelt beside her. ‘And you. What’s your name?’

‘Corinne Roussel.’ She stared at him with a hint of fear. ‘Thank you for staying with me.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’ She folded her arms tightly across her chest. ‘I’m cold.’ She bit her lower lip, but it trembled anyway. He noted her dark eyes and long black hair. Her thin puffer jacket was stylish, fashionable, but not good enough for freezing temperatures.

They sat squeezed together in the shelter. He said, ‘I know you’re a good skier, but promise me you won’t ever go and do this crazy thing again.’

Her hand covered her mouth, but he could see she held back the tears. ‘Sorry,’ she said, choking and breathing in deeply.

‘I’m being too hard on you. This is not the time.’

‘You’re right, Mr Smith. I have no excuses.’ She shivered.

He unzipped his jacket. ‘This’ll fit over your top.’ She needed help to get it on before he zipped it up for her. The arms of his jacket were much too long. He said jokingly, ‘You look ridiculous.’

For the first time, Corinne smiled, shy but relieved. ‘Where do you come from?’ Her eyes seemed to get bigger as she looked at him.

‘London.’

‘I’ve been to London.’ They talked of her visit to England on a school trip. She had been born and lived in Paris. English was her second language; this had been encouraged by her mother, whose father was English. On the occasions when her face showed the pain, Harry asked a question about her past to take her mind off her leg.

‘I’m not going to die, am I?’

He put his arm round her shoulder. ‘I guarantee you’ll live.’

‘You seem certain, very confident. Are you saying things to hide the truth?’

‘I know that we are out of the wind, we’re dry, and so long as we stay warm, we’ll be OK.’ There is no need, thought Harry, to explain that my job in London has put me in some bad conditions in the past and I know how to survive.

They continued to talk, their shoulders touching in the confined space under the rock overhang, until his phone rang. He passed it to Corinne.

Harry understood French and followed her repeated directions to the rescue team of exactly where she’d begun her off-piste run. They had a snowplough and several snowmobiles fitted with special tracks and a basket stretcher. But it remained clear that the rescuers were not confident they could find where she had deviated from the ski run. They said a mobile location device at their headquarters would track the signal of Harry’s mobile, but he knew the mountain terrain wouldn’t let their technology pinpoint exactly where they were, especially in a snowstorm.

She handed the phone back. ‘They can’t say how long to find us.’ Her black eyelashes fluttered in hope. ‘The conditions are bad … visibility.’

‘It could be worse.’ He felt it important to lighten the conversation and gain her trust.

‘How can it be worse than this?’

‘You might have fractured both legs and hit your head. My phone battery might have been dead. A pack of wolves could have dragged you away. A pink elephant might have stamped on you!’

A moment of silence turned to giggling from both of them. She said, ‘Wolves don’t live in the French Alps.’

‘Elephants do. Pink ones are the fiercest.’

She grinned. ‘I didn’t know English men had a sense of humour.’

Their conversation turned to family background, their pasts, their future ambitions. They laughed at his poor attempt to sing the French national anthem. She admitted she hated spiders, and he offered the suggestion that there might be a spider in the snow, at which she said he was ridiculous. Conversation was kept light-hearted.

Occasionally, she would wince from the pain in her leg. To keep her mind off the agony, he thought of an idea. ‘Let’s tell each other a secret that few people know, something you certainly wouldn’t tell a stranger on holiday.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘You’re a stranger on holiday, and even though I’ve known you for only an hour, I trust you, so we can do this.’

It appeared she was gaining more confidence in him as they sat looking out at the thick snow piling up in front of them. In spite of the darkness of the night, the snow reflected a little light, making it possible to see each other. Every minute she’d shiver. She reached out a cold hand, and he clasped both her hands in his to try to keep them warm.

‘I’ll go first with my secret.’ He paused. ‘I was meant to be married next month, but an incident changed all that.’ The shock of what had happened was still raw in his mind. ‘We weren’t really suited anyway. I was so angry. I told nobody the real story. I felt foolish—inadequate, perhaps.’

‘Why? Tell me your secret.’ Her English was good, although laced with a heavy French accent. ‘I want to be the first to know.’ She giggled.

There was no point in hiding the truth. Besides, he wasn’t ever going to meet Corinne again, a teenager from another country with her own life to lead. ‘I cancelled the wedding because I found her in bed with my best man.’

She thought about that. ‘Best man?’

‘Best man means the guy who helps to organise the groom, holds the wedding rings, and makes a speech.’

‘Sleeping with the bride exceeded his duties?’ Her tongue-in-cheek look gave her away.

‘Very funny!’

They laughed. Her playful humour was a good sign. He was glad he’d found her, helped in her ordeal, helped to save her life.

She snuggled closer and examined his face. ‘You must be hurt … inside. Yes?’ Her eyes registered sorrow for him.

‘Adults do stupid things like this. It’s a permanent lesson for me.’

‘And what is this lesson?’

‘To stay single, not to marry. Marriage makes life complicated.’

She leaned into him. ‘You’re a nice man, Mr Smith. You’ll find someone.’ They lapsed into silence for ten seconds. ‘Can I tell you my secret?’

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Corinne felt she could say anything to this stranger as she looked sideways at him. He had a strong, square jaw which gave the impression he’d get his own way and he could be relied upon. She guessed his height at about six foot, and with him not wearing his jacket, it was obvious that Harry kept himself in good shape. He must be cold, she thought.

She blurted out, ‘My parents have talked of divorce. And it’s all my fault.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘I was caught stealing from a shop in Paris.’ She waited, expecting him to say what a silly girl she was, or siding with her parents, who had shouted at her, or saying she deserved to go to prison.

He chuckled. ‘In England we call it shoplifting. When I was a boy, I did some terrible things, including stealing.’ His eyes were brown with flecks of silver, which she’d noticed when he’d first arrived.

‘Why did you steal like me?’ she asked.

‘My parents were odd. They didn’t look after me or show me much love. Eventually I went to live with another family, and after a while I became a good citizen.’

She liked his arm round her. His jacket felt warm, and she smelt his aftershave in the fabric. ‘Thank you for not judging me, for understanding me.’

‘What were you stealing?’

‘A watch.’

‘For yourself? As a present for your mother?’

‘No. My boyfriend wanted the watch. He pointed it out to me. My parents hate him.’

‘What’s his name, your boyfriend?’

‘Jacques.’

‘Did Jacques make you steal other things?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve never been caught, till now?’

‘Correct.’

‘Why might your parents divorce over this?’

‘They argue. They shout things.’ She thought of the last argument between them as she’d listened behind the door of her bedroom. They’d talked of divorce.

‘They’re worried about you, Corinne. It causes stress.’

‘They want me to give up Jacques, but I don’t want to. I love him.’

She felt his eyes on her, although nothing was said for two long minutes. In a weird way, she liked him to gaze at her.

‘Are you happy?’ he ventured.

Nobody had asked that, not ever. It triggered an emotion she hadn’t felt before. ‘I want more.’

‘You’re baring your soul.’

How could it be, she wondered, that this stranger already understood her? Deep down she wasn’t really happy. ‘You’re perceptive,’ she whispered.

They fell silent for a while.

‘Will you stop stealing for Jacques?’

‘I must. The flics know me now, which means I have a police record. I’ve been warned with a fine.’ She felt Harry had comprehended the whole unhappy mess. He wasn’t judgemental, nor did he provide any solutions. ‘How old are you, Harry Smith?’

‘Thirty.’

‘You’re nearly twice my age.’ Given the age difference, she thought it strange that she liked and trusted this man so quickly. ‘Can I call you Harry?’

‘Sure.’

‘Call me Coco. My special friends call me that.’

‘Thank you for counting me special.’

‘My parents will want to reward you.’

‘Why?’

‘For saving my life. When we get back to the village, you won’t disappear, will you?’

‘OK.’

‘I could tell you another secret,’ she went on. ‘Nobody knows of this.’ He squeezed her shoulder encouragingly. ‘I did some acting when I was a child, three years ago, to be exact. This director … he did some horrible things to me.’ She had done her best to wipe the memory, but it was always there.

He seemed to sense this. ‘Promise me, Coco, to talk to your mother about this. It will do you good to share this secret with her.’

She didn’t want to make that promise, because she’d be telling a lie. To lie to Harry would be disrespectful, she thought. ‘I hope we stay in touch, Harry. You can come to my wedding.’

They talked about her school, her friends, and her life.

She realised afterwards, the next day, that Harry had kept asking her questions during their ordeal, and because of that, she liked him. She sensed his genuine interest in her, his understanding of her. It was days later that she wished she had asked more about him, the man who had risked his own life. He had disappeared, and she couldn’t find him anywhere.

Chapter 2

Today, in London

C ORINNE BLANKED OUT THE CONVERSATION around her. The lunch table consisted of her friends, or at least what Jacques called her friends, although she wondered about that. Friends. How did one define a friend?

She pondered the thought, both her hands cupping the goblet of red wine to her lips as she leaned on the table. Holding her wine glass in front of her mouth had become a defence, a barrier between her mouth and the others who sat around the table. It stopped her screaming.

They sat at a window table, which enabled her to gaze at the world outside the restaurant. People passed by: strollers and walkers, a variety of business guys in suits, or couples visiting London. She tried to imagine where they came from or what sort of job they had.

Jacques helped himself to some more red wine without offering it to anyone else. He seemed, as always, to take no care in pouring the mature wine; he slopped it into his glass before taking a gulp. Every time, he insisted on choosing an expensive wine, even though it was she who paid for it. He would say, ‘I want Corinne to have the best, only the best,’ as he gushed the liquid into his oversized goblet. Even more annoying, observed Corinne, was his habit of pulling out a paper tissue, blowing his nose, and stuffing the spent tissue into the front of his shirt, which he maintained was more hygienic, although she’d never understood why.

A man sauntered up to the restaurant to read the menu pinned to the notice board outside on the brick wall. He wore a dark crumpled linen jacket, casual blue jeans, and sunglasses. She guessed he might be unfamiliar with this part of London and watched him take his time, undecided whether or not to come in for lunch. The way he held his hands reminded her of someone. It was familiar. Then he was gone.

The conversation at her table droned on. The people in her entourage were boring.

Corinne reflected back to the handsome guy she had just seen outside and when she’d last seen that movement of the right hand, his fingers scratching through his hair, followed by a slow sweep of his hand from the back of his neck around to his chin and then across his mouth, as he used his fingers to stroke his lips. It was as if he needed to do that to make a decision. What other man had the same mannerism? she pondered and delved deeper into her memory. She’d been on a mountain the last time she had seen someone use the same gesture, the same motion, to help express a thought—a man figuring out a situation, while doing the same reflex movement, before he’d said, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

The wine spilt as she slammed her glass down and scrabbled under the table to slip on her shoes. She cursed Jacques for always insisting she take them off. In three seconds she headed for the door, ignoring the shout from Jacques. She ran in the direction the man had gone, along the pavement, weaving past other people. But there were too many men wearing jackets. At the junction of Blenheim Street and New Bond Street she stopped, out of breath and angry as well as disappointed. The feeling of frustration and sadness stayed with her. Twice she shouted Harry’s name as loudly as she could at the moving pedestrians around her, but nobody turned round. Perhaps she’d been mistaken, she reflected as she ambled back to the restaurant. The memory of him—whose ski jacket was still hanging in her wardrobe—the person who’d saved her life, caused her now to wipe away a tear.

Passing by a café, she noticed someone sitting outside at a small round bistro table, a coffee in front of him. He still had his dark glasses on, which seemed to emphasise the expensive cut of his hair, something she always noticed about people. No longer sure he was even the same man, she approached him and asked, ‘Are you Harry Smith?’

He