The city didn't feel like itself.
Not in a bad way. Just louder. Shinier. Like someone had given London a power wash, laid out new tiles, and sprayed the whole thing with perfume meant for foreign investors.
It was still only 2011, but the Olympics had already arrived, at least in attitude.
Stratford was a construction zone dressed up as a celebration.
Too many flags. Too many security fences. Too many banners that said Welcome, but meant Wait Here.
Every Tube station felt like a checkpoint. Every junction had a temporary sign.
Julian had only come to drop off documents, something forgettable, but the crowd swallowed him up. He took the long way back. He always did.
He didn't like crowds. They made his thoughts slow.
Just outside Westfield, someone tapped his arm.
He turned. A girl, early twenties, probably, East Asian, backpack, paper map in hand. Not the kind with a phone. The kind with folded lines and printed legends. Her hair was tucked under a cap.
"Hi, sorry, do you know how to get to Liverpool Street?" she asked.
He blinked once, nodded.
"Central line. Just inside. Five stops. Easy."
She squinted at her map, then at him.
"Oh, thank you. I'm Aria, by the way."
He didn't answer that.
He just gave a slight nod again.
She smiled. The kind of tourist smile that belonged in the background of other people's photos.
Then she disappeared back into the crowd.
He wouldn't remember her name.But he'd remember the look in her eyes.
The lights in Mayfair. Reflections from outside the gallery washed the room in a glow that felt more designer retail than art. Julian stood near a table stacked with chilled wine bottles, a glass of overly diluted prosecco in hand. His client was still exchanging contacts with a hedge fund partner, leaving him to endure the usual small talk of "art as an asset class."
On the wall, a looped performance video played beside a cluster of sculptures marked with digital watermarks. Some called it avant-garde. Others whispered it was "valuation in drag." Julian nodded politely. He knew the words sounded expensive. At the core, it was just another pitch.
Then Cécile appeared.
She wore a pale nude dress, understated to the point of vanishing. No logos, no flash. She didn't offer a business card. She didn't lead with her fund.
"This looks like some kind of onboarding video, doesn't it?" she said quietly.
Julian laughed. For the first time, the event didn't feel like a total waste. They drifted into a quiet corner, talking about London's patchwork renovations, the strange aesthetics of the Barbican, and the films of Jacques Audiard.
"Have you seen The Beat That My Heart Skipped?" she asked.
"Of course. That piano scene still lives in my head," Julian said.
She nodded. "I studied piano for ten years. That kind of practice… it was too real."
The conversation slid toward France, Paris, the south, the bridges, and the neighborhoods around the Bastille after the redevelopment.
"I used to live near Bastille," she said. "You'd hear someone playing Bach on the street almost every day."
Julian asked what she did.
"Analyst. In private equity." She answered, then quickly added, "But I don't really talk about work." Then she asked which bridge in London was his favorite.
She said she flew back to Paris every weekend. "That's where my family is," she said, almost lightly.
Julian just nodded. "Typical French homesickness," he thought. He didn't read too much into it.
The gallery thinned out. They didn't exchange Facebooks. No forced number swap. They simply left together, walking along Southbank, slow steps tracing the river. Moonlight skimmed the Thames. Her skirt caught the wind. They didn't kiss, didn't lean in, but their pace matched, like waiting for an answer neither of them had yet decided on.
In the following weeks, they saw each other off and on.
They wandered Shoreditch bookstores, rooftop bars, and Thursday night short film screenings at the Barbican. One night, she said her favorite film was the one without any dialogue, just shifting shadows.
"It felt like thinking," she said.
Julian started to take her seriously.
He remembered her favorite Beaujolais. Started skimming Le Monde's finance section. Even checked Eurostar prices now and then, thinking maybe he'd go to Paris one weekend.
He didn't think of it as chasing her.
Sometimes, when she said, "My parents make me fly back every weekend for dinner,"
He'd casually ask, "What part of town do they live in?"
She'd answer lightly, "The 16th."
Julian wouldn't press.
Later, he looked it up.
The property prices in that arrondissement were four times his year-end bonus.
He even started browsing listings nearby, some part of him wondering,
"If I ever moved to Paris, could I rent a place not far from hers?"
But he quickly closed the tab.
He didn't want to admit there was any "planning" in this.
Another time, she pulled out a bottle of Bordeaux from his fridge and said,
"This vintage isn't great."
He asked, "Which one is?"
She smiled. "You'll have to ask my grandfather."
He laughed with her, but something stirred beneath the surface.
She never bragged. She didn't need to. She'd drop something small, let it float, then change the topic.
She once said, "My parents are a bit old-fashioned."
He replied, "Mine mostly leave me alone."
She didn't comment.
He remembered her saying her family worked in finance.
He had joked, "Sounds like a driven bunch."
She hadn't laughed. She just took a sip of wine.
He suddenly realized she had never asked where he was from.
Never asked if he had siblings.
Never asked about his watch.
Never asked what desk he sat on.
He knew that was supposed to feel "easy."
He had dated attractive women before.
But Cécile was different.
She didn't need beauty to command attention.
She didn't need anything, really.
He told himself he wasn't that kind of man.
And yet, a few minutes later, he found himself on Google,
clicking through the founding partners of her PE firm,
scrolling Wikipedia links,
stopping cold at a photo of her father beside a former governor of the French central bank.
Cécile was always warm with him.
Sometimes so warm that it made him believe it was starting.
She'd text at night,
"That film you mentioned watched it again just now."
or
"Just landed. Miss you already."
When they were together, she laughed easily, leaned in to talk, and held his hand.
She said, "Time in London feels fragmented. But with you, it's quiet."
That sentence gave him a strange thrill.
One night, she stayed over.
They sat on the couch until dawn, talking about childhood, futures, and the worst metro stations in Paris.
Julian thought they'd finally crossed that line. Maybe this time, she really meant it.
But by morning, she was gone.
No note. No message.
Just a bobby pin on the couch, and a half-finished glass of water.
As if she had been there, and yes, gentle, but her version of being there didn't quite match his idea of staying.
It was a regular afternoon.
Reports lagged. Bloomberg was on page three. He was already zoning out.
He opened Facebook to scroll.
Something caught his eye.
A photo.
A man in a French med school graduation robe.
She stood next to him, holding a bouquet.
The way she smiled wasn't distant, wasn't posedit was hers. She was his.
The caption read:
"After six years of med school, he finally made it. So proud of my partner."
Julian didn't move.
He stared at the word, partner.
In the comments, she had written,
"See you Friday"
He checked the timestamp.
It was the same weekend she had told him she was returning to Paris on short notice.
That night, she'd messaged:
"Sorry, I passed out after dinner xx"
He had assumed she was overworked.
His pulse didn't quicken.
He just felt cold.
Like watching himself from far away,
a man sitting in a Canary Wharf office, scrolling Facebook,
realizing he didn't even have access to the location tags.
That weekend, they still met.
They watched a French film.
It rained as they left the cinema.
She handed him an umbrella and smiled.
"London rain never stops, does it?"
He took the umbrella.
"You go back every weekend for family?"
She paused. Took a sip of wine.
"Of course," she said.
Then added, "And him."
He said nothing.
She didn't explain. Just stood there.
After a few seconds, she said quietly,
"I didn't lie. You never asked."