There was no offer to escort her or her luggage to her room, so she went in search of the elevator to the fourth floor and was delighted with her pretty room overlooking the internal courtyard – an oasis of calm with its black granite fish fountain and a selection of wrought-iron bistro sets. She slung her holdall on the bed, elegantly upholstered in duck-egg blue and cream with accents of burnt orange. There was even a pair of Louis XIV-inspired chairs cosying up to a little table by the window. The bathroom was minuscule – she almost had to climb in the bath to get into the shower cubicle – but it was clean.
After freshening up, she dragged out her hand-knit Aran jumper and the matching bobble hat, scarf and gloves she had bought in Copenhagen, and struck out along the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in search of dinner. The air was cold enough to send stringy spurts of breath into the descending twilight, and she rubbed her palms together and stamped her boots to encourage warmth.
Tonight was all hers.
She intended to meander along the wide boulevards bedecked with twinkling precursors of Christmas, select a local French bistro and order anything that took her fancy from the menu. When Rachel had disclosed the choice of dining location for the following evening, she had expelled a very unladylike snort. What was Rachel’s college friend thinking when he’d selected the Jules Verne – the expensive restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower? Okay, it was a romantic setting and a place where many, many couples proposed, but why did they have to meet there? They were strangers. It was embarrassing.
All the more reason to indulge this Friday evening, she decided.
Her promenade took her to an inauspicious café on a side street just off Rue de Rivoli. She was guided through the cosy throng of locals to a seat at the back by a disinterested waiter who simply pointed to that day’s menu scrawled on a blackboard and left her to it. The delicious aroma of roast chicken, warm red wine and toasted caramel enveloped her senses, and her stomach demanded immediate attention. She unwound her scarf and discarded the bulky jumper over the back of her wooden chair before scrabbling in her handbag for the security of her phone, surprised at the awkwardness she felt at having to dine alone.
Five texts from Hollie and two from Matteo. She read them with increasing excitement. Next, she crossed over to Hollie’s Instagram page where there were a myriad of photographs featuring every Roman monument and tourist attraction, all beneath a clear azure sky, with the pair of them grinning for selfies in T-shirts and sandals. There wasn’t a thick woollen sweater in sight.
Matteo hadn’t said anything yet, that was obvious, thought Olivia. When she had called him to wish him luck, Matteo had confessed how he felt about Hollie immediately and promised Olivia he would grasp this ideal opportunity to broach the subject. Olivia had begun to explain how great they were for each other but had only managed to get to the first of the lessons on her list before Matteo had interrupted her.
‘You can spout science and statistics at me all you want, Liv, but what ensures couples stay together is one thing and one thing only.’
‘What’s that, then?’ she had asked, scrunching up her nose in confusion.
‘Love, Olivia darling! You’ve heard of that, surely? The unadulterated harmony of passion, desire and affection, of never wanting to be away from the other person’s side? It’s that desperate craving to be in the other person’s company every second of every day, the need to hear their opinions on every mundane detail, of the unerring need to spend your whole life together and even that would not be long enough, as my beloved father has proved. Love, Olivia! Only love!’
Love!
She couldn’t believe it. How could she have omitted its overriding influence in her research? Snapshots of her brief encounters of potential romance swirled through her mind – the heart-stopping moments in the vineyard with Niko, the knee-buckling desire on the beach in Waikiki as Steve demonstrated his surfing technique and six-pack, the way Elliot caught Ying’s eye across the table at the restaurant on Clarke Quay, the comfortable affection shared by her parents, the overwhelming joy she saw on Katrina and Will’s face when they held their new-born daughter.
Her conversation with Matteo, although brief and intended by Olivia to make him think about his relationship with Hollie, had forced her to consider his words very carefully. It was only then that she had had her light-bulb moment. Her epiphany. She couldn’t believe she had overlooked the obvious!
Was Matteo an oracle? Of course not. It was her – she was stupid and blinkered! Love was what made relationships tick and what maintained their growth. All the miles she had travelled that year and she had completely missed, or subconsciously avoided, the most important lesson of all. Never mind the elephant in the far-flung hotel rooms where she had rested her head, this was a Tyrannosaurus Rex of an omission.
Wake up, Olivia!
And she knew then what the final item on her list had to be:
Olivia Hamilton’s Lessons in Love: No 20. “Love is all you need.”
Love, in all its various manifestations, was the glue that held relationships together. Love was the answer to Rachel’s research question; nothing else mattered. Without it, all the previous nineteen lessons meant nothing. Love could overcome every one of the risk factors; with your soulmate by your side, any storm could be weathered. The deep emotional bond between two people could defy any scientific formula, any calculated attempt by the academics to shoehorn the answer to lasting happiness into a particular box and label it with the amalgamated elements.
But, as with all living things, love had to be nurtured to survive. That meant investing in the partnership, treating it and each other with respect, understanding, support, trust, togetherness, attraction, desire, intimacy – all of which required the application of time.
It was too late for her and Nathan.
But, as she greedily guzzled a plate of steaming pochouse, she knew she had loved Nathan, and still loved Nathan with all her heart and soul. Even after the shock of seeing him start again with someone new, she knew she adored him. Unlike her, Nathan had always found time to lavish on their relationship – to purchase tickets for the theatre, to scrounge a reservation at a sought-after restaurant or bring home a carefully considered piece of artwork to break up the clinical coldness of their apartment walls, gestures that had mostly gone unnoticed.
Well, she could either stay miserable for the rest of her life, pining for the relationship she had tossed away on the altar of her career, or she could deliver herself a metaphorical kick up the backside and get on with moving on. What was done was done, and when she eventually managed to pin Nathan down for a conversation instead of pinging emails backwards and forwards, she would acknowledge her mistakes and apologise to him, then she would thank him for all the wonderful things he had done throughout their marriage to keep it alive.
As she sauntered back to the hotel, her stomach stuffed to bursting with a generous portion of crêpes smothered in chocolate spread, her spirits lifted like a helium balloon. Every shop, restaurant, café or tabac was gearing up for Christmas – exactly one month away – although the French did not go in for the same explosion of overt consumerism as the UK. She loved their style, their individuality and creativity. Even the colourful windows of their patisseries were works of culinary art that looked more like high-end jewellery shops than bakeries.
She experienced a spasm of regret for not returning to Paris sooner, as Nathan had planned, but she shoved it away. Another lesson she had learned that year was that regret was a useless, negative emotion. She had a great deal to ponder on over the coming months – her job, her career, her choice of home now that the apartment had an offer on it, dating – although probably not men sporting open-toed sandals and full-on carpet beards. All her decisions from now on would be made based on positive influences.
She touched the back of her hand to the tip of her nose. Freezing. Time to return to the welcome warmth of a brandy at the hotel bar and an early night. She had a crammed agenda the
following day, then the evening dinner to get through, after which the rest of her time in the French capital – ‘the City of Light’ – was her own. She intended to take a trip on the train out to Versailles on Sunday morning, something else that had been on her bucket list for years.
The hotel bar was full of Japanese tourists toasting each other’s health with copious amounts of cognac, so Olivia decided to raid the minibar in her room for her nightcap and settled back against the pillows, swirling the amber liquid in her palm. She hadn’t recognised the name when Rachel had told her the details of the college friend that she wanted Olivia to have dinner with, which had surprised her because she and Rachel had been inseparable for the whole three years they were at Durham University. Apparently, Charles was a lawyer too, now practising in Paris.
Lucky guy, Olivia thought.
Rachel had assured her the two of them would have plenty in common and urged her to discuss his opinions on the divorce process in France, as well as his views on what contributed to the longevity of French relationships. She doubted Rachel’s friend’s work schedule was as manic as his London counterparts’ though, especially with the French people’s love of long leisurely lunches and elegant, laid-back lifestyle.
She clicked off the Louis XIV lamp and the brandy ensured an excellent night’s sleep.
Chapter 28
After an early morning caffeine boost from a double espresso, and a warm, flaky pain au chocolat, Olivia set out to walk the length of the Champs-Élysées from the gridlocked L’Arc de Triomphe all the way down to the Place de la Concorde. Every metre of the famous boulevard thronged with couples, young and old, linking arms and laughing, happy to be in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The more astute traveller, who took the time to raise their eyes skyward, was gifted with an impressive view of magnificent Parisian architecture, but Olivia wasn’t interested in the buildings that lined the streets; she was on a mission. She hadn’t actually admitted it to herself, but there was only one place her purposeful stride was taking her.
The Pont des Arts.
The bridge with thousands and thousands of locks in every shape, colour and size hung from the metal railings, every one of them inscribed with just two names, their keys tossed into the glittering River Seine below, along with a kiss and a wish for an enduring relationship.
What would she find there now? Had the authorities really removed all the locks, including her own silver, heart-shaped lock that had been engraved with their names and the date of their wedding? The answer was an emphatic yes and a wave of sadness swept over her.
But the new improved Olivia refused to succumb to tears. She simply spun on her heels and headed for the Louvre, snapping photos on her phone to send to Hollie and Matteo in their contest of one-upmanship for the best photographic record of a long weekend in two of the most visited capitals of Europe. The last photo from Matteo was of the two of them climbing the crumbling steps to the top of the Colosseum. Next on their itinerary, he had told her, was an afternoon visit to the Trevi Fountain – a sculpture that had taken Olivia’s breath away when she had visited with Nathan before they were married. She hoped its splendour would provide the perfect backdrop for Matteo’s confession.
At last, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, a smaller version of the one at the other end of the Champs-Élysées, appeared in front of her with the magnificent Louvre Palace beyond. She adored I. M. Pei’s controversial glass pyramid, plonked in the central courtyard like an alien landing craft that had been added under the direction of François Mitterrand. Some loved it; others did not. But wasn’t the juxtaposition of modern against ancient what the world-renowned museum was all about?
The Louvre was one of the largest and most visited museums in the world so she decided to concentrate on one wing only – the Richelieu Wing. She walked beneath the light-filled atrium through to the marbled entrance foyer, then descended to the lower ground floor where the walls reverberated with the building’s chequered past as a fort and then as a royal residence. She spent the remainder of the morning drinking in the exquisite Oriental antiquities before standing motionless in Room 3 in front of ‘The Hammurabi Code’, a black basalt-carved document from the Babylonian civilisation recording over two hundred laws beneath reliefs of the King and the Sun God. As one of the most ancient collection of laws in the history of humankind, the exhibit held a certain resonance for Olivia.
Next, she moved to the first floor of the Cour Carrée’s north wing to the Department of Decorative Arts’ much-anticipated reconstruction of an eighteenth-century Louis XIV suite of period rooms. Olivia could do nothing but marvel in silence at the exquisite design skills of the French artisans and cabinetmakers of the time. She allowed her eyes to feast on the gilt-painted wall carvings, luxurious gold and silver Rococo mirrors, intricately sculptured cornices, stately fireplaces, richly detailed tapestries and woven rugs, porcelain and ceramics. She particularly admired the black and gold clocks standing like sentries on two elaborately decorated pedestals.
Finally, she fought her way through the throng of clicking cameras for a glimpse of the ‘Mona Lisa’, protected by a floor-to-ceiling sheet of security glass, a wooden barrier, a roped-off section for wheelchair users and two menacing-looking security guards. The world-famous portrait surprised Olivia – it was so much smaller and insignificant in the flesh, and there were hundreds of other paintings, sculptures, furnishings and artefacts in the Louvre she preferred. Now, if someone offered her one of those Louis XIV clocks for her mantelpiece …
Despite selecting her ballet pumps that morning, her feet screamed to be rested. Blisters threatened at her heels so she decided to ride the Metro back to the hotel. She calculated that she would have at least an hour of relaxation before she had to dress for dinner at the Jules Verne at eight.
The bathroom was windowless and claustrophobic, but she soaked her aching calf muscles for as long as possible. She had packed her favourite Stella McCartney dress for the restaurant, not wanting to appear as having made no effort, but the elegant outfit demanded heels, which meant taking a taxi over the river to the Eiffel Tower instead of walking across at the Pont de l’Alma.
She blasted her hair with the hotel hairdryer before deciding for the first time that it was long enough to sweep into a chic up-do as favoured by Hollie. She studied the effect in the dressing table mirror until, in a flash of defiance, she flung the red dress back onto her bed. Instead, she dragged on a pair of black, wide-legged dress pants, a Phillip Lim Chinese silk top and finished the ensemble off with a long string of imitation pearls that Ruby, Katrina’s eldest, had made for her last birthday. As she left her room, she pulled her Aran sweater over her head, shoved her heels into her bag and slipped on her comfortable, patent leather ballet pumps for the walk.
Saturday evening had brought out the Parisians in crowds. All along the quaint cobbled avenues glamorous couples strolled, the collars on their heavy wool overcoats turned up against the cold. She was happy that she could now watch them hug and kiss without the harsh stab of regret and envy; the passage of time had begun to erase the sharp edges of her pain and all that remained was the dull ache of sadness loitering in the harder-to-reach crevices of her heart.
She trotted down Avenue George V towards the river. Every luxury hotel, fashion designer’s emporium and restaurant’s façade had been illuminated to show off its best architectural features and Paris took on a golden shimmer, which warmed the heart if not the fingertips. Her spirits were notched up even further when giant flakes of soft feathery snow began to descend, spreading a blanket of silence and magic.
Beneath the gargantuan iron-frame legs of the Eiffel Tower, children spun the souvenir carousels of mini plastic replicas of the iconic monument with wide-eyed hope of a keepsake of the visit, their faces filled with the joy the weeks leading up to Christmas inspired. Families, bundled into duffel coats and goose-down jackets to ward off the icy temperatures, ate roasted chestnuts from paper cones and freshly made
crêpes dusted in sugar. It might not be the dining experience of the Michelin-starred restaurant halfway to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but to Olivia enjoying a Saturday night in each other’s company nibbling on sweet treats was equally, if not more, enjoyable.
As she had come to learn over the last few months, love required nothing else but time together making memories, just as Matteo and Hollie were doing, and her thoughts flipped over to her two best friends partying the weekend away in Rome. Since six o’clock, there had been a complete communications blackout: no posts to Facebook, no photographs uploaded to Instagram, no cheeky texts. Nothing. She had sent a couple of texts and even an email but had received no reply. She hoped all was well and resolved to call one of them just as soon as she could escape from her dinner companion.
Under the skeletal branches of the white-frosted trees, Olivia waited in line for the North elevator, which would deliver her directly to the Jules Verne restaurant. Her mind zoomed back over her last year. She had to admit that if she had taken the time to think about it, she had known the secret to a long and happy marriage all along. She had loved Nathan when they began their relationship and adored him with all her heart on their wedding day and whenever the image of him in the Tiffin Room at Raffles floated across her mind’s eye, her heart gave a nip of pain.
And she still loved him.
She loved the way his blond hair curled against his collar, the way he scratched at his chin when he was thinking of something complicated, the way he made perfect poached eggs for her on Sunday mornings, the lemony aroma of his favourite cologne. She adored his sense of humour, his friendly personality, his love and acceptance of her family and their circle of friends. She loved how she had always felt a sense of comfort, trust and security in the time they had spent together. Strands of ribbon bearing Nathan’s name ran deep within her soul, which she knew would never truly fade despite their separation and the passage of time – they had occupied the same wavelength, just as she had seen in Hollie and Matteo.
A Year of Chasing Love Page 23