Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ I suggest, before I can change my mind.

  For a moment she seems thrilled by the possibility, before seeming to remember herself and shaking her head. ‘Don’t be silly, you don’t want an old thing like me slowing you down.’

  ‘You’re the one being silly,’ I remonstrate. ‘Go and get ready, you can’t have your granddaughter seeing you with your pinny on.’

  ‘Well if you’re sure—’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I nod. ‘Now hurry up. We can’t have Linda and Jack standing waiting for us at the airport.’

  ‘Well if you put it like that . . .’

  As Mrs Flannegan grinds out her cigarette under her tartan slipper, I go back inside and jump in the shower. I had all these big plans about taking a long bath, spending ages doing my hair and make-up . . . But now all that’s flown out the window and I’ve only got time for a quick blow-dry, a slick of lip gloss and some mascara.

  However, I do have time to slip into my gorgeous new lingerie. Well, I say slip, but the satin thong is a bit of a squeeze and the silk balconette bra is definitely a bit of a struggle to hoick my boobs into. But it will all be worth it later when Jack gets to take it off again . . .

  Relishing that thought, I pull on a new summer dress I’ve bought especially for the occasion. It’s from the same little boutique as my chiffon blouse and has the same eye-watering kind of price tag. But it’s not every day your boyfriend flies five thousand miles to see you, so I want to look nice. I mean, I can’t truck up in a pair of old leggings and a T-shirt, can I?

  Giving a little twirl in the mirror to check my reflection, I team the dress with the pair of sandals I bought in India. I had a cobbler on the high street fix them so they don’t fall off my feet any more. I glance down at them, feeling a burst of happiness as the sequins catch the sunlight, and for a moment I’m transported back there to the rooftop in Udaipur overlooking the lake where Jack first kissed me . . .

  Savouring the moment, I dab some of my Indian perfumed oils on my wrists, then notice the time on my watch.

  Immediately I snap to. It’s getting late. We should get going.

  Throwing the lip gloss, my phone and a pashmina in my bag, I grab my keys and dash for the door. There’s some post on the mat and picking it up, I absently notice a card among the bills, with a Paris postmark. That will be from my friend Harriet, I think happily, popping it on the side to open when I get back. She never forgets my birthday, not even now she’s moved to Paris, I think fondly. No doubt she’s having a fabulous time there, I must ring her when I have a moment and catch up.

  ‘Be a good boy,’ I call out to Heathcliff, who’s gone back to bed and is curled up in his basket. ‘Next time you see me, I’ll be with Jack!’

  There’s a sleepy wag of his tail at the mention of Jack’s name.

  Slamming the front door behind me, I collect Mrs Flannegan from next door and help her up the stairs to the road. Together we walk to the tube at a snail’s pace. I can feel the minutes ticking away but I try to ignore my impatience. We’ll all be old one day, if we’re lucky, I tell myself, as I link arms to help her shuffle across the pedestrian crossing.

  Finally, after what feels like for ever, we reach the station and together we glide down the escalators. Mrs Flannegan confesses she hasn’t been on a tube train for over twenty years, and spends the whole time exclaiming at everything. From the touch-in, touch-out barriers, to the animated posters, to the sheer number of people, she’s almost like a child on their first trip to the fair.

  Fortunately the train isn’t too busy and I manage to secure a seat next to Mrs Flannegan, who spends the next forty minutes regaling me with anecdotes about her granddaughter Linda. I listen, nodding and commenting, until after a while I feel myself zoning out and thinking about Jack. About how with every second that ticks by, every metre I travel, every building and tree that passes by in a blur, I’m getting closer and closer to seeing him again.

  I still can’t quite believe how lucky I am. After I split up with Sam I never thought I would ever feel this way about someone, not just because my belief in love was so shaken and my heart was so bruised, but because I feared I could never trust a man again. Trust is so intangible you can’t see it, you can’t touch it, but it’s as vital to the soul as the air that you breathe.

  People always say things happen for a reason, or it’s for the best, but for a long time I couldn’t see how that applied to finding my fiancé in bed with another woman. But now I can see just how right they were. All that heartbreak was necessary for me to learn and grow, to find myself and love again.

  It made me do things I would never have done in my normal, everyday life. It gave me the courage, or the desperation, to get on a plane and fly to India, to meet a stranger on a train and go with him on a crazy road trip across Rajasthan. It triggered a course of events that led me to Jack. And for that, I am forever grateful.

  Finally, the train pulls into the stop for Heathrow Terminal Three. I help Mrs Flannegan disembark and we make our way into the arrivals lounge. Hastily I check the board, praying I’m not late, and it’s a relief to see that Jack’s flight has only just landed.

  ‘What number is Linda’s flight?’ Positioning myself and Mrs Flannegan near the barrier so we have a good view of the automatic doors through which the arriving passengers appear, I turn to my neighbour. But no sooner have I spoken than I hear:

  ‘Nan? Is that you?’ in a strong New Zealand accent.

  We both turn to see a suntanned blonde wearing a giant backpack, hurtling towards us, a huge grin on her face. At the sight of her, Mrs Flannegan’s face lights up.

  ‘Linda!’

  Linda flings herself at her grandmother, almost knocking her clean over, and together they hug and laugh and cry, all the time talking over each other at a million miles an hour. Until, finally breaking away, Mrs Flannegan introduces me to her granddaughter and they say their goodbyes.

  ‘I hope you don’t have to wait too long.’ She smiles.

  ‘Me too.’ I smile excitedly, waving them off, before turning back to the doors.

  I’m all jittery and nervous. Every time the door opens I forget to breathe. I wait on tenterhooks, my stomach doing somersaults. God, I love airport reunions – whenever I see couples greeting each other it’s always so romantic, like something out of Love Actually. And now I get to have my own reunion moment with Jack!

  Any minute now . . . any minute now . . .

  The doors open again and a swell of people surges forwards. I strain on tiptoes. And then—

  Oh my god, I think I can see him, I think that’s Jack, I think he’s here—!

  3

  Honestly, I think I need glasses.

  Five minutes later and I’m still waiting for Jack to arrive. That man wasn’t him at all. In fact, on closer inspection, he looked nothing like him whatsoever. But it was too late. By the time I realised, I was already waving madly at him and grinning like a loon. God, it was so embarrassing. I had to pretend I was greeting someone behind him, although I’m not sure he believed me as it was a group of Japanese pensioners.

  Still, I suppose it could have been worse. I could have given him a hug and been arrested for sexual assault. Just imagine! Being carted off in handcuffs just as Jack arrived!

  Shuddering at the thought, I squint even harder at the doors so as not to make the same mistake again. The people coming through them seem to ebb and flow – one minute there’s a stampede of passengers with their luggage, the next minute there’s no one. But I keep focused. I don’t want to take my eyes off the doors in case I miss him.

  I wait.

  Hmm, it feels like I’ve been here a while. Surely he should be through by now? I briefly snatch my gaze away from the doors to glance at my watch. Gosh, is it that time already? It’s getting late. I have been here ages.

  Worry pricks. Maybe he’s got stuck in Immigration. Or maybe his bags haven’t arrived or something. Something starts to escalate. T
hat will teach me to watch Banged Up Abroad. Not that I’m abroad or Jack’s banged up. But still.

  Suddenly I feel something vibrating in my bag and remember my phone. There’s been so much going on I’d forgotten all about it, what with helping Mrs Flannegan get to the airport and meeting her granddaughter and Jack arriving.

  Only he hasn’t arrived, has he?

  Abandoning my sentry position, I rummage around in my bag for my iPhone. Damn, where is it? Squatting down on the floor, I start pulling everything out: keys, pashmina, wallet – chucking it all on the floor of the arrivals hall. It crosses my mind briefly that it would be just my luck for Jack to arrive at this precise moment, me scrambling around on the floor, my hair all over the place, my possessions strewn around me, but at this point I’m starting to feel slightly panicked.

  Finally! Finding it buried at the bottom of my bag, I snatch it up and glance at the screen. And get the shock of my life. Six missed calls, four voicemails and ten emails? I stare at the numbers on the little icons with disbelief. For a moment I stand paralysed, not sure what to check first, then hit the email icon.

  They’re all from Jack.

  My stomach lurches.

  The first one is entitled ‘CALL ME’. Or is that the last one? I can’t tell; they’re all in some kind of message stream. I hit the email and impatiently wait for it to open up, only instead I’m automatically redirected to a hotspot. A hotspot? I don’t want a hotspot! I want to read my emails! I start furiously jabbing my phone to cancel and go back to my emails, but the icon is just whirring and whirring and nothing is loading. Oh for fuck’s sake, come on, come on, come—

  Your message has not been downloaded from the server.

  What the—?

  I stare at the blank email from Jack with frustration. I feel like screaming.

  Instead I hit voicemail. I wait for it to connect. Everything feels like it’s taking for ever. Finally I get through and am forced to listen to the woman telling me how many messages I have and how to retrieve them.

  Like I don’t know how to do that! Quit with the explaining, just hurry up. Hurry up! Is it just me or does she have the slowest speaking voice?

  ‘Hey, I’m at the airport—’

  Finally. As I hear Jack’s soft drawl the panic that’s been building to explosive proportions melts quickly away and I feel a swell of love. Aww, he’s leaving me a message before he gets on the plane, probably telling me he loves me. Standing up again I focus back on the doors at the new surge of people appearing.

  ‘—and something’s come up—’

  Something’s come up?

  My insides freeze over. Three words. But they’re not the three words I was expecting.

  ‘. . . look, I’m really sorry.’

  Sorry? Sorry for what? Have I missed something?

  My mind is scrambling but somewhere, deep inside me, deep in the stillness of my core, I get that awful feeling of dread. Like when you think you’ve lost your purse, or realise you’ve locked yourself out of your flat—

  Or the man you’re in love with has done something you don’t want to hear.

  ‘I’ve tried calling you but it’s after midnight there, you’ll be asleep, and I didn’t want to tell you on email, so I hope you get this as soon as you wake up—’

  What has happened?

  ‘I’m as disappointed as you are but I know you’ll understand, I’ll make it up to you, I promise—’

  I’m still watching the people coming through arrivals. They’ve slowed to a trickle. My eyes are glazed. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Does he mean what I think he means?

  ‘Call me as soon as you get this message. I love you babe.’

  He’s not coming.

  I feel a sickening thud of disappointment. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true. This must be some sort of joke. Jack likes his jokes. Jack’s always been a bit of a joker.

  Right? Right?

  I start hastily trying to dial his number but I’m all fingers and thumbs. My throat is dry and I have to swallow hard. It seems to ring for ages and then finally connects.

  Someone picks up.

  ‘Hello, Jack?’ I gasp.

  There’s a sleepy groan from the other end and I hear a groggy voice. ‘Ruby . . . is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I say urgently. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Um . . . hang on . . . what time is it?’ His voice is thick with sleep and there’s the sound of lots of shuffling around, as if he’s sitting himself up in bed.

  ‘1.45,’ I say, glancing at my watch.

  ‘That makes it 5.45 in the morning here . . .’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I’m still in LA,’ he says raspily, ‘didn’t you get any of my messages?’

  It’s like a boxer’s jab. So it’s true. He hasn’t come. I’m crushed.

  ‘I only got your voicemail just now, there wasn’t any reception at my flat—’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At Heathrow.’

  He lets out a loud groan. ‘Oh jeez, Ruby. Didn’t you get any of my emails either?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I bat away thoughts of myself. Something terrible must have happened for him not to get on the flight. ‘You’re OK, aren’t you? You haven’t had an accident?’

  As I say the words, I feel a sudden rush of panic.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine.’

  ‘Is it your mum?’ Recently he’d told me she wasn’t very well, something about a cough. I’d dismissed it as nothing, but now—

  ‘No, Mom’s fine.’ He cuts off my scary train of thought.

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s work—’

  ‘Work?’ I interrupt, my voice coming out a little more hard-edged than I’d intended.

  All the worries and concern suddenly vanish. He’s not had some terrible accident and is lying in intensive care. None of his family is sick. He’s fine.

  ‘Yes, they called me when I was at the airport. There’s been a bit of a crisis on one of our projects—’

  ‘Crisis, what kind of crisis?’ I fire back before he’s finished talking.

  ‘It’s too hard to explain over the phone—’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Ruby please, I’ve just woken up, I don’t want to go into it. I just have to sort it out, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t someone else sort it out?’ Disbelief stabs. I can’t believe he’s putting work first.

  ‘No, otherwise they wouldn’t have called me,’ he replies a little impatiently.

  I pick up on his irritation immediately. Hang on a minute, he should be apologising like crazy and instead he’s getting impatient with me?

  ‘Well they’re just going to have to call someone else,’ I snap back. Any feeling of being upset is fast being replaced with fury. ‘We’ve had this arranged for months.’

  ‘Ruby, you’re not being reasonable,’ he says, reprimanding me as if I’m a small child.

  ‘Reasonable!’ I gasp. ‘I’m the one that’s been stood up at the airport!’

  Several people walking past with their suitcases glance over at me and I have a flashback to India, standing at Goa airport, waiting for Amy. What is it about me and airports and people not showing up?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s not like I wanted this to happen,’ continues Jack on the other end of the line, ‘but I just can’t let them down.’

  ‘But you’ll let me down instead?’

  There’s a pause and he lets out a long sigh. ‘You’re being unfair, this is killing me too, you know.’

  His voice is weary and he sounds as disappointed as I am. My fury disappears as quickly as it had appeared. Oh god, this is awful. Why are we arguing? All I want to do is see him. Be with him. And if he can’t come here—

  ‘Look, why don’t I come out there then instead?’ I suggest, suddenly hit with an idea. ‘I’ve never been to LA and I could write while you work . . .’ As the idea takes hold and grows, so does my enthusiasm: ‘and we
’d be able to spend the evenings together at least, I mean I know it’s not perfect, and it’s not a hotel in the country, but we’ll still be together and that’s what matters—’

  ‘I won’t be here, I’ve got to fly to Colombia.’ Jack cuts me off.

  ‘Colombia?’ My imagined trip to LA screeches to a halt. ‘When?’

  ‘I have to catch a flight this afternoon.’

  I feel myself reel. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ he admits, ‘the project’s based in a town a couple of hundred miles or so south of Cartagena, and I’ll know more when I arrive.’

  I feel as if I’ve just stumbled into the middle of a movie and I’m frantically trying to make sense of what’s going on.

  ‘As soon as I’ve sorted out the issues I’ll jump on a plane to London, I promise.’

  ‘But that could be ages!’ I protest. I shoot a look at the man who’s been staring at me this whole time, and he finally turns away.

  ‘Ruby, please, I’m stressed enough as it is.’ His voice is impatient again. ‘I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘I’m not arguing, I’m upset!’ I cry, fighting back tears. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s different!’

  ‘And I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he snaps, ‘what more do you want? Blood?’

  It’s like a slap in the face.

  For a moment I’m shocked into silence. How did we get here? How has this happened? It feels like everything has just come crashing down around me. My heart thumping, I press my phone to my ear and listen to the silence on the other end of the line. He’s not speaking, but he’s still there and for a moment I wonder how we can salvage the situation. How we can turn it all round and put things back to how they were just a short time ago, to when I was happy and excited to see him and everything was right with the world.

  But I’m too pissed off, too upset and too bloody hurt to care any more.

  ‘No, I wanted to spend my birthday with my boyfriend,’ I reply coolly. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘You know what, maybe it is right now.’