Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  An iciness grips me, but I keep my voice steady. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means I’m not having this conversation with you right now when you’re being like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you were at the train station in Delhi when you lost it.’

  I’m suddenly reminded of my outburst in India. Which, quite frankly, was perfectly understandable. I’d had all my things stolen. I’d been upset. And there’d been Jack, being totally patronising.

  Exactly like he is now.

  ‘Get lost, Jack,’ I fire back, infuriated. ‘Don’t treat me like a child.’

  ‘Well, stop acting like one,’ he snaps.

  There’s a pause, insults and hurt hanging in the air. I can already feel them setting, hardening, forming an impenetrable wedge between us.

  ‘OK, well it’s nearly 6 a.m. and I have a flight to catch in four hours. I’ll call you when I get to Colombia.’

  ‘Don’t bother—’

  ‘Ruby, don’t make this into something it’s not.’

  But it’s too late. It already is something else. This argument is no longer about Jack not showing up at the airport and missing my birthday, it’s about me being afraid he’s going to be like all the other guys. It’s about being let down. It’s about being scared I’m going to get my heart broken all over again.

  After Sam cheated on me, I never thought I’d be able to trust another man, but Jack changed all that. Jack wasn’t going to let me down or disappoint me. He was different.

  At least I thought he was.

  ‘Look, I think we both need to take a timeout to cool off and think about things,’ he says, his voice hard and flat as if he’s speaking to a stranger. Not to me, Ruby, the girl he’s supposed to be in love with.

  ‘OK, fine,’ I say flatly, keeping the hurt out of my voice.

  Then we both hang up.

  Dazed, I stare in disbelief at my phone. Tears are pricking my eyelashes and I have to brush them roughly away. I can hardly believe what just happened. In a few moments I’ve gone from excitedly waiting for my boyfriend, and two whole weeks of romantic fabulousness ahead of me, to no boyfriend and a bloody big row.

  I sniff and wipe my nose on my pashmina. I notice the man who was staring at me is staring at me again.

  ‘You know it’s rude to stare,’ I call over loudly. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’

  He looks shocked and turns bright red.

  ‘Especially when someone is upset,’ I continue furiously. ‘How would you like it if I stared at you when you were having a row with your girlfriend, or your wife?’

  ‘No, it’s not that—’ he begins, but I don’t let him finish.

  ‘I feel horrible enough, but then people like you have to just stare at me the whole time like I’m some kind of freak!’ All the upset I feel about Jack is suddenly misdirected at him and comes pouring out. ‘OK, so I’m crying at Heathrow airport, blubbing like a baby in a public place, but so what? Is that a crime?’

  ‘Miss, I think you’re mistaken—’

  ‘You have no idea how I feel, it’s my birthday at the weekend and my boyfriend was supposed to be arriving from America and now he’s not coming!’

  ‘It’s your dress—’

  ‘And we’d booked a lovely hotel in the country that had a spa and waffle bathrobes and everything—’

  ‘It’s come undone.’

  I stop mid-sentence and glance down. Mortification rushes over me. My lovely chiffon dress has come unbuttoned at the front, revealing my bra. But even worse, I’m not wearing my comfy padded T-shirt bra. Oh no, I’m wearing my lacy peek-a-boo barely-anything-there bra.

  ‘Oh . . . um . . . thanks,’ I croak, my cheeks blazing like an inferno and my fingers fumbling as I try to quickly button myself up again.

  Oh my god, how embarrassing! I’m hanging out at Heathrow airport in front of everyone! I’m practically topless!

  ‘And I’m really sorry about your boyfriend and your birthday and everything.’

  ‘Right, yes . . . thanks,’ I manage, shooting him a mortified smile.

  Mumbling my apologies, I’m scuttling off when I hear my phone buzzing again in my pocket. It’s Jack! He’s phoned back! I snatch up my phone with relief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, before he can say anything, ‘it was just the shock and the disappointment that’s all, I don’t want to argue—’

  ‘Ruby?’

  Only it’s not Jack, it’s my friend, Harriet, who lives in Paris.

  ‘Darling, what’s happened? Are you OK?’

  It’s the friendly voice that does it. Up until this moment I’ve been trying and succeeding in not crying, but now I suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh Hattie!’ I sob, my voice breaking, ‘Jack was due to fly in today for my birthday—’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m ringing, you must be so excited,’ she enthuses.

  ‘No, I’m not excited!’ I wail. ‘He’s not coming, he’s had to cancel.’

  ‘Cancel?’ Her voice drops in confusion. ‘But I don’t understand, I thought his flight had already arrived . . .’

  All my friends know every last detail about Jack’s arrival; I’ve talked of nothing else for weeks now.

  ‘It did arrive, but he wasn’t on it and we just had the most awful row,’ I sniffle, digging around in my pockets for a tissue to blow my nose. ‘He said he couldn’t come, something to do with having to go to Colombia for work—’

  ‘Colombia?’ repeats Harriet, incredulous.

  ‘. . . I got everything ready, I was so excited—’ I break off as I think about my flat: the champagne, the flowers, the food, the effort . . . I’m aware of my bra strap digging in and my lacy thong, which now feels as if it’s cutting me in two. It makes me feel even more upset and I let out another loud sob.

  ‘Oh Ruby, sweetie, I’m so sorry, please don’t cry—’

  ‘And it’s my birthday this weekend and we were going away to the country to stay in a hotel . . .’ I find a tissue and blow my nose loudly.

  ‘Yes, I know, you emailed me a picture, the spa looked gorgeous—’ She breaks off. ‘Well, not that gorgeous,’ she says quickly, backtracking, ‘in fact I think jacuzzis are just a breeding ground for germs and who wants to sit in a sauna and go all red-faced and sweaty in front of your boyfriend, anyway? It sounds absolutely beastly.’

  I make a snuffling noise from beneath my tissue.

  ‘Anyway, enough about that,’ she says briskly. ‘More importantly, what are you going to do now?’

  I think about going back to the flat and my heart sinks even further. ‘I don’t know,’ I sniff, trying to collect my thoughts, which are flopping over themselves, each one more miserable than before.

  ‘Well in that case, you must come to Paris,’ she says, suddenly taking control. ‘Celebrate your birthday here with me.’

  ‘Oh thanks, that’s a lovely idea, but I can’t . . .’ I know Harriet is being kind, and who doesn’t want to go to Paris? But I can’t even think straight right now. ‘There’s Heathcliff for a start, I can’t leave him with Mrs Flannegan, she’s got her granddaughter staying with her—’

  ‘Not a problem,’ she cuts in. ‘The French love dogs. Bring him with you.’

  I fall silent. I’m still trying to take everything in.

  ‘Come on Ruby,’ she cajoles, ‘I haven’t seen you for ages and this is the perfect opportunity. And to tell you the truth . . .’ She falters slightly, her tone quietening, ‘it would be good to see a friendly face.’

  Immediately I pick up on her tone. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ I ask with a beat of concern. Harriet is always so upbeat, it’s rare for her to say anything’s wrong. She’s the kind of person who could have her house burn down and when you asked her how she was, she’d say she was ‘Super, thanks.’ ‘I got your card this morning,’ I say, suddenly remembering, ‘thank you so much, but I didn’t have time to read it yet. Is everything OK?’ Harriet isn’t the kind of
person to simply scribble a few kisses, her cards are always filled with heartfelt messages.

  ‘Yes, fine, it’s just – well, I know Paris is a wonderful city and everything, but, I’m actually really lonely,’ she admits, suddenly sounding sad.

  And in that moment my mind’s made up. It’s not about Jack any more. Or me. It’s about one of my closest friends, and she needs me.

  Stuffing my tissue determinedly in my pocket, I head for the exit. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, it’s ages since I was last in Paris. A visit is long overdue.’

  ‘So you’ll come?’ She sounds delighted.

  I smile. ‘Try and stop me.’

  4

  Letting myself into my flat, I’m greeted by Heathcliff, who comes running up, tail wagging excitedly, then promptly runs past me as if looking for someone else.

  ‘He’s not here, buddy,’ I say, breaking the bad news.

  Standing on the path, Heathcliff turns to me and tips his head on one side as if to say, ‘Er, hang on a minute, what’s going on?’

  ‘He’s going to Colombia instead,’ I continue, glancing at my reflection in the hallway mirror. What a difference a few hours makes. I’d left the house all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and now I’m all puffy-faced from crying, with mascara halfway down my cheeks. And there was me thinking my days of having to buy waterproof mascara were over.

  I go into the flat. Like Heathcliff, it too seems to greet me as if expecting someone else. All the cushions on the sofa are sitting up straight on their corners, as if on their best behaviour. The flowers in the vases are standing tall. The scented candle is sitting in pride of place on the mantelpiece ready to be lit. Even the freshly polished French windows, cleaned of smears on the glass where Heathcliff presses his nose, wait in spotless anticipation.

  Faced with all this effort, I feel all my hurt and disappointment mutating into a fresh wave of fury towards Jack.

  ‘Damn you,’ I say out loud, bashing a defenceless cushion to get rid of some of its plumpness. ‘Damn you, Jack!’

  Aware that I’m still bashing the cushion, I stop before the feathers literally start flying. Still, no point feeling sorry for myself, I tell myself firmly, quickly walking into my bedroom. I need to pack – I want to catch the Eurostar this afternoon. Well, no point hanging around here, is there? Luckily I can take off to Paris without worrying about work as my deadline for my new book isn’t for some time.

  To tell the truth, I still haven’t worked out what it’s going to be about. My last novel was inspired by my trip to India and it was so magical and romantic it’s proving hard to write a follow-up. But maybe I’ll find inspiration in Paris. Though, after what’s just happened, I’m not exactly in the best frame of mind to be writing a love story. It will need to be something quite extraordinary to inspire me.

  I fling open my wardrobe and stare at my clothes. I have no idea what to pack. My mind hasn’t yet changed gear to single-girl-in-Paris and is still stuck on loved-up-weekend-with-boyfriend-in-the-Cotswolds.

  Where, quite frankly, I wasn’t planning on wearing much, other than a waffle bathrobe and the aforementioned lingerie.

  Oh sod it. Grabbing my wheelie suitcase I randomly grab things from their hangers and then, zipping it up, stride into the kitchen and clear the fridge of its contents. I was going to cook Jack a lovely romantic dinner and I spent a fortune on all this delicious organic food; I can’t see it going to waste. Especially when I nearly had to remortgage the flat to buy it.

  Gathering together the last of my things, including Heathcliff’s pet passport and my own, I grab my wheelie and the bag of food. There’s just one last thing. Plucking the flowers from their vases, I march outside and ring next door’s doorbell. Usually this is followed by the soft shuffling of slippers, but today there’s an unfamiliar bounding of footsteps and the door is flung open by a young girl. Mrs Flannegan’s granddaughter, Linda.

  ‘I’m Ruby, I live next door, we just met at the airport—’

  ‘Oh hi,’ she says, ‘do you want to speak to Nan?

  ‘No, don’t bother her, would you just give her these?’ I give her the bag of food and the flowers. ‘Tell her I’m going away for a few days and taking Heathcliff.’

  He’s still lying on the path, face flat against his paws. One ear cocks at me reluctantly.

  ‘Sure.’ She nods. ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Paris.’

  ‘Oooh, how romantic.’ She grins.

  Forcing a smile, I quickly say bye, then grab the rest of the things from my flat. Pausing at the doorway, I notice Harriet’s card on the side. I open it, quickly reading her birthday wishes and message which she signs off, ‘Wish you were here!’ and smile, despite what’s happened. Then, locking up my flat, I put Heathcliff on his lead and we set off down the street together. Me and my sausage dog. Off to the City of Love.

  I think that’s what they call irony.

  Arriving at St Pancras International, I go to the automated ticket machine to buy a ticket for the Eurostar. Despite my mood I can’t help marvelling at how great it is that I can just catch a train to Paris. I mean, how wonderful is that? What an amazing feat of engineering. I just turn up at the station, buy a ticket, and in a little over two hours I’ll be there. It’s so easy and hassle-free and—’

  How much?

  I stare in disbelief at the display. Er, hang on a minute. What happened to all those cheap deals to Paris that I’m always seeing advertised? I hesitate as it briefly crosses my mind to wonder if I can get a better deal if I wait until tomorrow. Oh sod the price. I don’t want to wait, I want to see Harriet. I stick in my credit card and cross my fingers. After what’s happened today, I’m in a sod-it kind of mood.

  Fortunately my credit card is in the same mood, and instead of being swallowed up, spits out a ticket and I quickly make my way towards Passports and Security. Gosh, it’s so busy! The departures hall is filled with all kinds of travellers, but among them I notice a large party of elderly war veterans in uniform, their decorated chests bursting with medals and ribbons. They all look to be in their eighties and nineties and many of them have canes or wheelchairs, but there’s also a large number proudly walking tall as they greet each other warmly with handshakes and hugs.

  Standing in line, I watch as a girl with pink hair pushes up her charge, a huge bear of a man in a wheelchair wearing a beret and so many medals you can hardly see the uniform, and joins the queue behind me.

  ‘Please, go ahead.’ I smile, making room for them both.

  ‘Why, that’s very kind of you,’ says the elderly gentleman, and the young girl smiles gratefully.

  Deftly she manoeuvres his chair in front of me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, curiously. ‘Is there some kind of ceremony?’

  ‘It’s the seventieth anniversary of the D-Day landings this weekend,’ she replies, smiling. ‘We’re all heading out to Paris for the Queen’s state visit.’

  ‘Oh gosh, of course.’ I feel a flash of embarrassment that I’d forgotten. With everything that’s been going on these past few days with Jack’s visit, it had completely slipped my mind. ‘I’ve been seeing lots about it on the news.’

  ‘Yes, it’s huge,’ she nods, her tiny nose-stud twinkling as it catches the light. ‘There’s going to be a procession down the Champs Élysées on Thursday, followed by a big international ceremony on the beach at Normandy. Even Obama’s going to be there, isn’t he, Granddad?’

  ‘Aye,’ he nods, then smiles. ‘I won’t know which hand to shake first.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’

  ‘Granddad was a gunner in the Royal Artillery and landed on Gold Beach,’ she says proudly and pauses to gaze at him with a mixture of awe and devotion. ‘He’s a real hero.’

  ‘I was just doing my job,’ he says simply, with the kind of breathtaking humility you don’t hear very often. ‘We were all just doing our job.’ He gestures to the dozens of elderly veterans around him, each and every one of them heavily de
corated with awards for bravery. ‘There were thousands more of us, we were just the lucky ones.’

  ‘No, we were the lucky ones,’ I reply quietly, feeling a swell of admiration and gratitude for all these strangers.

  His granddaughter smiles and squeezes her granddad’s hand, then notices Heathcliff, who’s been hidden behind my suitcase.

  ‘Ooh, who’s this?’ she says with delight. She crouches down and he immediately rolls over so she can tickle his tummy.

  ‘Heathcliff,’ I smile. ‘He likes playing hard to get.’

  She laughs. ‘Look Granddad, he’s just like Sizzle! Granddad’s regiment used to have a dachshund as a mascot in the war,’ she explains. ‘They called him Sizzle because he was like a little sausage.’

  I laugh as Heathcliff plays up to his new fans and, jumping on his hind legs, licks the old man’s hand.

  ‘Next in line, please!’

  We’ve been so busy chatting we haven’t realised we’ve reached the front of the queue.

  ‘Oh, that’s us.’ Straightening up, she quickly pushes her grandfather up to the passport window.

  A few moments later I’m called forward by the official at the next window. Grabbing my suitcase and Heathcliff, I hand over my ticket and passport and wait to be waved through.

  ‘I’m sorry, no pets are allowed on the Eurostar.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I look at him in surprise. It had never occurred to me I couldn’t take Heathcliff on the Eurostar. I mean, it’s a train!

  ‘Only guide or special assistance dogs can travel.’

  Oh god, can today get any worse? Harriet’s going to be so disappointed. What am I going to do now?

  ‘If you could please step aside, there is a line of people waiting—’

  ‘There you are!’

  Hearing a voice, I twirl around to see the granddaughter with pink hair bending down and scooping up Heathcliff. ‘I’m sorry, Officer, I was so busy with my granddad’s wheelchair I didn’t realise we’d left him behind.’ Smiling cheerfully, she places him in her grandfather’s lap. ‘My grandfather is a diabetic. Heathcliff is his special assistance dog.’

  I look at them both with astonishment, and she throws me a wink.