Mesmerised, I watch as it glitters and shimmers, my eyes growing heavy, my mind drifting. What happened between now and then? What story do these two people have to tell? Madame Dumont kept these letters for nearly three-quarters of a century, hidden away in a secret apartment in Paris for safe keeping. What secrets do they hold?
There are so many unanswered questions, so much more I want to know, but tiredness has finally caught up with me. With the letter still in my hand, and the bundle of letters still to read, I close my eyes. And, dreaming of Emmanuelle and Henry, I abandon myself to sleep.
11
The next morning I’m woken by bright sunshine pouring in through the arched windows. For a moment I lie there, still half-asleep, listening to the faint billing and cooing of pigeons and wondering where I am, until suddenly it registers. I’m on Harriet’s sofa bed. In Paris. Without Jack.
I groan loudly and roll over, burying my face in my pillow and inadvertently squashing Heathcliff, who I’d forgotten was there.
He lets out a muffled yelp and furiously attempts to wriggle away, but he’s stuck fast beneath me.
‘Oops, sorry buddy!’ I gasp, blinking my eyes open and quickly moving.
Freed, he looks down his long nose at me; then, turning his back on me, he shuffles grumpily to the end of the bed and curls up there.
Great. Now even my dog is mad at me.
Still, new day and all that, and climbing out of the sofa bed I walk over to the windows. Unfastening the old iron latch on one, I push it open.
Instantly the city comes rushing in. The sounds of traffic in the streets below, the rumblings of tyres across cobbles, car horns, a bicycle bell, a man’s voice shouting something in French, a peal of girlish laughter, a startled flock of pigeons taking flight, the smells of freshly baked croissants, strong coffee, Gauloises . . .
Taking it all in, I close my eyes, lifting my face to the warmth of the early morning sunshine. Wow, I’m in Paris.
‘You’re awake!’
I twirl round to see Harriet in the doorway of her bedroom. Gone is the chic French woman in her classic navy blue and black ensemble, hair blow-dried, make-up perfectly applied; in her place is the old Harriet in mismatched stripy pyjamas, frizzy hair all over the place, sporting freckles and rosy cheeks.
I feel a rush of affection for my old friend.
Finishing cleaning the lenses of her glasses on the sleeve of her pyjama top, she shoves them up her nose and beams at me, as if seeing me for the first time.
‘How was the sofa bed? Did you sleep OK?’
‘Great, super comfy,’ I fib, my back twinging. I take it back about the four-poster.
‘Oh jolly good, that’s what everyone says,’ she says, looking pleased and padding into the tiny kitchenette.
And now I don’t feel bad about fibbing, as obviously everyone else fibs too.
‘Shall we have coffee?’ She waves a silver espresso pot at me from over the small partition.
‘Ooh, yes please.’ I nod, thinking of my own coffee pot back home on my stove in London. I can’t start the day without my morning cup of coffee. Hearing the pot bubbling on the hob has to be one of my all-time favourite sounds, and the aroma has to be one of the best in the world. In fact I’ve always thought someone should create a perfume, Eau d’Espresso. I mean, seriously, is there anything more delicious than inhaling strong, dark-roasted freshly brewed coffee?
‘Bollocks.’ There’s lots of banging around coming from the kitchenette and Harriet reappears, her face flushed and frowning. ‘I’m out of milk.’
Disappointment flickers but is quickly shoved to one side. ‘No worries, I can drink it black.’
There’s more crashing of cupboard doors. ‘Buggery bollocks. I’m also out of coffee,’ she tuts. ‘Honestly I really am the most shocking host.’ Seeing my doleful expression, she adds brightly, ‘but not to worry, we can go to this fabulous little café on the corner, it does the most delicious café crème and croissants – not that I’d know about the croissants,’ she adds hastily, ‘I’m on a diet.’
‘A pizza diet,’ I tease, revealing a crust underneath the sofa bed as I fold it away.
She blushes bright red. ‘A momentary lapse,’ she says, then frowns. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ I look up from folding up the blanket and follow her gaze, to see that one of the letters has slipped out from beneath the covers and is lying on the floor. Right by her bare feet.
‘It looks like a letter.’
My heart almost stops as she steps forward to pick it up, but luckily my reflexes are faster and I sweep in and scoop it up before she’s had a chance.
‘Oh, it’s just a credit card bill,’ I fluster, ‘I brought it with me to pay otherwise I’d forget to do it.’ I stuff it quickly back in my bag and zip it up tightly. ‘So, c’mon, let me treat you to a coffee.’
‘Super.’ She beams. ‘I just need to jump in the shower and throw on some clothes.’ She disappears into the bathroom. ‘I’ll be ready in two ticks.’
Two ticks turns out to be nearly an hour of blow-drying, make-up applying and more outfit changes than you’d see backstage at a catwalk show. Finally she appears in a navy shift dress with tasteful accessories.
‘Ready?’ she says brightly, as if I’ve been the one barricaded in the bathroom all this time.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ I nod, glancing at my mismatched, crumpled figure in the mirror and wishing I hadn’t. Packing in a hurry isn’t ideal when you’re heading to the style capital of the world. Absolutely nothing I’ve brought goes with anything else, everything is creased beyond all hope of an iron, plus now I’m here all my clothes look a bit . . .
For once in my life I’m lost for words. In my defence I’m a writer. I know about words, not clothes. About dialogue and plot twists, not hemlines and accessories.
Though somehow I don’t think that excuse is going to cut the mustard here. No one’s going to mistake me for being Parisian, that’s for sure.
I clip Heathcliff on to his lead and we all leave the apartment, which involves shuffling out in single file on to the narrow, dimly lit landing. It seems even smaller than yesterday and, after the brightness of the apartment, even darker. Suddenly the door opposite swings open and someone bumps into me in the shadows.
‘Mon Dieu!’ gasps a voice, followed by a loud shriek, and I hear Heathcliff yelp as he gets trodden on.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I apologise, as the English are wont to do even when it’s not their fault, quickly scooping Heathcliff up before he’s trampled.
I hear a flurry of French between Harriet and this person I can’t see, as my eyes are taking a moment to adjust, but who I can hear is female.
‘Celeste, this is my friend Ruby,’ says Harriet, switching into English. ‘Ruby, this is Celeste, my neighbour.’
As she’s introduced the dimness seems to dissipate and I make out an achingly stylish blonde, her skinny figure dressed all in black, but for a perfectly tied patterned scarf round her neck.
She turns to me and I brace myself for a cool response, but instead she flashes me the widest smile. ‘Hi, I’m so sorry, you scared the shit out of me,’ she laughs, kissing me on both cheeks, then switches her attention to Heathcliff, who she strokes on the head. ‘I thought it was, how you say, a big mouse!’
She laughs again, a hearty barrel of a laugh that should belong to a man twice her size, and despite her calling Heathcliff a rodent, it’s impossible not to instantly like her.
‘Celeste owns a boutique,’ continues Harriet, as we all start making our way down the narrow staircase, ‘she’s my personal stylist. I owe everything to her.’
‘Non, this is not true,’ she demurs, expertly descending the wooden treads on towering needle-thin stilettos, ‘I just gave you a little help, told you a few secrets.’ She taps the side of her nose. ‘Every woman needs a few secrets.’
Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, we walk outside into the courtyard. In the daylight Celest
e looks even more stylish than before. With long blond hair, a perfect complexion and the kind of reed-thin body seen on store mannequins, she looks like she’s just stepped out from the pages of Vogue.
Immediately she reaches into her quilted Chanel purse, which is slung messenger-style across her tailored jacket, in the kind of effortless way that people like me can’t hope to achieve even after about half an hour faffing about in front of the mirror, and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. She lights up and blows out a chimney of smoke from her nostrils. As she does, years of ‘smoking causes cancer’ propaganda goes flying out of the window. She even makes that look elegant.
‘What are the secrets?’ I ask curiously, as we cross the courtyard to the main entrance. If I felt crumpled and mismatched before, now add lumpen-like-a-sack-of-potatoes to the mix.
Celeste’s exquisite face creases up into a mischievous smile and she puts her finger over her mouth, ‘Shhhh,’ she whispers conspiratorially and as we step out into the street, I look around to see who could be listening. All I can see is a rather large man in a string vest unloading crates of bottles from a van.
Slipping a card out of her purse, she passes it to me. ‘Come visit anytime and I will share them with you.’ She winks. Then, calling ‘au revoir’ to ’Arriet, she tosses her blonde mane of hair over her shoulder and sashays down the street.
I stare after her, in a sort of dazed wonder.
‘Amazing, isn’t she?’ sighs Harriet wistfully, at my elbow. ‘And so tiny.’
‘She probably doesn’t eat,’ I reflect, ‘just smokes cigarettes.’
‘And drinks coffee,’ adds Harriet, ‘it’s the diet most Parisian women are on.’
‘Speaking of which . . .’ I remind her.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any.’ She sighs. ‘Daddy always called it a filthy habit so I never took up the habit, though perhaps I should—’
‘I’m not talking about cigarettes,’ I gasp, ‘I’m talking about coffee!’
‘Oh golly, my brain is like a sieve!’ She bangs on the side of her head and shakes it a bit, ‘yes of course, the café. It’s right here on the corner.’
She motions towards the red awning at the end of the street, from underneath which tables and chairs are spilling out on to the pavement. Even this early, every single one is already taken with people basking in the sunshine as they sip cafés crèmes and eat croissants. ‘Don’t worry, Luc will find us a spot,’ she reassures me as we walk the short distance to the entrance.
‘Who’s Luc?’ I ask, but my voice is drowned out as I push open the door.
Inside it’s a hive of activity. A zinc-covered counter filled with pastries greets us, along with the smell of freshly roasted coffee and the cacophony of spoons clattering against cups, milk frothing and people chattering. It’s a small café, squeezed full of paper-covered tables, around which is expertly weaving a young, shaven-headed waiter, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed arms on which he’s balancing several cups and saucers.
As soon as he sees Harriet, his face lights up.
So this is Luc.
‘Bonjour,’ he says with a grin, proceeding to give her a hands-free kiss on both cheeks, before saying something in French and hurrying away. Only to return a few moments later minus the plates but with a small metal table, held aloft over his head. He wedges it into the tiniest space I’ve ever seen, then conjures up a couple of chairs like a magician.
‘I’m Luc,’ he grins boyishly, as he pulls out my chair for me to sit down and I hook Heathcliff’s lead under its leg.
‘Ruby.’ I smile, completely charmed as he kisses me on both cheeks and then pulls out Harriet’s chair too before deftly setting up our table with condiments, sugar and a small jam jar of wild daisies.
‘Café crème?’
‘Mmm, yes please,’ says Harriet.
‘And the same for me.’ I nod.
‘OK, cool.’ He winks and, sliding his lean hips between the tables, he disappears back into the throng.
‘I think someone likes you,’ I whisper, turning back to Harriet.
She laughs good-naturedly. ‘We’re just good friends. I’ve been helping him with his English.’
‘I think he wants to be more than just friends,’ I say, smiling as I catch him staring across at Harriet from behind the espresso machine and he looks away, blushing.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, I’m old enough to be his mother.’
‘Now you’re the one being ridiculous,’ I reply.
‘Not at all.’ She shakes her head. ‘If you do the maths, Luc is twenty-one, I’m thirty-two, and I was eleven when Granny Scarlet first paid a visit.’
‘Granny Scarlet?’
She colours. ‘That’s what our matron at boarding school used to call your period. She said to tell boys that to keep them away, as no boys want to be around when their granny’s visiting.’
Sometimes I wonder about Harriet and her public school education.
‘Well I suppose biologically speaking I could have given birth to half of One Direction,’ I concede, suddenly feeling rather old, ‘but so what if there’s an age difference? He’s lovely—’
I break off as Luc reappears with two coffees.
‘I also have croissants,’ he announces, putting down a plate of delicious-looking pastries in front of us, ‘your favourite.’
Harriet looks suddenly guilty and averts her gaze from mine. ‘Thanks, that’s so sweet of you, but I’m watching my figure.’
‘Ah, nonsense!’ he protests, frowning.
Harriet reddens. ‘Well, that’s a little rude . . .’
Now it’s Luc’s turn to redden. ‘Rude?’ he repeats, looking confused.
‘Just because I have the occasional blip,’ she says, offended.
‘I don’t understand this “blip,”’ he says with a frown, ‘but what I am saying is why does every woman want to look like a skinny boy?’ and I realise he wasn’t talking about her diet at all, but about society and the pressure that makes women want to diet. ‘A woman should look like a woman!’
‘I’ll eat them, they look delicious,’ I interrupt, trying to put him at ease, but the flush from his cheeks has crept all over his shaven head.
There’s a pause as he looks at Harriet, but she doesn’t meet his gaze.
‘Well, I must go, there are lots of thirsty people. Enjoy your coffee,’ he says and, casting a lingering glance at Harriet, he disappears.
We both reach for our coffees, which is when I notice the one he’s given Harriet has a loveheart shaped into the foam. I raise my eyebrows in a see-I-told-you-so way and she takes a spoon and stirs her coffee firmly.
‘Guess what? WineNot emailed me this morning asking for my number,’ she says.
I’m completely sold on Luc, but I try to be enthusiastic. Harriet likes WineNot and after our conversation last night, I know how much this means to her. ‘That’s great, did you give it to him?’
‘Of course.’ She beams. ‘And he’s already texted.’
‘Texted? But I thought if you asked someone for their number it meant you were going to call them?’
Harriet rolls her eyes as if to say ‘get with the programme, Ruby’.
‘So, what he did say?’ I ignore my reservations.
Digging her smartphone out of her bag, she passes it across the table like contraband goods. I look at the screen in anticipation.
‘Want 2 meet 4 a drink?’ I read out.
That’s it? Six words? Actually, it’s only four – two of them are numericals.
My mind flashes back to the love letter Henry wrote to Emmanuelle, asking if she’d accompany him to a dance. Handwritten on beautiful stationery and scented with his cologne; he’d gone to such an effort. The way he expressed his feelings was so beautiful and sweet and romantic. Just imagine getting a letter like that through the post, being able to read it over and over—
I glance back at the text. Call this progress?
‘So what do you think?’ Har
riet looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to analyse this and decipher some hidden code.
‘Have you replied?’
‘Not yet, I wasn’t sure what to put.’
‘Yes?’ I suggest simply.
‘I thought you were the writer,’ she grumbles.
‘OK, well how about yes, that would be great,’ I concede.
‘I can’t put that!’ she gasps.
‘Why not?’
‘I need to be more strategic.’ Tearing off a piece of croissant, she chews thoughtfully.
‘This isn’t a game of chess,’ I remind her.
‘No, but dating is still a game.’
‘But you haven’t dated him yet.’
‘And I won’t get to if I just put yes straight away,’ she argues.
I fall silent. I want to be supportive, I know how much Harriet wants to find love, but I can’t help thinking this isn’t the way. But then, what do I know? I’m hardly an advert for success in love.
‘What about you,’ she asks, obviously unimpressed with my advice and changing the subject, ‘did you hear from him?’
She doesn’t mention Jack by name but there’s only one person she could be referring to.
‘No.’ I shake my head, a leaden feeling descending on my chest as I’m reminded. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we spoke – correction, rowed – at the airport, but it already feels a lot longer. ‘But anyway, I came to Paris to see you, not to talk about Jack.’
‘Don’t be silly, we’re friends, we’re here for each other.’
I smile gratefully and she gestures towards the plate of pastries but suddenly I’m not hungry.
‘He might still be on the plane,’ she suggests.
‘Thanks, but I think that excuse is wearing a bit thin, don’t you? It doesn’t take that long to fly to Colombia. He obviously doesn’t want to speak to me.’
She frowns, as if deep in thought, then her face lights up. ‘I know! What if he’s arrived and been kidnapped by drug lords? I’ve heard Colombia’s super dangerous.’
Love From Paris Page 10