Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Thanks.’ I beam, and hurry after her as she glides through the long sweep of the café’s stylish outdoor terrace, with its stone arched ceilings and sumptuous decor.

  Well, being sensible is just so boring isn’t it? My whole life I’ve been sensible, and trust me, it’s completely overrated. The few times I’ve done impulsive things, like jump on a plane to India or a train to Paris, things have been a lot more, how shall I put it, interesting.

  Plus, how could I refuse? Especially when I found out that they allowed pets and I didn’t need a reservation. Well, it would have been rude not to have lunch here.

  The model-slash-maitre d’ shows me to the most gorgeous table, overlooking the glass pyramid. The view is breathtaking. In fact, it’s probably up there with one of the most perfect views in the world. Perfect for people-watching, which is one of my all-time favourite pastimes.

  Sitting down in one of the padded cream-piped armchairs, I absorb it all like a sponge. All around me, well-heeled people are drinking wine and eating tiny amounts of food, arranged beautifully on big white plates. Waiters sweep and glide in and out, in that very attentive yet unobtrusive way that only waiters in expensive restaurants can achieve. In the background there’s the hum of silver cutlery chinking on porcelain plates and the murmuring of voices, while the whiff of expensive perfume fills the air.

  I feel like I did the one time I got a surprise upgrade to first class on an aeroplane. It was a total fluke; apparently the plane was full and the economy seats had been overbooked, but the first I knew of it was when I was boarding, all hot and sweaty and weighed down with carrier bags, and the stewardess took one look at my boarding card and told me to turn left.

  Turn left. It’s such a little, innocuous phrase, but only then did I discover what different worlds left and right inhabit. It was like walking into Narnia. Flat beds, feather duvets and proper A-list celebrities in sleepsuits on either side of me. Not only that, but suddenly I’d turned into a Madam. As in, ‘Would Madam like more champagne?’ ‘Would Madam like her bed making up?’ ‘Would Madam care for another chocolate truffle?’

  Of course the whole time I felt that everyone knew I was a fake and didn’t really belong there, and that any minute the stewardess would whip the complimentary champagne from my hand, strip me out of my sleepsuit and march me back into economy.

  A bit like now, I muse, as a smartly dressed waiter appears and asks me what I’d like to order. I’ve been so busy taking in the view I haven’t looked at the menu. I take a quick look and try not to blanch at the prices under his watchful gaze. Saying that, everything sounds divine. Trying to appear as if this is the way I eat lunch every day, and not sitting at my desk with a bag of Kettle chips and a pot of hummus, I order a very fancy-sounding omelette. It’s fine. I’ll just eat cereal for a week when I get back to London.

  ‘And to drink?’

  I’m about to say just water thanks, when I stop myself. Hang on, I’m in Paris. In a super stylish café overlooking the Louvre. Water just isn’t going to cut it.

  ‘A glass of champagne, merci,’ I say, feeling a flash of decadence.

  I don’t even look at the price list. Sod it. I’ve drunk nothing but coffee and champagne for the past twenty-four hours – why change things now? Handing back the menu, I try not to think about my credit card, which is probably taking its last gasp in my handbag.

  The waiter nods and disappears.

  I look across at the woman sitting at the table opposite me. She has her little dog next to her in a Louis Vuitton bag and I glance down at Heathcliff, who’s curled up under the table. I contemplate it . . . No, I can’t do it to him. I might be trying to get into the French swing of things, but I think that’s taking matters too far. Plus, Heathcliff would hate me for ever.

  Instead I put my non-designer handbag on the chair next to me and pull out the bundle of love letters from Madame Dumont’s apartment. I fell asleep last night reading the letter from Henry, but now, looking at the date of the postmarks, I reach for the next one. It’s the same handwriting. It must be from Henry again.

  Slipping it out of the envelope, I unfold it with a sense of anticipation. I wonder what will have happened. Are his affections returned? Did she go to the jazz club with him? I know she fell in love with him – she wrote of it in her note that was never sent – but how did it all begin? How did they begin? Excitement flutters. Between my fingertips lies a whole other world and already I can feel myself slipping into the past, into another time, another Paris . . .

  My dearest Emmanuelle,

  I was so happy when you wrote me back and said yes to my invitation, so much so I confess I read your letter several times. My favorite part was when you wrote that our meeting at the café was as memorable for you as it was for me, though I find that hard to believe. I am just a lucky fellow from Brooklyn, but you . . . you are something special.

  I don’t think I will ever forget the image of you as we danced together, my arm around your waist, your hand on my shoulder, your gaze upon mine. You looked so beautiful in your silk dress and such a wonderful dancer too. I was the envy of all the men in that room, not that I noticed anyone else as I couldn’t take my eyes off you.

  I wanted the evening to last for ever, for the clocks to stop and time to stand still. I wished that the music would never stop playing and we would forever twirl together around the dancefloor.

  And in my heart we always will . . .

  Afterwards you broke the news to me that we cannot be seen together again. You told me if your family knew about me, they would never allow it. You spoke of society and tradition, of rules to be followed and appearances to be maintained. Yet you also spoke of your secret desire for freedom. Of being true to yourself. Of being able to follow your heart wherever it leads you.

  There were so many things I wanted to say, but I could not bring myself to say them so I simply listened. But do not be mistaken, my silence was not a form of agreement. I need you to know that. Just as I need to now ask you the only question that matters.

  If you were to follow your heart my dearest, should I dare hope that it leads you to me?

  H

  14

  ‘Ruby?’

  At first, I don’t look up. They can’t mean me. No one knows me here. Lost in the world of Henry and Emmanuelle, I continue reading the letter, absorbing the words. Until after a few moments I become vaguely aware of a presence next to me and I look up to see Xavier the lawyer.

  ‘It is you!’

  I jump a mile. Oh shit. Impulsively, I clamp the letter to my chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He smiles apologetically.

  ‘No, not at all.’ I try to sound casual as I fluster around, folding the letter and trying to tuck it in my lap underneath the table. I quickly cover it with a napkin.

  ‘I was having a meeting.’ He gestures over to a group of men in suits who are getting up from round a table and putting on their jackets. ‘I looked across and I thought I am sure I know that girl.’

  Wagging his finger, he screws up his eyes, forming a deep crevice in his brow, and peers at me intently.

  This is obviously just his attempt at re-enactment, but I suddenly feel very self-conscious.

  ‘Oh, yes, it’s me.’ I smile awkwardly. It’s not just the letter; I’d forgotten how good-looking he was, and now faced with him in such close proximity I’m all jittery.

  And hot.

  It’s like someone just turned up the temperature about twenty degrees. Snatching up a menu, I start fanning myself like my mum used to when she was having one of her hot flushes.

  ‘Do you mind if I . . . ?’ He gestures to the empty seat across from me.

  Oh god, he’s going to join me. My stomach shoots up and down, like a heartbeat on a monitor. A sort of panic mixed with something that feels almost like a slight thrill.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Well, it’s not every day you get to sit in a café with a handsome Fren
chman, is it? It’s the stuff of romantic novels. The kind I write. Only this time it’s not fiction – it’s actually for real.

  Of course, the difference is that in my novel my heroine and the Frenchman would end up falling madly in love and into bed and— I slam on the brakes on my imagination. Well anyway, like I said, there’s a very big difference between fiction and reality.

  I watch as Xavier says his goodbyes to the suits, then sits down across from me. Heathcliff wriggles from underneath the table and begins sniffing his ankles madly.

  ‘I have a cat, should I be worried?’ His eyes flash with amusement.

  ‘I think you’re safe.’ I smile, relaxing a bit.

  ‘Good.’ He grins. ‘I don’t want him doing a pee-pee on me.’

  ‘He only does that if he likes you,’ I tease, then quickly catch myself. What am I doing? Am I flirting?

  ‘Well then I am sure I am safe,’ he nods mock-seriously. ‘I am very unlikeable.’

  No, of course I’m not flirting. I’m just being friendly. I’m in love with Jack.

  Who stood you up at the airport, reminds a voice in my head.

  The waiter arrives with my drink and I take a thirsty gulp. Bubbles fizz up to the roof of my mouth. Gosh, that tastes good.

  ‘I don’t normally drink champagne at lunchtime,’ I say hurriedly, noticing Xavier watching me. Well, I don’t want him thinking I’m an old soak.

  ‘Why not?’ He smiles, and despite myself, I can’t help smiling back. ‘The French say a day without wine is a day without sunshine. Champagne is just wine with bubbles.’

  I’m beginning to really like the French way of thinking. I take another sip, enjoying the buzz of the ice-cold bubbles weaving their way down into my empty stomach.

  ‘So have you found out any more about Madame Dumont’s apartment?’ I ask, emboldened by the champagne.

  ‘What is there to find out?’ He shrugs dismissively. ‘So a rich old woman kept a secret residence, so what? She paid the rent, the taxes, everything was in order.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you think it’s strange that she would do that?’

  ‘I see many strange things in my business, I know not to ask too many questions.’ He pauses to look at me, his brow furrowed. ‘I think it is more of a mystery why a beautiful young woman would be having lunch alone in Paris.’

  I feel myself blush under his gaze.

  ‘Harriet’s working,’ I explain, ‘so I thought I would explore a little, do some sightseeing.’ I wave my guidebook at him as evidence.

  ‘She doesn’t need your assistance today?’

  Oh crap, I’d forgotten Harriet had introduced me as her assistant.

  ‘No, um, not today, I’m sort of part-time,’ I say vaguely and take a gulp of champagne.

  ‘Excellent, well if you need a tour guide, I know the best in town.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I think I have his card somewhere . . .’ He slips his wallet out of his breast pocket and pulls out a business card.

  As he passes it to me I read the name. Monsieur Xavier Moreau.

  ‘But that’s you.’ I look up in confusion.

  ‘But of course.’ He smiles.

  I can’t help but laugh and he observes me for a moment, before his expression turns serious.

  ‘Now, as your tour guide I must give you the most important piece of advice,’ he says gravely.

  I stop laughing. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Throw away your guidebook.’

  ‘What? I can’t do that!’ I protest, ‘I only just bought it!’

  ‘But you do not need it,’ he says simply. ‘This is not the way to see Paris. Nothing that is worth anything will be documented in the pages of your book.’

  ‘But there are all these itineraries!’ I flick open the book and thrust it at him.

  Shaking his head, he takes it from me and, closing it, places it on the table between us. ‘The city keeps the best bits to itself. Everything is hidden. It is up to you to discover it.’ He motions for me to come closer and as I do he leans forward and places his mouth by my ear. ‘Trust me,’ he whispers, his warm breath on my cheek. ‘Paris is full of secrets.’

  ‘Madame, Monsieur?’

  I jump back, startled, as the waiter interrupts us both with my food. I’d forgotten all about it. My appetite has vanished and I feel rather woozy. And, suddenly, extremely guilty. Here I am, in a fancy café in Paris, drinking champagne with a very handsome Frenchman. It’s all completely innocent, but still—’

  ‘I’m not alone, alone,’ I say suddenly, feeling I should make it clear. ‘I have a boyfriend.’

  Xavier frowns. ‘And he lets you come to Paris without him?’

  ‘He had to work,’ I say firmly, as much to convince myself as him.

  ‘It must be very important work.’

  I feel a slight niggle. Earlier on the bridge, I didn’t care any more about who was wrong and who was right. In that moment it no longer mattered that Jack hadn’t shown up, or that I’d been hurt and upset. I didn’t even care about that stupid row. Seeing all those padlocks made me realise how much I loved Jack and how much I missed him. In that moment, that’s the only thing that was important.

  But now Xavier’s comment touches a nerve.

  ‘You must never put work before pleasure,’ he continues, fixing me with his slate-grey eyes, then shrugs. ‘But maybe this is the French way.’

  ‘He’s American,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah well, this explains it.’ He observes me for a moment, then smiles. ‘He is a very brave man.’

  ‘Brave?’

  ‘To let you come to Paris without him.’

  I feel myself blush and reach for another much-needed gulp of champagne, only to realise that I’ve drunk it all and have touched hardly any of my food. I put my glass down and suddenly it’s whisked away and another appears, along with one for Xavier.

  ‘Like magic,’ he says, at my expression.

  Our eyes meet. He leans forwards and chinks my glass. ‘To a day with sunshine.’

  I take a sip of icy champagne. I know I shouldn’t; one glass is plenty. I’m already tipsy. But it would be rude not to drink it. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. Jack was the one who stood me up, remember. If he’d been on that flight, I wouldn’t even be here in Paris, let alone drinking champagne with Xavier.

  The shrill burble of a phone interrupts my thoughts and Xavier answers it. He speaks in rapid French, then hangs up. ‘I’m sorry, demanding clients.’ He smiles, slipping the phone back into his breast pocket. ‘I am afraid I must leave you and return to the office.’ Draining his glass, he stands up and I go to do the same, but he quickly gestures for me to remain seated. ‘Stay and enjoy your food,’ he says, referring to my forgotten omelette, ‘and remember, if you need a tour guide . . .’ He gestures to his card, which is still lying on the table.

  ‘I will, thanks,’ I smile, grateful that I didn’t have to stand up. I’m feeling rather light-headed.

  ‘It has been a pleasure,’ he says, handing his credit card to the waiter.

  ‘No please, let me—’ I begin, but he waves away my protestations.

  I watch as he leaves the restaurant, walking down the long terrace like a model on a catwalk. Various women at other tables stop talking and eating to watch him as he glides past, then glance over at me with a mixture of curiosity and envy. Feeling their eyes on me, I turn back to my food and reach for my napkin, which is when I remember the letter still hidden in my lap, and Henry’s heartfelt plea.

  Carefully slipping it back in its envelope, I pull out the next one. I need to know what happens next. Does Emmanuelle choose love over tradition? Or does her family and social standing come between them?

  My darling Emmanuelle,

  There are no words to describe how I felt when I opened your letter, confessing your true feelings for me. Me, a writer, lost for words.

  Before I met you I believed my life here in Paris was a good one. I was conte
nt to be a spectator in life, to write about what I see and not what I feel. Only now do I realize I was sleepwalking through life. I was living a life without purpose. A life without a passion. Now I truly know what it feels like to be alive and that is by being by your side.

  Have I said too much? Do I frighten you with the depth of my feelings? I know I am just a poor orphaned writer from America and you are from one of France’s finest and oldest families. We could not be more opposite, and yet in so many ways, we could not be more alike. Together we should be able to live the lives we want and not those imposed on us by your family.

  Yet, even though I protest like an angry young man, I will do anything for you, so of course I agree to your request. It will be hard for me to meet only in secret in your apartment. I want to shout my feelings from the rooftops and dance with you in the streets, but I will do anything not to endanger what we have.

  I want only to be with you, Emmanuelle. I love watching how you twirl your hair around your fingers when you are deep in thought and the way your cheeks dimple when you smile. I love listening to you talk excitedly about your beloved ballet and singing along to my favorite jazz records even though you forget all the words. I even love the way you tease me for my terrible French.

  There are so many things I could write about, so much I want to say to you. You have captured my heart and lifted my soul. But know only this, my darling. I may not be a wealthy man, but if my love for you was a currency, you would be the richest woman in the world.

  Your beloved,

  H

  Unexpectedly, my eyes well up with tears. To be loved like that. A love that great. I imagine them dancing together, his hand on her tiny waist as they spin around the dance floor. They must have made a wonderful sight, Emmanuelle with her long red hair and silk dress, and Henry the dashing American. At least, I imagine he was dashing – of course I have no idea what he looked like, but I’m sure his looks were as wonderful as his writing.

  Because that’s the magic of writing. As I read again his descriptions and emotions, they are no longer just words on a page; they are two people who have come to life from over seventy years ago. They are a poor American who loves jazz and writing and a beautiful, rich Parisian who teases him about his terrible French. They are real people, with a real love story. A love story that has to be kept secret for fear of retribution from her family. A story I want to continue.