Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  Perhaps it’s better if some things are left unsaid.

  After half an hour I give up. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I think you get too tired for your brain to even have enough energy to switch itself off. Sitting up, I unroll the makeshift pillow that I’ve fashioned out of my cardigan and slip it back over my shoulders. I glance across at Xavier. He’s fast asleep.

  Turning my attentions back to my bag, I pull out the book that Gigi gave me. It’s a paperback copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. I open it, hoping for an inscription from Madame Dumont or even Henry that would shed more light on things, but the title page is blank. I smile to myself. That would have been too easy.

  I turn the book over and read the blurb on the back, but it’s more to jog my memory as I’ve already read it. I didn’t want to tell Gigi – it was such a thoughtful gesture, and anyway it was a long time ago that I did my A levels, so I’d actually like to read it again. Yet, there’s something else I need to read. Something a lot more pressing. Something I’ve been putting off since yesterday, for fear of what it might say.

  Slipping the book back into my bag, I pull out the bundle of letters.

  Henry was such a prolific letter writer. Since their chance encounter outside the café he had kept up his promise to Emmanuelle to write regularly, but not all of his letters are as impassioned and heartfelt as the last one I read. Many are just about normal, everyday things. Random thoughts and observations that he wished to share with her. Often they are just a few lines, a simple protestation of his love and his usual sign off, J’attendrai, Henry, but there are others, longer and more detailed, where he pours out his heart and hopes of their future.

  Like the one I read yesterday, when he asked her to say yes.

  I find the next dated one only to discover I’ve come to the end of the envelopes. This is Henry’s last letter. My chest tightens with trepidation. What is it going to say? I slip out the notepaper inside and unfold it.

  It’s just one sheet.

  Darling Manu,

  It’s 3am and I can’t sleep for thinking about the last time we met. Regret keeps me awake. I regret more than anything that we argued, especially when our time together is so precious. You were angry with me for not understanding. You said I refused to listen and was being selfish. You were right, all your accusations were true and I’m sorry I lost my temper. I couldn’t help it. I’m hot-headed like that sometimes, especially when that sometimes involves the woman I’m in love with talking about marrying another man.

  For you see even now, despite this regret, I still find it difficult to understand how you can even say those words. How you can even give them your breath and voice. For to do so is to give them life.

  I know your fears and concerns for the future, and I know your love for your family. I love them too, despite what you think. It doesn’t matter that I have never met them, nor am I likely to, and it matters not that they would disapprove of me. I love them because they created you, and for that I will be forever grateful.

  You are right, I don’t care about what your father says, and I care even less about tradition. But I do care about you my darling, I care about you more than anything in the world, and I don’t ever want you to suffer because of me.

  So you see, I am filled with regret, but I am also filled with resolve. I am going to leave Paris for I need to stop being selfish and let you go. I should never have asked you to run away with me, it was wrong to put you in such an impossible situation. I will never believe that the best man won, but neither will I ever want you to suffer any shame, embarrassment or hardship. So go if you must, marry him, bear his children, and live a life of riches that you could never have with me.

  I ask only one thing. Just never forget me, Manu.

  Please, never forget me.

  H

  My eyes well up as I read those last lines. It’s as I feared. She didn’t say yes, despite how much she loved him. But oh, how I had wanted her to! Instead she wrote him a note that he never received. He never knew how she truly felt. Just never forget me, Manu. Please, never forget me. As I sit in the darkened carriage, tears silently leak over my cheeks and I brush them away before they fall upon his letter. His last letter. It’s over seventy years ago but the emotion is just as raw as if he had written this only yesterday.

  With a sense of finality clinging to me, I fold the sheet of notepaper in half. It’s over, yet despite seeing the pictures of Emmanuelle’s wedding, I didn’t want it to end like this. I was hoping for – what? I don’t know. Some kind of miracle. Something else. A happy ending somehow.

  I slip his letter back in the envelope, but it catches on something. Wait, there’s something else inside. I pull it out with my index finger and thumb. It’s a photograph; a black and white headshot of a man. I turn it over. On the back in the same familiar handwriting is the simple inscription: Your beloved H.

  So this must be Henry.

  I look at his face. At the dark wavy hair swept off his forehead, almond-shaped eyes, a strong, determined jaw and the kind of wide, American smile that lights up a room. Dressed smartly in a suit and tie, he’s gazing into the camera. Finally, after all this time, I see the handsome young African-American who was to fall in love with a beautiful Parisian heiress and write these letters.

  And all at once I can see clearly the odds that were stacked against them. Now, more than ever. No wonder they couldn’t marry – not only was he a poor writer from America, he was also of a different race. Paris might have offered artistic, racial and emotional freedom to many musicians, artists and writers during the twenties and thirties, but Emmanuelle’s family wouldn’t have shared the same liberal attitude when it came to a suitor for their daughter.

  I peer at him intently. There’s something familiar about him. I look straight into his eyes. They stare back at me, unblinking. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who, and my mind slips back to his last letter. As we hurtle across France, I sit in my darkened carriage gazing at the photograph, and ask myself silently: Oh Manu, did you ever forget him? Did you ever forget your beloved H?

  27

  ‘You’re a complete star, I don’t know what I would have done without you, Ruby.’

  The next morning I’m sitting at the café on the corner with Harriet. Thankfully her ankle isn’t broken, it’s just badly sprained and she’s been instructed to wear flat shoes and use crutches. Which she’s completely mortified about.

  ‘What if someone sees me?’ she’d wailed earlier, as she’d hobbled down the street.

  ‘Don’t be silly. There’s nothing embarrassing about having to use crutches,’ I’d reprimanded her sensibly.

  ‘I’m not talking about the crutches. I’m talking about the flat shoes!’ She’d motioned in horror to her feet, which were encased in a pair of huge white men’s trainers. They were the only things that would fit. ‘They make my feet look even bigger!’

  Reaching the entrance of the café, we’d stood aside to let a chic Parisian couple leave. As they passed they’d both glanced down, then cast horrified looks at each other, much to Harriet’s mortification.

  ‘Mummy was right, no man is ever going to walk me down the aisle with feet this size.’

  Thankfully, a large chocolate croissant and two cups of creamy hot chocolate later – ‘Just this once, I need the energy, I’ve got to go into the office’ – she’d perked up and, having dropped the subject of her feet, was now busy thanking me for yesterday’s trip to Provence.

  ‘You did me a huge favour, I’m forever indebted,’ she gushes, between mouthfuls of pastry.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ I feel a bit embarrassed. I didn’t actually do anything, apart from snoop around a bit and nearly get myself killed.

  ‘No sweetie, you did, so I want to say thank you by taking you out for dinner—’

  ‘Please, you don’t have to do that,’ I protest.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she cuts me off, ‘plus it’s your birthday,’ she reminds me, even thou
gh I wish she hadn’t. I’d been trying to push it to the back of my mind and forget about it. ‘And if I need another reason, which I don’t, I want to celebrate being asked to fill the role of auctioneer tomorrow . . .’

  She trails off and looks at me across the table, trying to keep a solemn face.

  ‘You’re not!’ I gasp, suddenly registering. ‘You’re going to be the auctioneer!’

  Her face splits into a delighted grin and all she can do for a moment is nod. ‘Well, it’s not an official promotion or anything,’ she says, quickly playing it down. ‘Franck, one of our senior auctioneers, is off sick, and seeing as I’ve done most of the valuing it was probably easier to give me my first opportunity than ask someone else—’

  ‘Stop being so modest!’ I cry, and she blushes. ‘This is amazing, Harriet.’

  ‘Well, it’s a step,’ she says, trying to hide her excitement. ‘I mean, if I’m terrible at it this will be my first and last auction.’

  ‘You’ll be wonderful, I know it.’

  Harriet can never accept a compliment, but for once at least she doesn’t argue with me. Though, keen to downplay her achievement, she moves swiftly on. ‘And on top of all that I’m rather ashamed that we’re in Paris, home to some of the finest restaurants in the world,’ she continues, ‘and yet all I’ve offered you so far is takeaway pizza . . .’

  As she says ‘takeaway pizza’ she lowers her voice and hisses it across the table as if she’s talking about something illegal. Though maybe in Paris it is.

  ‘So I’m taking you out for dinner tonight and that’s final,’ she announces loudly.

  I know when not to argue with Harriet. ‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile, ‘that’s really sweet of you.’

  ‘Fabulous!’ Her face brightens. ‘So where do you fancy going?’ She begins to reel off a list of very glamorous-sounding restaurants.

  ‘Um, I don’t know, they all sound amazing.’

  ‘Oooh! I know, what about La Djionnaise, that fancy new bistro?’ she says excitedly, ‘I’ve always wanted to go there! The food’s supposed to be incredible.’

  ‘Great,’ I nod, even though I’ve never heard of it.

  ‘Two ticks, I’ll make a reservation.’ Grabbing her phone, she quickly dials and gabbles down the phone. There’s a pause, and I watch her smile turn to a frown.

  ‘Bugger, all booked,’ she says, hanging up and looking disappointed. ‘Oh well, never mind, it’s probably all hype anyway. I’ll try somewhere else.’ She makes another phone call. It’s the same reaction. ‘Buggery bollocks.’ She tries again. ‘Blasted buggery bollocks!’ And again. ‘Bloody blasted—’

  ‘Why don’t we stay in?’ I quickly interrupt, before Harriet runs out of expletives beginning with B. ‘Honestly, I really don’t mind.’ I feel a sense of relief. Thank god for Parisians and their love of gastronomy.

  But Harriet is not giving up that easily.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she retaliates. ‘We’re not staying in, not on your birthday! There must be a restaurant in Paris that has a table tonight, there just must—’

  ‘May I make a suggestion?’

  We both turn to see Luc, who’s appeared beside us. He clears his throat nervously.

  ‘My friend has a restaurant, it’s only small, but the food is incredible.’ At the mere mention of food his shy demeanour disappears and he begins gesturing passionately with his hands, the tattooed daggers on his forearm waving wildly. ‘You will love it, it is truly superb, and I am sure I can get you a table . . .’

  I’m expecting Harriet to completely pooh-pooh the idea – she and Luc haven’t exactly been on the best terms the last couple of days – but instead she smiles brightly. ‘Really? That would be fabulous.’

  ‘But of course.’ He nods, beaming with pleasure. ‘I shall call him immediately.’ He starts to turn away, then pauses. ‘How was the soup?’

  ‘Delicious,’ she enthuses, ‘what was the spice I could taste?’

  ‘Ah, that would be the saffron,’ he says knowledgably, ‘it brings out the delicate flavour of the chanterelle champignons—’

  ‘Mushrooms,’ she corrects, and he laughs throatily.

  ‘Ah yes, mush-roooms,’ he repeats, ‘such a peculiar word.’

  I look back and forth between them in confusion. ‘What soup?’ Maybe it’s the knock on the head, but I don’t remember any soup, with mushrooms or saffron or anything. It’s been just coffee and croissants.

  ‘Luc brought me soup yesterday,’ explains Harriet, smiling. ‘It was really kind of him.’

  ‘I saw her in the taxi when she came back from the hospital,’ he jumps in to assist in the explanation, ‘and I helped her up to her apartment, all those stairs!’ He shakes his head, tutting. ‘And I knew she must be very hungry, so I brought her some of my home-made soup, and also some little pastries for dessert.’

  Harriet blushes. ‘I still have your Thermos, I forgot to bring it back.’

  ‘Ah, no problem, I will collect it later . . . one evening, perhaps – when it is convenient, of course,’ he adds, blushing.

  ‘Of course,’ she says with a smile, and then there’s a pause as they just look at each other, without saying anything.

  Er, hang on, what on earth is happening here? If I didn’t know better I’d think there was something going on. Harriet has gone soft on Luc.

  ‘So, about the restaurant?’ I remind them, for something to say. Well it’s either that, or sit here feeling like a big green hairy gooseberry and feeding Heathcliff, who’s snuffling under the table for croissant crumbs.

  ‘Ah yes, of course, the restaurant,’ says Luc, seeming to snap to. ‘I will call now, no problem.’ And, shooting Harriet one last smile, he darts off into the back of the café to make a phone call.

  Harriet’s gaze follows him until he disappears, then she turns back to me.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘What?’ she demands.

  ‘Don’t give me “what”,’ I retort.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She makes her eyes innocently wide.

  ‘You and Luc!’ I gasp, not buying it at all.

  ‘There is no me and Luc. I was just being friendly. He’s been very sweet, bringing me soup, an angel actually. If it wasn’t for him, I would have starved yesterday.’

  Highly unlikely, Harriet is rather prone to exaggeration, but still.

  ‘You like him,’ I tease, smiling.

  ‘I do not!’ she snaps. ‘I mean, of course I like him, he’s a love, who couldn’t like him? But not in that way, obviously,’ she adds.

  ‘Obviously.’ I nod.

  She narrows her eyes and glares at me across the table. ‘I’m dating Rupes, remember?’

  He’s ‘Rupes’ now?

  ‘Did he bring you soup?’ I say pointedly.

  She glares at me across the table.

  ‘Or perfume?’ I prompt, suddenly remembering. I’d meant to ask her the night of her date, but had completely forgotten. She must have forgotten to mention it too, because of everything going on with her ankle. I smile expectantly.

  ‘Perfume?’ she repeats, her brow furrowing.

  Or she didn’t get any, I suddenly realise, because in that instant I know she has no clue what I’m talking about.

  ‘Why perfume?’ She looks at me quizzically.

  ‘Um, no reason,’ I say, my mind scrambling, ‘I was just thinking, with you hurting your ankle, he might have paid a visit to see if you’re OK, brought a gift perhaps . . .’

  Shit. If the perfume wasn’t for Harriet, then who was it for?

  ‘Rupes is away,’ she says defensively, ‘which he’s actually very upset about.’ She picks up her phone and to prove it, shows me a message:

  SS bout yr ankle. Wish I cud b there bt awy til nxt wk. Let’s h%k up thn & I’ll mke u feel btr ;--)

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak text,’ I say, staring at it blankly. It’s like some modern form of hieroglyphics.

  Harriet translates impatiently, ev
en the smiley face at the end, which is actually animated and keeps winking at me. As she does, I try not to compare it to the letter Henry sent Emmanuelle after their first date – after all times have changed – but it’s impossible not to. If the text is anything to go by, it’s certainly not changed for the better when it comes to romance, I reflect, looking again at the smiley face and wondering how we went from courtship to an emoticon.

  ‘Anyway, enough about Rupes.’ Seeing I’m obviously unimpressed, Harriet changes the subject sniffily. ‘Tell me more about yesterday.’

  My mind flicks back to Provence. ‘Beautiful,’ I smile, thinking of the landscape, ‘though not without its surprises.’

  ‘Surprises?’

  ‘You didn’t mention Xavier was going.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ she says, trying to look all wide-eyed and innocent and completely failing. ‘Well anyway, it’s a very good thing he was there, to come to your rescue after you fell off that bicycle.’

  She motions towards my bruised shins. I’d taken the bandages off this morning and the grazes were almost healed already, thanks to Gigi’s first aid skills, but the bruising was now coming out in all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘Tell me what happened? You never said what you were doing exactly.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing,’ I say, not wanting to go into details, ‘I decided to get some fresh air and cycled into the village—’ I suddenly remember my conversation with the woman in the cemetery. ‘Harriet, did you find anything priceless in the apartment?’

  ‘Priceless?’ She looks at me, surprised. ‘Why do you ask that? I didn’t think you were interested in antiques.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I protest with a little laugh, before remembering that’s probably not the most tactful thing to say to someone for whom they’re a lifelong passion. ‘I mean, I don’t hate them, I just don’t know enough about them. I’m not an expert like you.’