‘Your mother asked me to give you this,’ I say, passing him the locket.
‘You know Gigi?’ he asks in surprise.
‘We met, briefly, she asked me if I could fix this necklace for her, my friend repairs jewellery . . .’
‘It is my grandmother’s.’ He nods, then frowns. ‘I didn’t know it was broken.’
‘It was just the catch, nothing major,’ I add, hoping I sound believable.
I must do, as Jean-Paul takes it from me without question and tucks it carefully in his pocket. ‘I have never seen her take it off, she must have trusted you very much,’ he says, smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, it was nothing.’ I feel a stab of guilt. I hate lying, but I can’t tell him the truth.
‘Well, if you are OK, I should return to work, the shop is very busy.’ He gestures to all the customers waiting to pay.
Or can I?
‘Jean-Paul . . .’
He turns back to look at me.
This is my last chance. There’s so much I want to say, so much I need to say. I can’t just say goodbye and get up and leave and say nothing. It’s wrong. Jean-Paul and his family are the rightful heirs to Madame Dumont’s estate, not Trixie and Felix. And yet even though I know this is true with every bone in my body, I also know there’s no real evidence, no evidence that would stand up in court anyway. Without it I may just be raising the family’s hopes for nothing, dropping a bombshell that could shatter their lives.
‘Yes?’ He waits expectantly.
I need more proof than just a locket and some love letters.
‘I hear you want to be a journalist?’
I need a birth certificate.
‘Yes, very much.’ His voice swells with enthusiasm. ‘I have always loved the written word. One day I hope to go to college to study . . .’ He suddenly trails off. ‘Have we met before?’ he asks, furrowing his brow as if trying to place me.
‘Yes, a few days ago upstairs, I was looking around at all the old photographs.’
‘Ah yes, I thought I recognised you,’ he says, remembering, ‘you were looking for someone.’
I nod, thinking about Henry.
‘So, did you find him?’
He looks at me expectantly, his wide almond eyes gazing at me just as Henry’s did from the photograph.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘In a way I think I did.’
I think about Jean-Paul all the way home. About how much he looked like Henry his great-grandfather, because I have no doubt. Henry is his great-grandfather – I’m more sure of that than of anything. I think about how if it could be proved, the revelation would change everything. Jean-Paul’s family would stand to inherit, if not all of Emmanuelle’s estate, then a great deal, more than enough to enable him to go to college, and for Gigi not to have to worry or feel guilty any more.
And I think about Gigi’s mother, Grace. Because it’s not just about the money, that’s only a small part of it. It’s about a secret that’s been kept hidden for over seventy years. It’s about knowing who her parents were, about answering the questions she has no doubt asked herself her whole life, it’s about bringing her closure.
But would it? I still don’t know for certain why Emmanuelle gave up Henry’s child. All I know is that in the chaos of the war the course of both their lives was changed for ever. Emmanuelle fled Paris for the south of France, where she married Monsieur Dumont and endured a loveless marriage to a man who, by the sounds of things, wasn’t very nice at all.
But what happened to Henry? Where did he go? What became of him?
And most importantly of all, why did she keep the apartment locked up and a secret for all those years?
My mind is churning, the questions swirling round and round, so fast I almost feel dizzy. So many secrets were lost in the war, but so many more were made. And the more I find out, the more I discover is still hidden. Secrets concealed within secrets. It’s like those Russian dolls that go down in size. You open one, only to find out that another needs opening, and so it continues . . .
Will I ever get to the whole truth and unravel this mystery? Will Jean-Paul and his family ever inherit what is rightly theirs? I feel a growing sense of anxiety as I climb the stairs to Harriet’s apartment. I dearly hope so, but time is fast slipping away. The auction is tomorrow; soon everything Emmanuelle had will be sold to the highest bidder. Gone for ever.
Turning the key in the lock, I push open the door. Heathcliff greets me and I scoop him up, holding his warm body close against mine as I walk over to one of the small arched windows. I gaze out across the Paris skyline. It’s out there, whatever the answer is. It’s out there somewhere. The city stretches away from me in all its infinite possibilities and, faced with my overwhelming task, I stand there. I stand there for a very long time.
‘Have you seen my lipstick?’
It’s later that evening and Harriet and I are running around the apartment, getting ready to go out for dinner. Luc came through and we have reservations at his friend’s restaurant for 8.30. Well, to be exact, it’s me running around for Harriet as she’s still on her crutches. Which I know must be really awful for her as she can’t do anything for herself, but I have a sneaky feeling she’s rather enjoying it. Well, as a Fortescue-Blake, it is in her genes.
‘Which one?’ Giving my lashes one last coat of mascara, I have to yell above Harriet’s iPod that’s blasting out a mix of Rihanna and Vivaldi. They seem, weirdly, to go together.
‘The red one.’
Like that narrows it down. Harriet has about a dozen lipsticks, all of them red. Mascara wand in hand, I do a quick dash around the tiny apartment. There’s only so many places it can be.
‘No, I can’t see it—’ I turn down the volume on the iPod so I can stop yelling. ‘Where did you last have it?’
Sitting on the sofa bed with a glass of wine, Harriet frowns as she tries to remember, then gasps triumphantly. ‘Ah, I know! It’s in the freezer!’
‘The freezer? What’s it doing in the freezer?’ I ask in astonishment, though I should know better. This is Harriet after all, nothing she does should surprise me. Tugging open the fridge door, I look inside the tiny freezer compartment. Sure enough, there it is.
‘Celeste told me to put them in there, it keeps them fresh,’ she says matter-of-factly, taking the lipstick from me and slicking two bright scarlet streaks on her lips. ‘Here, try some.’
She passes it to me and I dutifully put some on. I’m actually getting quite excited about tonight. I wasn’t in the mood to go out earlier – celebrating my birthday without Jack was the last thing I wanted to do – but there’s something so cathartic about getting ready to go out with a girlfriend. Whatever stresses or worries you have seem to take a back seat as you try on clothes and swap make-up. It’s just so much fun.
Even if one of us is on crutches, and the other wearing the exact same outfit she wore for the party just the other night, I muse, checking out my reflection. Well, after witnessing Celeste’s horror at my other clothes, I decided it was probably wise.
‘So the cab should be here in a few minutes,’ says Harriet, hoisting herself up from the sofa bed on her crutches and angling to see her reflection in the mirror.
‘That was so kind of Luc to organise this for us,’ I say pointedly, as she wobbles dangerously.
‘Yes.’ She nods, distractedly pulling down the hem of her dress. ‘Though I suppose it was only a phone call.’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s the thought that counts.’
She fiddles with her hem a bit more. ‘Yes, he is very sweet like that.’
‘I’d say it was more thoughtful than sweet,’ I say, reaching for my bag, ‘being sweet is easy, but being thoughtful requires a bit more effort, it means you have to care about someone.’
She stops what she’s doing and glances up from the mirror. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she says. ‘I’ve never really thought about it like that before.’ She pauses for a moment, her expression turning serious as
if reflecting on something, and I wonder if she’s going to say something about Luc. If she’s going to finally see what’s been right there in front of her all this time.
But then her phone beeps. ‘The taxi’s here,’ she says, glancing at the screen. And just like that, the moment is gone.
Outside, dusk is falling over a June evening, casting purple streaks across a crimson sky and turning everything golden. It’s what photographers call the magic hour, and the drive through the streets of Paris to the restaurant is nothing less than magical. Gazing out of the window of the cab I watch the scenery passing by and, as my eyes blur out the details, I’m transported momentarily back to India and my trip across Rajasthan.
My mind flicks back to Jack. I imagine him sitting next to me in the taxi, just across the armrest. Remembering how close we were, how small our world was, just me and him on the back seat, cocooned together in a small white car as we travelled dusty mile upon dusty mile across a faraway land. But now all that’s changed. Both geographically and emotionally, the distance between us couldn’t be any wider. He hasn’t been in touch, but then neither have I. Things have just been left to drift.
But for how much longer? How much further can you drift apart before it’s impossible to find your way back again?
After about twenty minutes we arrive at the restaurant. Tucked discreetly down a side street with a hard-to-find sign, it’s one of those places you have to be in the know about. However, pushing open the door, it’s immediately evident that there are plenty of people who are in the know about it. Stinking deliciously of garlic and red wine and buzzing with chatter and laughter, the place is crammed to the gills.
It’s not very big. Two small rooms curl around either side of the bar, into each of which are shoehorned half a dozen or so tables and chairs. At first glance the place appears to be completely full, but after giving her name to a passing waiter, Harriet and I are shown to an empty table in the far corner. No sooner have we sat down than we’re greeted by the owner himself, a rambunctious, bearded man with a hoop earring and unlaced Converse who swoops upon the table, flapping his arms around like a giant bird trying to take flight and exclaiming in torrents of French.
‘This is the birthday girl,’ says Harriet, gesturing towards me.
‘Bon anniversaire!’ he cries, a large welcoming grin splitting across his fleshy face. ‘It is such a pleasure!’
‘I’m sure it’s all mine.’ I redden, slightly embarrassed at finding myself the centre of attention. Several diners are looking over, trying to see what all the commotion is about. ‘And it’s not actually my birthday until tomorrow—’ I begin trying to explain, but I have no chance against this tidal wave of energy.
‘Poof, nonsense!’ he says dismissively, waving his hands around as if swatting flies. ‘Luc has told me so much about you!’
‘He has?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Yes, you are ’Arriet, no?’
‘No, that’s me,’ says Harriet, ‘this is Ruby.’
‘Ah, forgive me,’ he gasps, clutching at his chest in his horror and shaking his head so his little silver hoop bobs back and forth maniacally. ‘Two such beautiful ladies, my mind is confused! But I will make it up to you! Luc has given me strict instructions, I must cook special food tonight for special ladies!’
I can’t help smiling. He really is entertaining. He seems to speak entirely in exclamation marks.
‘But I say to him, how can I do this without you?’
‘Are you the chef?’ I look at him in surprise. He’s nothing like I imagined a chef to look.
‘Ah non! I have a chef, a very fine chef, but I want Luc to come and work with me, because he is the finest chef I know!’ He kisses his fingers enthusiastically. ‘But he will not leave the café,’ he finishes, pulling a sad face.
‘But why? He’s far too talented to be working there,’ I say.
‘This I know!’ The owner makes his eyes even bigger and throws his hands in the air. ‘I tell him this every day, but no, he will not leave.’
‘Maybe he likes being a waiter,’ suggests Harriet, ‘no responsibility, no pressure.’
‘No! It is not this!’ he protests, almost violently. ‘It is because he is very loyal to his customers, he doesn’t want to leave them, especially one customer in par-ti-cu-lar.’ He articulates each syllable and makes a big show of staring goggly-eyed at Harriet. ‘He says who else will serve them café crème and croissants?’
A blush rises up Harriet’s cheeks and she obviously doesn’t know where to look. So it’s rather a relief when we’re interrupted by a waiter bearing a tray with two small glasses filled with amber liquid.
‘Fantastique! Aperitifs!’ booms the owner, looking delighted as he passes one to each of us, before wishing us to ‘Enjoy your meal,’ and disappearing in the same bird-flapping manner as he appeared.
I glance across at Harriet. There’s so much to say I don’t know where to start. Only Harriet beats me to it.
‘Well, this is simply lovely, isn’t it?’ she says with that great British reserve, and then before I can say anything about Luc, she chinks her glass against mine. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my glass against hers.
Something tells me it’s going to be an interesting evening.
30
Fast forward through several courses of the most delicious food I have ever eaten. Bowls of thick, hearty onion soup topped with a crusty chunk of bread, bubbling with melted cheese. Deep-fried Camembert, oozing with quince jam on a bed of rocket. Black squid-ink risotto, roasted sea bream, fragrant chicken breast. And all washed down with two bottles of red wine that flows as easily as the conversation.
‘Seriously Rubes, I’m so pleased you came to Paris,’ says Harriet, as we finish laughing about my recent shopping experience, which I’ve taken to calling ‘Scarfgate’, and taking another large gulp of wine she adds, ‘it’s just what I needed.’
‘Me too,’ I say, topping up our wine glasses. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ I nod, ‘I can’t remember the last time you and I had a night out together, just the two of us, oh actually, now I can—’ I break off.
‘What?’ demands Harriet, before suddenly erupting with laughter. ‘Oh god, it was that night I got stood up by that actor wasn’t it?’
‘He was a mime artist,’ I correct her, trying not to giggle, ‘and he didn’t stand you up, his appendix burst.’
‘Or so he said . . .’
‘You mean texted.’
‘Oh golly, yes.’ She starts laughing. ‘He said he was texting from the stretcher he was being wheeled on into the operating theatre.’ She’s trying to stifle her laughter.
‘As if! He’d be writhing around in agony!’
‘So you came to my rescue and took me out for dinner but on the way home we bumped into him in Covent Garden—’
‘—and he said it turned out it had only been rumbling so they’d aborted surgery.’
‘But he was painted all green and dressed up like the Statue of Liberty!’
We roll around at the table, collapsing into giggles.
Finally Harriet stops laughing and dries her eyes on her napkin. ‘I’m going to take a picture,’ she announces, reaching into her bag for her phone. As she does I realise this is the first time it hasn’t been on the table. Usually she keeps it there so she doesn’t miss any texts from Rupert. It briefly crosses my mind to wonder if anything is wrong, but before I can ask we’re interrupted by a bottle of wine appearing at the table.
‘From Monsieur,’ says the waiter, showing us the label before swiftly opening it and topping up our glasses.
‘Monsieur?’ we both repeat, turning round, and we spot Luc leaning against the bar. He smiles, rather sheepishly, and I glance at Harriet. But if I was expecting her to be less than pleased by his appearance, I couldn’t be more wrong. Her face visibly lights up and she waves him over to join us.
‘I was just passing and I thought I would say ’allo,’ he says, pulling up a chair.
It’s so obviously a lie but somehow it doesn’t matter. ‘How is everything?’
‘Wonderful,’ gushes Harriet, more than a little tipsily.
‘Amazing food,’ I agree.
Luc looks pleased. ‘Did you have the squid-ink risotto? That was my recipe.’
‘It was?’ Harriet couldn’t look more thrilled. ‘Wow, that was delicious. The best food I’ve ever eaten. You’re so talented.’
Luc beams. ‘You really think so?’
‘Absolutely,’ she says, nodding, and for a moment they lock eyes across the table.
I glance back and forth between them. Something is definitely going on between these two. There’s a definite shift. I can feel it. But then I have drunk the best part of two bottles of red wine, so maybe my sensory receptors are totally askew. Maybe I’m just wanting it so hard I’m imagining it.
‘Will you take a photo of us?’
I snap back to see Harriet brandishing her smartphone at Luc.
‘It’s Ruby’s birthday.’
‘It’s not my birthday until tomorrow,’ I protest for the umpteenth time, but nobody is listening.
‘Yes, of course!’ Looking delighted to be asked, Luc jumps up from the table and starts angling the smartphone at us as if he’s Mario Testino, issuing commands to ‘ouistiti!’
‘No, it’s “say cheese”,’ Harriet corrects him, still smiling broadly like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Say cheese,’ he repeats, proud of the new phrase, and we grin like maniacs. The smartphone flashes. And then we do what everyone does, which is immediately grab the phone and inspect ourselves in the photograph.
‘Oh my god, I look drunk,’ I gasp, looking at my flushed face. ‘And I have a bit of risotto in my teeth.’
‘Nonsense, you look fabulous,’ cries Harriet, pinching the screen with her fingers and zooming in. She lets out a shriek. ‘Golly, look at my hair! It was supposed to be a chignon but I look like I have a squirrel on my head.’
Love From Paris Page 26