Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  “I can’t wait to read it,” India said. “And no, don’t tell me which ending you favor. No spoilers. I think Hemingway was prone to excess. Three endings sound like more than enough to me.”

  “I welcome your feedback,” Luella said, handing India the manuscript. “And now let’s get you something to eat. I’m actually not all that hungry, but you go ahead.”

  “Are you sure?” India said putting the folder into her bag carefully. “I do rather fancy the croque monsieur.”

  “Be my guest.” Luella smiled. “I’m not very high energy today, but I’m glad of your company. Go ahead.”

  “My French isn’t so great, but I think I can manage to order croque monsieur,” India said, catching the waiter’s eye. “How about I get a side order of fries and you help me with them.”

  “Bien sûr,” Luella answered.

  India finished her meal quickly, sensing from Luella’s air of distraction that she needed to be alone.

  “I’m going in that direction,” Luella told her as they were leaving the café. “Thanks so much, India. When are you going back to London?”

  “Tomorrow evening, sadly. I can’t believe how quickly these last few days have gone.”

  “Well I’ll see you there if we miss each other tomorrow.” She smiled. “À bientôt.”

  Unsure what to do with the rest of the afternoon, India wandered down the street and spent some time in Librairie la Hune admiring the art books before taking tea at the downstairs café in Monoprix. A few hours later she strolled back to Hotel de l’Abbaye looking forward to settling down in front of the fire with Luella’s book. I have all the company I need for tonight’s digestif, she thought.

  Luella walked along the stone-arched passageways of Rue de Rivoli slowly. At Le Meurice Hotel, she hesitated a moment before entering the foyer and taking in the opulent splendor of the reception area with its glistening Art Nouveau mirrors marble-tiled floor and gilt furniture. I would never stay in a place like this, she thought. It’s far too ostentatious.

  “Bonsoir Madame. May I help you?”

  A manager was at her side.

  “Non Monsieur,” she answered. “Merci.”

  What on earth am I doing here? she wondered, turning quickly to leave. Racing down the steps, she dashed across the street, heedless of the blaring horns as she dodged between cars. She steadied herself against the garden railings and caught her breath. I think I might be going mad, she thought. What on earth did I think I would achieve by going there?

  It was so much warmer in Paris than here, India thought, pulling her collar around her face against the bitterly cold wind whipping up Shaftsbury Avenue and walking quickly towards Wardour Street. There was something about Soho London that always excited her. She loved the eclectic mix of bars and cafes, sex stores and offices, the warren of tiny side streets barely wide enough to take the cabs and cars that were constantly teeming with office workers and tourists, the pubs spilling patrons outdoors onto every corner in all kinds of weather, and the discreet hotel entrances tucked away down alleys.

  And today, India felt not only her usual quickening of pace, but a flutter of excitement at the possibility that she might be about to join the throngs of executives at Pâtisserie Valerie for lunches or grabbing sandwiches to go from Prêt à Manger before meetings.

  She took a deep breath before pressing the intercom to the offices of Lichtenstein and Cowan, a tall Georgian building incongruously set opposite a sex shop with its cheap window displays of mannequins in bondage gear. The door buzzed open and India went toward the lift to the second floor, where she was greeted by a young woman she judged to be in her mid-twenties, wearing an immaculately tailored gray skirt and a camel cashmere sweater. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and when she smiled, her teeth had that preternaturally white sheen India had only previously seen in California.

  “Mr. Cowan will be with you in a moment. May I take your coat? Would you like a glass of water?” she said, gesturing toward one of the two easy chairs next to a coffee table set out with dozens of international glossy magazines.

  “No thank you,” India answered, unwrapping her scarf and taking off her raincoat, instantly grateful that she had worn the gray Agnes B shift dress. Shopping in Paris certainly gave a girl added confidence, even if her dress was from a chain that was also in London. A week studying Parisian style had not been wasted on India. Inès was right with her advice to keep things simple – good tailoring, neutral hues and then all you needed was a unique piece of jewelry, preferably inherited from your grandmother. In the absence of a grandmother, India had made a trip to Links and was sporting a delicate necklace with tiny pink pearls.

  Henry appeared not long after she sat down. She stood up to meet him and for a moment felt butterflies. Had he been that tall in Paris? Had his eyes been so molasses brown, his shoulders so broad? She felt something close to an electric shock run down her spine.

  “Great to see you, India. Come on in,” he said, holding the door to his office open wide with his arm and leaving an arc for her to enter through.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, ducking into the room and waiting while he closed the door behind them both.

  “Here, have a seat if you can find one,” he said, lifting a pile of magazines and then gesturing to two leather bucket chairs facing one another.

  Henry’s office was not at all what she had been expecting. For some reason India had imagined a modern, streamlined minimalist space with stripped wood furnishings and modern art. Instead, every conceivable wall space was filled with shelves straining under the weight of books and manuscripts. Henry’s desk was buried under a mountain of files and papers, magazines and folders.

  “I’m a hoarder,” he said, reading her mind. “Out of chaos comes clarity.”

  “I love it,“ India said. “I can’t understand how people can be the least bit creative in a sterile workspace. Those cubicle things are the worst.”

  “Ah. Yes, hot-desking would definitely not work for me.” He laughed. “So have you thought about my offer?”

  “Well, since we spoke on the phone I’ve read the book and I have to admit it isn’t the kind of book I would usually read, but I couldn’t put it down.”

  “Yes, with Luella there’s always a great hook. She’s totally commercial. If I could ever persuade her to write more sex scenes she’d probably outsell EL James.”

  “So have you had a chance to set out how you think I can help?”

  “I have,” Henry said, picking up a magazine, then tossing it across a coffee table where it landed precariously on top of his briefcase. He stood up, went across to his desk and lifted a phone.

  “Samantha, can you bring me the Luella Marchmont file? Thanks, and can you pick up the draft contract for Miss Butler from the legal people? I meant to collect it on my way in.”

  Turning back to India, he continued. “I think our arrangement will work best on a contracted retainer and an hourly rate, travel expenses to be costed separately. Standard consultancy fixed six-month contract to take us to the end of October, to be reviewed at the end of the strategic planning stage. That’s the time allocation to do the build out, production and follow up. I’m assuming you can commit to the time frame. We’re already way behind schedule.”

  Henry was talking so rapidly that India was having difficulty keeping up with him. Samantha was in the room now and handing Henry a manila folder.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing India a wad of papers. “Have your lawyer check it out, but I think you’ll find it’s all pretty straightforward. Let me know if you think we’ve been generous enough.” He smiled. “I am pretty sure we’re well ahead of a teacher’s salary, but equally I want you to be happy. Let me see. We’re Wednesday right now. If you could sign it and let me have it by Friday that’d be great. Let’s schedule a meeting for early next week and in the meantime take this with you and get up to speed on the promotion and give me your th
oughts.”

  Henry didn’t sit down again and it was clear to India the meeting was over. “Er, thank you. Yes. I think Friday will be fine,” she managed to say. Thank god for Annie and her team of lawyers, she thought. I’m way out of my depth here.

  “Great. Don’t go, Samantha; we need to run through the campaign for Morning in Manhattan – shouldn’t take long.” He grimaced. “Same old, same old.”

  “Let me show you out, Miss Butler,” Samantha said graciously.

  India stood outside on the steps of the building. The entire meeting had taken fewer than ten minutes. Pumped with adrenalin, she set off in the direction of Regent Street unsure what to do with the rest of her afternoon and kicking herself for not asking any of the questions she should have asked Henry.

  What exactly did this job entail? Would there be regular hours? Would she be traveling a lot? Would she be working from home? Had she misled him? She’d ended up in a mess that way once before. She wasn’t in a rush to mislead anyone again.

  India glanced up as the clock outside Fortnum and Mason chimed the hour and realized this would be a good time to call her sister in LA. She turned into the nearby Le Pain Quotidien, ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and settled into a corner seat. Annabelle picked up quickly.

  “Hey sis. How’s chilly London? Are you sure I can’t tempt you back to LA? It’s a glorious day here.”

  “Hi Annie. I have some news.”

  “Is everything okay?” Annabelle sounded alarmed.

  “Everything’s fine. It’s just that I need some advice. I’ve had a job offer. It’s all happened a bit fast and you’ll probably think I’m insane, but something happened in Paris…”

  “Sounds like the opening to a novel.”

  “Well, funny you should say that,” India said. “Okay. I’m not quite sure where to start, but the bottom line is that I’ve been offered a job in promotions and Annie, I think I may be in over my head.”

  “Well, I’ll avoid saying the obvious.” Annabelle laughed. “Just start at the beginning and tell me everything. Just give me a minute to grab a coconut water…okay, I’m sitting down. You have my full attention.”

  India talked at breakneck speed, filling her sister in on the trip to Paris and the meetings with Luella and Henry. Realizing she was attracting attention from an adjoining table, she lowered her voice and whispered, “So what do you think?”

  “I think you’d be mad not to take it.”

  “But can I do it? Surely that’s the more important issue.”

  “Of course you can. Think of all you’ve done.”

  “Like what exactly?”

  “Darling, EVERYTHING. Think about it – your teaching, the events you’ve produced, the workshops you designed, your guidebook, to say nothing of your somewhat unhealthy interest in fashion. You recognize designer labels I’ve never heard of; you’re obsessed. This is made for you.”

  “You always make things sound so simple,” India said, but she was listening hard.

  “Go for it, darling. And of course, I’m being selfish. It’d be wonderful. I could meet you in New York; we could catch a show. Why not?”

  Henry, India thought. Henry would be the only reason.

  “So have you and Adam sorted things out yet?”

  “I think so. We’ve talked a few times and we text. I think I believe he was telling the truth, though I do wonder if he’d have taken that girl out for dinner if she’d been flat-chested and wearing Birkenstocks.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Probably not,” she agreed.

  “Anyway, he’s promising to take me to Cannes when he’s there on location.”

  “That sounds wonderful, darling. Great. That should make up for not going to Paris.”

  “It’s funny to think of it, but if he’d been with me last week, I probably wouldn’t have met Henry and Luella and all this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “True. So it’s meant to be; everything’s working out. You see? Take the job. Go for it, darling.”

  India said her goodbyes and clicked off. She stared at the dregs in her teacup. Her sister was always so upbeat. She didn’t know what it felt like to fail. Everything she touched turned to gold dust – her amazing career, her wonderful marriage, great kids. She never seemed to doubt herself. Annie was the one who got the confidence genes, that was for sure.

  Standing up and pushing her way through the crowded café doorway, India emerged onto a street heaving with tourists. She made her way to the tube station, reflecting on their conversation.

  9

  Luella leaned back in the chintz-covered armchair and sighed heavily. The high-ceilinged room she had decorated with such loving care all those years ago seemed to echo around her. Each possession held a memory: the watercolor she and Peter had picked out on their honeymoon, the coffee table discovered in a junk shop when they were students, the outrageously expensive Waterford crystal chandelier Peter had splurged on to celebrate his promotion to company vice president.

  Maybe she should have arranged to be out tonight after all. She’d run the possible scenarios in her head many times and eventually decided to be at home when he left. It would be cowardly to avoid him. She sat up quickly startled by a thump in the hallway as Peter put down his suitcases.

  He walked into the drawing room staring around as if he were lost. He looked ragged from lack of sleep, his clothes a crumpled mess. The stress was clearly taking its toll on him. He cut such a pathetic figure that for a split second Luella had the urge to leap up and hug him, but then instantly remembered why he was there.

  “How was the flight?” she asked, putting her wine glass onto the coffee table with trembling hands.

  “Long.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Look Lu…” he began, running his hands through his hair awkwardly. “I never wanted you to find those letters…”

  “Stop Peter. I can’t do this right now. I can’t talk about it. Please just get your things and go. We can talk when I’ve had more time.”

  Hesitating for a moment, Peter turned and left the room. Luella switched on the television and sat staring mindlessly at the screen. A while later, she heard the front door close gently and soon after, the revving of an engine.

  How can twenty years be over in the space of an hour? she wondered, closing her eyes and blinking back tears.

  India threw her coat on the back of a chair and spread out Henry’s papers across the kitchen table. She sat down to read the contract and gasped.

  There must be something wrong with my math, she thought. He can’t possibly be offering me more in a week than I’ve ever earned in a month.

  She read the first two pages slowly again. The line for travel and accommodation clearly indicated she would not be expected to stay at a Holiday Inn or to travel coach. There was some legal jargon but it didn’t get in the way of her understanding that Lichtenstein and Cowan LLC was hiring Miss India Butler as a consultant and that Lichtenstein and Cowan LLC was offering to pay her very well indeed.

  But for what exactly? she thought. What did consulting actually involve? Whatever…Annie was right. She would be insane not to grab this opportunity. What could be the worst that could happen? It was just a job. Why this paralyzing fear of failure? Had she really failed before? Running her workshops in LA and getting published had been a great achievement, but one excruciatingly embarrassing incident (that she sickened even to think about) had knocked so much of her confidence.

  Yes, she had written her book and had even overcome the terrors of appearing on primetime television to promote it, but someone who was really driven would have gone on to write another, learned how to promote herself better through the media. There were enough classes out there on that. Something had stopped her. She had come back to London, to her comfort zone, to a job she could do with her eyes shut.

  India stood up and went over to the sink. Filling the kettle, she popped a teabag into a pot and
stood waiting for the water to boil. What exactly did she want? Of course she knew deep down that all she wanted was for Adam to move their relationship on, ask her to live with him or at least make a long-term plan with her. Clearly, he was still terrified of commitment. Roger was right. It was time to take control and make some plans of her own. She grabbed a teacup and saucer, some skim milk, brought the tea tray back to the table and sat down.

  Okay, she thought, shaking off the image she had dreamed about so often: a house overlooking the ocean in Malibu and a bassinet in a bedroom she shared with Adam. Okay. Enough. This really is ENOUGH. What was that Leonard Cohen quote? Act the way you want to be and soon you’ll be the way you act. “Okay, okay,” she said to her cat, asleep and curled under her feet. “I will act like an independent woman of the twenty-first century.”

  Pushing the tea things away, she reached across the stack of bills and magazines and lifted a well-thumbed book. I wonder what an overpaid consultant type person should wear for meetings, she thought. I shall consult the oracle that is Inès de la Fressange.

  Luella showered and dressed quickly, relieved to have appointments all day that would get her out of her home office and out of the house. It was unseasonably cold and she was regretting her choice of a linen jacket as she stepped out of the cab in front of Henry’s office.

  “Hi, Miss Marchmont. Great to see you. How was Paris?”

  “Thanks, Samantha. You look lovely as ever. Paris went well. Is India here yet?”

  “Yes. She and Henry are in the boardroom already. Can I get you anything? There’s water in there but I’ll run across the street if you fancy a latte.”

  “Water will be fine thanks, and I don’t think you could run very far in those shoes.” She laughed, looking down at Samantha’s platform heels.