by Thérèse
He looks decidedly European today, India thought, taking in his navy overcoat, Berluti loafers and his worn Lotuff satchel. He looked up over the top of his reading glasses and put down a copy of Le Monde as she approached him.
“Hey. Have a seat,” he said, lifting his overnight bag off a chair. “We’re boarding in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking off her woolen coat and folding it carefully at her side.
“We’ve been invited for dinner tonight,” he said.
“That’s nice. Who with?” she asked as casually as she could manage. I’m going to Paris, I’m going to dinner in Paris, wahoo!
“An old friend of mine,” he said. “He’s a professor at the Sorbonne. He and his wife have an apartment around the corner from our hotel. She’s a photographer. I think you’ll like them.”
“Great,” India said. “Do they speak English?”
“Of course. Don’t worry, and anyway you get by don’t you?”
“Yes,” India said. ”But I’m better when I’m with people I don’t know. I get all self-conscious otherwise.”
“Well, don’t worry. They’re lovely and the food will be wonderful. Did you get a chance to prep for the meetings? I know you were staying with your friend and her baby. How is she by the way?”
“She’s okay. She’ll be fine. And yes, I got into the office for a few hours yesterday, so I’m pretty much up to speed. I am so looking forward to this part of the project. I expect the show will be very different from the one in New York.”
“Yes. It’ll be a hell of a lot more avant-garde, that’s for sure and even if it isn’t, the French publicists will hype it up so we all think it is.”
“How’s Luella?” India asked. “ haven’t seen her all week.”
“She’s okay. Better than she’s been for a while actually. How much did she tell you?”
“Nothing really. She just said she was tired and glad not to be making this trip.”
“I’ve known her and Peter for quite a while,” he said, sliding his newspaper into the side of his satchel. “In a million years, I never would have guessed he was gay.”
He sat back again and smiled at her. “She’s pleased you’re taking the pressure off her coming on this trip.”
“I’m happy to be able to. I can’t imagine how tough things have been for her. Of course, I never knew her before all this happened,” India said, wincing at the steaming tea and setting down the cup.
“She’s a lot more serious these days that’s for sure, but stick around and you’ll get to know us all a lot better. Oh! Look, we’re boarding early. That’s our flight up on the screen,” he said, getting up and stretching.
India followed Henry through the lounge, down the stairs, and outside to the tarmac and the waiting plane. They climbed the narrow steps and were directed to the first row. India was relieved to see there were three seats across and the middle one had been deliberately left empty for the comfort of business class travelers. Getting on board, she’d been anticipating the agony of sitting squashed up next to Henry. The fallout from their last flight together was burned into her psyche.
Once airborne, the flight attendants did their rounds with the drinks and snacks trolley and before she knew it, the short flight was over and they were striding along the glass-walled arrivals lounge of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Getting through passport control took a while. The arrangement reminded India of a dressage performance, where the horses prance around cones and take the longest route over the shortest distance.
They made a dash for the waiting car through a deluge and climbed into the rear seats of a Peugot. Why does it always rain the first day I’m in Paris? she thought. Damn it, I don’t have an umbrella.
“We should be there in plenty of time to relax before dinner,” Henry said as they approached the Champs-Élysées lined with Christmas market stalls.
“How pretty” India exclaimed, admiring the holiday lights wrapped around the chestnut trees. “Look, they make the shape of champagne glasses. How very French. Oh! Yes I recognize where we are now.”
Walking into the hotel foyer, it felt to India as if no time at all had elapsed since she had last been there. She almost expected Luella to appear down the narrow carpeted corridor as she made her way to her room. And what a room this was – the room Samantha had reserved for Luella. India marveled at the elaborate wallpaper with its colorful hummingbirds, the sepia prints, the curtained closets, and the marble bathroom, but it was the tiny conservatory with its view of the garden courtyard and its mahogany writing desk, velvet armchair, and coffee table that made India suddenly ache for something she couldn’t quite place for a moment. She allowed the thought that maybe it would be perfect if she were not alone. If she were not by herself, she would have leapt on the bed with delight while Adam popped the cork on that bottle of champagne and filled the two tall-stemmed glasses.
She went into the conservatory. The last time I was in Paris I was alone as well and that was way back at Easter. She sighed. Can it really be all those months since I saw him? Why am I torturing myself like this? It’s madness.
She pushed open the window and heard a wood pigeon cooing against the background hum of traffic. Bien sûr. Je suis en Paris, she thought, closing the window quickly against the blast of icy air. Je sius ici.
Unpacking some toiletries in the bathroom, she arranged her shampoo and conditioner on a narrow shelf and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
“Right,” she said out loud, before undressing and stepping into the shower. “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair maintenant, tout de suite or whatever is French for ‘right now.’”
Henry was waiting for India in the sitting room when she went in a couple of hours later. He looked fresh in a navy cashmere sweater, striped shirt and a pair of blue jeans.
“Hi,” he greeted her. “Shall we have a quick drink before we go out?”
“That’d be lovely,” she said. “Vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”
Henry went over to the corner bar as India sank into the plush velvet armchair in front of the fire. She was pleased she had chosen her black Agnes B wraparound dress but was wondering if following Ines’s rules was taking some of the fun out of dressing up. The other women in the room were wearing black too, she observed.
Henry sat down across from her a few minutes later as the barman put placeholders on the low table in front of them.
“Merci Monsieur.” India smiled. “Denis Oui?”
“Oui, Denis. Welcome back, Miss Butler,” he said pouring her wine. “Will there be anything else? Would you like some olives?”
“Non. Merci, Denis. Mais. Saus peut etre, on parle en Francais? Je suis ici apprendre le Francais.”
He laughed.
“Of course, madame. Whatever you would like.”
“That’s hysterical,” India whispered when he had left. “I ask him to speak in French because I’m trying to learn it and he answers me in English!”
“Too funny,” Henry said, “but I thought you said you were self-conscious speaking French in front of people you know.”
“I am. But that was one of my stock phrases from my language course. I thought I’d give it a whirl. I shall be tight as a clam for the rest of the evening.”
Henry laughed.
“Salute,” he said, raising his glass.
“Salute,” she said, lifting hers.
“So let me fill you in a little on my friend Joseph and Melanie, his wife,” he said. “I know them from way back. Joseph was a friend of my mother’s. Melanie is much younger, but they’re really good together.”
“I think I remember you telling me your mother was French.”
“Yes.”
“So did you grow up here then?”
“No.” Henry sipped his wine and leaned back in the chair. “My dad’s English. My parents separated a few years ago, and she came back to Brittany. I went to scho
ol in London, but we used to take our vacations here. She was keen that I didn’t lose the connection to the culture. I have a sister, Jacqueline, who moved back here. She lives in Marseille.”
India realized this was the first time Henry had spoken of his personal life to her. He’s such a different person when you get him out of work mode, she thought. She wondered if he had ever been married, but now was not the time to ask.
“What does she do?” she asked. “Is she married?”
“Yes. She’s a research scientist at Aix Marseilles University. She’s very smart. It was talking to her about her work that gave me the idea for the Faux Fashion show. So how about you? I’m sorry I didn’t get more of a chance to get to know your sister. She’s charming.”
“Yes. Annie’s the best,” India said. “I’m very proud of her.”
They sat chatting companionably for a little while longer before walking the short distance to the house, which was across the square and hidden behind old city walls. Going through the tall wooden gate into an old stone courtyard, India had a feeling of nostalgia, a connection, a forgotten memory she couldn’t place. They approached the front doorstep and as Henry jangled the bell, she took in the pungent scent of Fois de Bois.
A woman of about her own age, extremely slender in blue jeans and a white T-shirt opened the door. Her hair had been pulled into a tousled chignon. She wore little makeup and no jewelry except for a simple gold wedding band. She was, India thought, the epitome of quintessential French chic.
“Lovely to meet you, India. Come in,” she said with an almost imperceptible accent. “Henry’s told me all about the project you’re working on together. I can’t wait to hear more.”
She kissed Henry on either cheek and swapped into French. “Henry, go through to the sitting room; Joseph’s attempting to light the fire in there. He could do with some help.”
India gasped as she entered the kitchen. Everywhere she looked, there was something more quirky or beautiful than the next. She took in the stand-alone range and the deep ceramic sink in a glance, the painted shelving piled with jugs and bowls, the antique dresser, the stripped mahogany table with mismatched chairs, the rusted candelabras and the delicate tableware glistening in the candlelight.
It was everything India ached for, that air of ‘benign neglect,’ where nothing is too considered, nothing formulaic, everything sitting together in comfortable harmony. This kitchen spoke of family history, of nights spent in animated conversation and intense arguments over the relative merits of Proust and Camus.
“Please sit down,” Melanie said, lifting some magazines from a ladderback chair. “Wine?”
“Thanks,” India said, sitting down.
Melanie gestured to the bottle of white and India nodded.
“We’ll be eating soon. I’ve made a cassolet and Joseph has prepared some asparagus. Have you been to Paris often?”
“Not as often as I would like,” India said, “though I love it. I feel in another lifetime I must have been French.”
Melanie smiled. “Ah! Yes. We have done a good job of branding ourselves, but you do know we are not the most innovative and that our confidence is superficial.”
“How so?” India was intrigued.
“If you look closely you will see that we stick by the rules. Of course we all understand what the rules are.”
This was a little enigmatic for India, but she nodded in what she hoped was a sage manner. The two women made light conversation as Melanie pulled out dishes from the range. After a while, they were joined by the men, who were deep in conversation. Henry smiled over at her as he sat down at the table.
“Come and join us,” he said, popping an olive into his mouth.
India went over and sat down next to him.
As Henry had promised, his friends were charming and relaxed. They put her at ease, chatting in English and including her in the conversation, which ranged from plans for the holidays to Melanie’s latest project and India’s love of Rodin. Over a delicious chocolate mousse served in miniscule dishes, Joseph regaled India with tales of Henry’s mother and his awkwardness as a boy. Henry took it all in stride and after a course of delicious cheeses, they took their glasses and sat by the fire in the sitting room.
“If you aren’t too busy, I’d like to take you to Musée Jaquemart Andre,” Melanie said turning to India. “It’s a wonderful collection. You would love it. You can’t do it in a day of course, unless you’re an American tourist,” she added with a smile. “But I could show you the Winter Gardens.”
“That would be lovely,” India said.
“Sorry India, we have the days booked out,” Henry interjected. “Next time.”
Next time? Next time? There’s going to be a next time. Je reviens, she thought with a little whoop.
“He’s the boss,” she said to Melanie, “but next time for sure. I would like to see it. I’d love to get to know Paris from a Parisian. That would be wonderful.”
By the time Henry and India left their house, it was raining again. They ran much of the way under a shared umbrella. This reminded India so much of a scene in Midnight in Paris that it required serious effort for her not to throw herself into Henry’s arms when they arrived back breathless and panting on the steps of the hotel.
“Great dinner,” he said, stepping into the foyer and shaking off the umbrella before folding it in a stand by the Christmas tree.
“Wonderful. It really was. Thank you so much for taking me,” India said loosening her scarf. “I really enjoyed myself.”
“Me too. I’m pleased you and Melanie hit it off. I had a feeling you would. That fire looks very inviting,” he said, hesitating for a moment as they walked toward the sitting room, which was bathed in a golden glow.
“It does look very cozy,” India said. I would SO be up for a nightcap with you. She thought.
“Oh! Well.” He said, turning toward the elevator. “Good night.. Early start tomorrow. Sleep well.”
25
The next few days were busy. Henry had set up meetings with the Paris Institute and with Parsons Paris. There was much talk of summer programs and links with the Fashion Institute in New York and LIFT. India was regretting not having had time to research the schools more fully. She discovered with relief that several of the people she met were even less prepared than herself. The conversation drifted off topic frequently and the short meetings inevitably ended up in a restaurant.
Their hosts were all keen to show off the city and its cuisine to the best advantage. At Le Café de l’Homme, she and Henry sampled Pate Lorrain while enjoying spectacularly stunning views of the Eiffel Tower. They tasted beef tartar at Cru and traditional sausage and rack of lamb at Chez George. Clearly, the French were not leaning toward a vegetarian diet anytime soon, India mused.
These extremely long lunches, involving wine on most occasions, left India somewhat spaced out for the afternoon meetings. She made a mental note to stick to Evian each time but wasn’t having much success.
“The meetings don’t ever seem to reach any conclusions,” she told Henry after tea at Chez Paul as they were walking back to the hotel.
“We’re here to meet people in person,” he said. “In my experience the French are not as hooked on Le Skype as us. Virtual reality is not their thing.”
“I’ve also noticed fewer people on cell phones in restaurants.” She nodded. “How do you think it’s all going?”
“Couldn’t be better. We make a good team, Miss Butler,” he said with a smile as they went into the lobby and collected their keys. “Catch you later. I’ve a call to make to New York, and I must remember to tell Luella that Jean-Luc wants to speak to her.”
“They never met did they?” India said. “Luella had been looking forward to that. I wonder if her nephew got to meet him. With everything else that happened that night I forgot all about him.”
“That’s an easy fix. We can arrange it. Good thought. Catch you
for dinner,” Henry said, walking toward the elevator.
India went to her room. After tossing her coat and scarf on the bed, she walked across to the mahogany writing desk and sat down. Looking into the courtyard, she remembered the last time she had been in Paris. How she had seen Luella sitting out there in the rain and how they had talked about her book and about endings. Maybe she even wrote one of them at this desk, she mused.
Picking up a couple of sheets of handmade Melodies Graphiques notepaper, she took the lid off her fountain pen and wrote the date. Rolling the pen between her fingers and thumb, she rested her hand on her chin and gazed out of the window at the trees sparkling with tiny white lights, the branches swaying in the breeze.
Endings are new beginnings, she reassured herself, remembering the quote from Joseph Campbell that Luella had used to end her novel. We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.
She began writing. After a while, she carefully folded the letter into an envelope and addressed it. She went down the hallway quickly and handed it to Jean-Paul to post before she had time to change her mind.
“Hi Henry,” she said, sitting down in front of the fire a few hours later and lifting the glass of wine he had waiting for her on the coffee table. She leaned back savoring the heavy scent of smoldering pine logs admiring the fresh display of star anise on the console next to her. “It all looks so festive doesn’t it? Here’s to our last night in Paris. Santé.”
“We’ll be back soon enough,” he said. “I’ve set up meetings at Eva Zingoni’s workshops for January. I’d like to involve her in the show in some way.”
“You mentioned her yesterday, so I checked her out. She recycles French textiles from all the major fashion houses. I can’t wait to see the fabrics. She worked at Balenciaga didn’t she?”
“Yes, and she has quite the celebrity following now. Nicole Kidman’s a huge fan.”