Petite Anglaise
Page 32
Maybe it wasn’t really James I fell in love with, I think to myself with a sudden blinding flash of clarity. Would it not be fair to say that I fell for my own words, or the image of myself that he reflected back at me, the carefully constructed, larger than life version of me: petite anglaise? Everything she wrote was in some way calculated to charm and seduce, and hadn’t James been the most tangible proof of her success?
I take a long look at my face reflected in the window of the métro carriage as it rattles and sways through the dark tunnels. I look different somehow, more knowing. In a single year I’ve done more living than in the entire decade that went before it. Rising from the ashes of two failed relationships, I’m a single mother now, and a woman who is well on the way to owning her first home.
I’ve formed one half of an ill-matched couple for most of my adult life but now, alone, I feel whole, at peace with myself. The desire for flight has finally left me. No shadowy figure runs alongside the train. Given the chance, I wouldn’t trade places with the old me. Nor do I wish that petite anglaise had never existed. She brought me here. And I really like where I’ve wound up.
My phone vibrates, announcing the arrival of a text message from one of my new blogfriends, asking me if I fancy going for drinks in the Café Charbon at the weekend. I smile, and shake my head. ‘I think it will be a while before I’m ready to face that place again,’ I text back. ‘But I hope, for my sake, it never closes down!’
As the train pulls into the station, I raise the handle so that the double doors spring open while the carriage is still in motion, allowing me to alight at the precise moment it reaches a standstill. I walk along the platform, still accompanied by my soundtrack. Sometimes I feel like I own this city. Whatever lies in store for me, whoever may be waiting around the next corner, I feel sure of one thing: my future is in Paris.
Ahead of me I see blank pages, inviting me to cover them with bold, lurid strokes.
Acknowledgements
With thanks to Simon Trewin, Sarah Ballard and Katy Follain for their invaluable help and guidance and to Angela Sanderson and Meg Zimbeck for their feedback and support.