Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘I’m actually a little tired . . .’

  ‘OK, well suit yourself,’ she shrugs, grabbing her car keys, ‘but I thought you might be interested as the apartment’s got quite a mystery attached to it.’

  ‘Mystery?’ My ears prick up. ‘What kind of mystery?’

  ‘It was an old lady’s, but she’d kept it locked up for over seventy years. No one even knew about its existence until after she died. Apparently she’d been secretly paying rent on it all these years and never told a soul.’

  ‘But why?’ I ask, intrigued.

  Harriet shrugs. ‘Well that’s the mystery, nobody knows.’

  As I absorb these few details, something unexpected catches hold inside of me. A familiar stirring of fascination, curiosity and excitement. And an absolute certainty. That there’s only one reason someone would do something like that. Love.

  ‘Actually, on second thoughts, I’m not as tired as I thought.’ As Harriet reaches for the door handle, I jump up from the sofa. ‘I think I’ll come with you.’

  7

  We clamber back into the car, including Heathcliff who’s had enough of being stuck in the footwell and this time insists on sitting perched on my knee, staring out of the window as if he’s sightseeing, just like any other tourist.

  ‘Honestly, this lawyer person is so annoying,’ grumbles Harriet as we head back across the river. ‘If I’d have known he wanted to meet now, we could have gone straight there from the station. Still, at least you get to see more of Paris this way.’

  ‘Where’s the apartment?’ I ask above the noise of the tyres rattling over the cobbled streets.

  ‘The Marais,’ she replies, turning right without indicating.

  ‘Is that where the Sacré-Coeur is?’

  ‘No, that’s Montmartre.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I blush, embarrassed by my terrible sense of geography. ‘I knew it began with an M.’

  ‘Easily done,’ she grins, rather graciously. ‘They’re very different neighbourhoods but they’re both really interesting. The Marais is a very historic district. It actually means “the marsh” and it used to be where they grew all the vegetables for the city, but then the French nobility took over the land and built these huge residences. The architecture is amazing, the buildings are like actual palaces . . .’

  I listen to Harriet acting the tour guide and in spite of my mood about Jack, I feel a beat of excitement. ‘. . . Then the nobility started moving out and at the end of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries it became this thriving Jewish community. Then of course, came the war . . .’ She falls silent, reflective for a moment, then starts up again. ‘And now it’s extremely fashionable; there are some wonderful galleries I can take you to.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I enthuse.

  ‘Though we should also go to Montmartre,’ she continues. ‘It’s famous for the basilica, but also for being this amazing bohemian mecca where lots of artists like Picasso, Van Gogh, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec used to live and work . . .’

  ‘Is that where the Moulin Rouge was?’ I ask, feeling very much the tourist.

  ‘That’s Pigalle, at the foot of Montmartre, which used to be the red light district. A short walk from there are Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, two famous department stores and the best shopping in Paris. We’ll have to go, we can buy you some new clothes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ I look down at my new dress, which admittedly is now crumpled and covered in dog hairs.

  ‘You’re in Paris, you don’t need an excuse to buy new clothes,’ she says, as if that’s perfectly obvious. ‘That’s the first lesson I learned when I moved here.’

  I look at Harriet incredulously. She always used to hate clothes shopping. I once took her into Zara and she broke out in hives. But now here she is, talking like she’s some kind of fashionista.

  ‘Plus it’s your birthday, you’ll need something new when we go out and celebrate.’

  Reminded, I feel a familiar pang. The last thing I feel like doing is celebrating. I just want to stay in with a bottle of wine and a bucket of Häagen-Dazs and pretend it’s not happening. Maybe even stick my head underneath a duvet. You know, that kind of celebrating.

  But judging by Harriet’s phone call earlier, she could do with a night out and so instead I force a smile. ‘Great,’ I reply, putting on a brave face. ‘I can’t wait.’

  After several minutes we turn off the main boulevard and begin making our way through narrower streets, lined with cafés and tourists.

  ‘Hmm, now it’s around here somewhere . . .’ She takes her eyes off the road to look at her phone. ‘Hang on, I’ve got the address—’

  We swerve sharply, narrowly missing a whole row of parked cars.

  ‘Here, let me look,’ I say, trying to grab her phone, but she shoos me away.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it,’ she says cheerfully, ‘you just relax.’

  Relax? I white-knuckle Heathcliff’s fur.

  After a couple more minutes of zigzagging around we turn into a much quieter street, on the corner of which appears to be a small, secluded park, almost hidden away, and surrounded by iron railings.

  ‘This is it,’ announces Harriet, looking triumphant.

  We start looking for the number. Ahead, I notice a male figure with his back to us. Dressed in a sharply cut suit and carrying a briefcase, he’s waiting outside on the pavement, smoking a cigarette. Checking his watch, he pulls out his phone.

  Harriet’s immediately starts ringing. It’s the lawyer. He’s already called wanting to know our whereabouts and she gasps infuriatedly. ‘Honestly, I’m not even five minutes late!’

  We both glance at the clock on the dashboard. Admittedly Harriet’s not the best timekeeper, but this time she’s right. It’s two minutes past.

  ‘You know, I’ve never met this chap but he seems like a total pain in the—’ She suddenly breaks off. ‘Golly, that’s the lawyer?’

  We both stare as he turns towards us. With his wavy dark hair swept off his face, cheekbones so chiselled they’re like coat hangers and a large Roman nose, he looks like he’s just stepped off a Paris catwalk, not out of a law office.

  ‘Woweee,’ whistles Harriet through her teeth.

  I have to admit, since falling in love with Jack I haven’t even noticed other men. It’s like they’re invisible. The moment we kissed on the rooftop in Udaipur, every other man ceased to exist. They don’t even appear on my radar. But this man is so jaw-droppingly handsome he’d send any woman’s radar into a beeping frenzy.

  Quickly applying a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick, Harriet scrambles out of the car and hurries towards him, apologising profusely.

  ‘C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer.’ He nods, putting out his cigarette and briskly shaking her hand.

  Harriet says something else in French then, turning to me, says in English, ‘This is my assistant from London. Ruby, this is Monsieur Moreau.’

  ‘Please, call me Xavier,’ he replies in the kind of heavy French accent that has been sending women weak at the knees for centuries. Fixing me with his dark, steady gaze, he flashes me a charming smile. ‘Welcome to Paris.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply and as I go to shake his hand he seems to hold both eye contact and my fingers for just a beat longer than feels necessary.

  Hang on a minute – is he flirting with me? But no sooner has the thought flashed through my brain than it’s chased by another. Of course he’s flirting with you, Ruby, he’s French! All French men flirt; they’re famous for it. I don’t need a guidebook to know that flirtation is a national pastime in France.

  ‘I apologise for spoiling your evening.’

  ‘Oh, not at all, on the contrary,’ interrupts Harriet quickly, then laughs nervously. ‘I mean, work is work and all that . . .’

  I notice a blush creeping over her neck and flustered, she accidentally drops her phone.

  Xavier swoops to pick it up. ‘I do hope there are no Ming va
ses inside, no?’

  ‘No, indeed.’ She nods gravely.

  As he hands it back I catch a flicker of amusement in his eyes and have to stifle a smile. OK so he’s a terrible flirt, but he’s also kind of funny.

  ‘So, if we are all ready . . .’ ?There’s a code for the large front door and he pulls out a piece of paper from his breast pocket, then gives a little tut. ‘Mes lunettes. I left them in the office . . .’

  ‘Reading glasses,’ translates Harriet at my blank look.

  ‘Oh, do you want me to do it?’ I offer and as he passes me the slip of paper I quickly read out the digits.

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiles gratefully and, punching them in, releases the door.

  We follow him inside, into the elegant hallway laid with the original patterned floor tiles and lit by two ornate gilt wall lamps. Ahead of us is a small elevator. It’s one of those turn-of-the-century ones, with metal lattice doors that concertina back and a small red velvet bench inside.

  I scoop up Heathcliff, who grumbles and wriggles with displeasure like a recalcitrant child. He was having way too much fun sniffing all these new and exciting smells.

  ‘Golly, it’s rather a tight squeeze,’ says Harriet as we all step inside. ‘Perhaps if I sit down . . .’

  Xavier pulls closed the metal grilles and presses the button. Slowly we start to rise upwards. It’s stiflingly hot. Standing so close to each other, our bodies almost touching, I’m conscious of the scent of Xavier’s aftershave and find myself staring at the nape of his neck. The elevator suddenly seems incredibly intimate.

  I glance quickly down at my feet.

  ‘So, as you know this apartment has been left untouched for nearly three-quarters of a century,’ he says to Harriet, continuing to speak in English for my benefit. Not surprisingly, his English is perfect; somehow I can’t imagine anything about Xavier not being perfect. ‘Which is why my clients want your expert opinion on the furniture, paintings, personal belongings and so forth. We are expecting there to be many valuable antiques.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Harriet nods. ‘I can do a full inventory and if there is anything that requires specialist knowledge we have a team of experts at the office I can call upon.’

  As the lift arrives at the right floor, we walk out of the elevator.

  ‘My clients are eager to sort out this matter as quickly as possible; they have asked me to advise you that they would like to organise an auction for this weekend.’

  ‘Golly, that’s very soon, usually we need several weeks at least—’

  ‘My clients are very busy people. I was told your company is one of the best in Paris, but if you cannot manage this, I’m sure we can find someone else—’

  ‘No, no, we can manage this,’ says Harriet hurriedly. ‘Depending on the number of artefacts, we usually put together a detailed catalogue over a few weeks and then schedule an auction, but I’m sure we can hurry things along.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He nods. ‘My clients will be happy to hear this.’

  I listen to them in astonishment. Neither of them has even mentioned the story behind the apartment. Surely that’s so much more interesting.

  ‘But do you know why the woman who lived here abandoned the apartment?’ I interrupt.

  They both stop talking business and turn to me.

  ‘Because of the war.’ Xavier frowns as if it’s obvious. ‘Many Parisians left the city ahead of the German troops. The owner, Madame Dumont would have been no different.’

  ‘But I thought France had already surrendered?’ queries Harriet innocently, before catching the thunderous look on Xavier’s face and blanching.

  ‘Only in the history books. Never in our hearts,’ he says firmly, his dark eyes flashing.

  ‘And is it true she never came back?’ I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from a heated argument about the Second World War.

  ‘According to our records Madame Dumont left Paris sometime in 1940 for Provence, where she was later married and lived for the rest of her life. She passed away recently at the age of ninety-five, having never returned to the city again.’

  ‘Did she leave a will?’ I ask curiously.

  He shakes his head. ‘She left no will and the Dumonts had no children. They owned a vineyard in Provence and this, along with the rest of their estate, was inherited by Monsieur Dumont’s distant relatives. These relatives are my clients. It was only when they hired my firm to look into Madame Dumont’s affairs that the existence of this apartment was discovered. It was rented in her maiden name, Emmanuelle Renoir.’

  Xavier is full of factual information and yet it still doesn’t explain things.

  ‘And her husband never knew about this apartment?’

  ‘He died many years ago, but apparently not, no.’ Xavier shakes his head. ‘He took care of all their financial affairs, but rent and taxe d’habitation was paid personally by Madame Dumont in her maiden name. The couple’s accountants had no knowledge of this.’

  ‘Mummy keeps secrets from Daddy all the time,’ interjects Harriet, ‘she went grey twenty years ago and he has no idea. He still thinks she’s a strawberry blonde.’

  ‘But why did she lock it up for over seventy years and still keep paying the rent if she was never going to come back?’ I persist.

  Harriet shoots me a look. ‘My assistant’s always full of questions.’ She laughs lightly.

  ‘I am afraid that I cannot answer,’ shrugs Xavier nonchalantly. ‘I am only a lawyer.’ And turning away, he strides towards a heavy panelled door with an old brass doorknob covered in patina, and puts the key into the lock. ‘That is a mystery for a detective to solve.’

  The lock is stiff. It takes several moments of jiggling the key for the mechanism to finally turn, and when it does the door makes a loud cracking noise as if suddenly released from its frame.

  ‘Is this the first time anyone’s been inside?’ I feel a flutter of anticipation.

  ‘A colleague of mine came yesterday, just to make sure there were no dead bodies.’

  ‘And were there?’ Harriet looks alarmed.

  ‘Non.’ Xavier shakes his head, somewhat amused. ‘Only ghosts.’

  ‘Ghosts?’ I look at him sharply, trying to search his face to see if he’s kidding or not. I feel unexpectedly spooked.

  ‘Nonsense, there’s no such thing,’ snorts Harriet dismissively.

  And now I feel faintly ridiculous. Honestly, what am I like? Of course he’s joking. Harriet is right – ghosts don’t exist in real life, there’s no such thing.

  But still, I stand back a little bit as the door opens and we peer inside.

  ‘Sensationnel,’ murmurs Xavier under his breath and I hear Harriet give a sharp intake of breath.

  Me, I’m simply speechless.

  As I step through the doorway, it’s as if a spell descends upon me. Cobwebs flutter like ghostly butterflies and there’s a sense of years of being left completely undisturbed, of time being allowed to stand still. And a silence. A quiet stillness that makes it hard to imagine that we are in the middle of a city, with all its noise and energy and twenty-first-century life swirling around outside us. Cocooned inside these walls, it’s as if we’ve crossed a threshold and entered an entirely different world.

  Everything is in dark shadow. The shutters are firmly closed and the only light is seeping in from the doorway behind us. And yet even while my eyes are slowly adjusting, I can clearly see the grandeur of this apartment with its high moulded ceilings and floor-length French windows. Casting my gaze around me, I’m able to make out the pale glimmer of the large marble fireplace in the centre of the room, glints of gilt-edged picture frames on the walls, the sweeping folds of heavy velvet curtains. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

  Wordlessly Xavier walks across the parquet floor and unfastens the shutters. Having been closed for so many years, they creak open almost reluctantly, as if yawning awake from a deep sleep, but the effect is instantaneous. Suddenly the apartment is transformed. T
he evening light floods in, bathing everything in a golden glow and lighting up the dust particles. Glittering and sparkling, they swirl all around us as if we were figures in a snow globe that has just been shaken up. Millions of tiny pieces of glitter.

  I stand, mesmerised. It’s like being in a fairy tale. As the light dances around the apartment, lighting up hidden corners and casting reflections in antique mirrors, I experience a sense of breathless excitement. Of wonder. Of anticipation. I can’t believe this is real. It’s as if I’ve travelled back into the past. And yet, it’s more than just that. It feels like something else. It feels like . . .

  Like magic, I suddenly realise. That’s how it feels. Like magic.

  8

  ‘Gosh, it’s like a time capsule,’ says Harriet finally.

  She’s the first to speak. It’s as if the effect of the apartment had momentarily silenced us all.

  ‘Look at all these things.’

  She gestures around her. Even with my untrained eye I can tell there are lots of valuable antiques. A pale lavender chaise longue stretches out in front of one of the French windows; a huge ornate mirror hangs over the fireplace, its glaze speckled with age; several oil paintings are displayed on the walls; a floor-to-ceiling bookcase is lined with leather-bound books . . . My heart skips a beat. It’s probably filled with first editions.

  ‘Look at all these books,’ I murmur, resisting the urge to run my fingers along their spines.

  Harriet shakes her head. ‘It’s incredible.’

  ‘The table is set for tea,’ I point out, my gaze landing on the large ornate dining table that stands proudly in the middle of the room. Surrounded by the kind of carved wooden chairs and embroidered upholstery I’ve only ever seen in museums, it’s laid out with a china tea set and silver candelabra.

  ‘Maybe she thought she was coming back,’ suggests Harriet, walking over to the table and carefully picking up a teacup. ‘Turn of the century, Limoges tea set,’ she says expertly. ‘This mould is sought after but very rarely found.’