‘Well, at least you were ahead of your time.’ I smile. ‘Wellingtons and dresses are all the rage now at Glastonbury.’
‘Tell that to my mother. I still don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for spoiling the annual family photo.’ She grins, and something tells me Harriet actually gets some enjoyment out of that fact.
‘Anyway, Xavier fancies you,’ she adds matter-of-factly.
‘Me?’ I feel a stab of surprise. And something that feels curiously like flattery. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I protest, to myself as much as Harriet.
‘I saw the way he looked at you.’ She waggles the last slice of pizza at me.
‘Rubbish.’ I feel my cheeks flush. It’s the champagne, I’ve drunk too much. ‘He’s French, he was just flirting,’ I say firmly. ‘And anyway, I’m not interested in Xavier or any man,’ I add resolutely, ‘I’ve got a boyfriend.’ Taking another swig, I relish the sensation of bubbles bursting on my tongue. ‘At least I had this morning,’ I add as an afterthought, feeling the bubbles slowly dissipating.
‘No word from Jack, then?’
I shake my head. ‘He said we needed time out,’ I confess, feeling a lump in my throat as I remember. ‘That we needed some time to cool off and think about things.’
‘Well maybe that’s a good thing,’ says Harriet brightly. ‘Time apart in a relationship is very healthy. I read that in one of Mummy’s magazines once.’
‘You did?’ I feel a beat of hope. ‘What did the article say?’
‘Well, it was more focused on the relationship between you and the household staff and how live-ins are becoming less popular . . . but a relationship is a relationship,’ she finishes confidently.
I love Harriet, I really do, but sometimes I feel like we’re from different planets.
‘That’s the thing, I’m not sure I still have a relationship.’
‘Nonsense, a break is not a break-up.’
‘Are we talking about butlers now or boyfriends?’
She reddens and takes a gulp of champagne. ‘I’m sure this will all blow over. He’s probably still on the plane to Colombia. I’m sure as soon as he lands he’ll call you.’
‘Yes.’ I nod, but I’m unconvinced. Harriet wasn’t witness to the humdinger of a row we had at the airport and the way it was left between us.
‘So what work is he doing there that’s so important, anyway?’
‘I have no idea,’ I shake my head. ‘Architect things?’
‘So all a bit of a mystery then,’ she ponders, picking at the pizza crusts that she’d earlier discarded, ‘like Madame Dumont’s apartment.’
At the mention of the apartment I’m reminded of the stolen letters in my bag. I feel a secret flutter of excitement, followed by a rush of guilt. I need to tell Harriet about them. After all, it’s technically stealing.
‘Actually, I’ve got a confession—’
‘Me too.’ She cuts me off.
‘You do?’ I stare at her in surprise. Don’t tell me she took something from Madame Dumont’s apartment as well. I feel a beat of anticipation. Maybe it’s something that will help shed light on the mystery.
‘I winked at someone.’
‘You did what?’
‘I know, I know, it’s terrible,’ she groans, misinterpreting my confusion as disapproval.
‘So, this isn’t about Madame Dumont’s apartment?’ I feel a blow of disappointment.
She looks at me as if I’m bonkers. ‘No, of course not silly,’ she frowns and, reaching for her laptop, logs in to her dating site. Up pops a profile:
WineNot, 32, M
Women are like wine and get better with age
She angles the screen to me. ‘So what do you think?’
I peer at the black and white headshot. It’s like one of those professionally taken photos of actors. Or the pictures you see of dodgy haircuts in the windows of barber’s shops. ‘Is he an actor?’ I plump for the first option considering his haircut is fairly decent.
Harriet frowns. ‘No, he’s a wine merchant,’ she replies. ‘WineNot, get it?’
‘Oh, right.’ I nod, registering. Like I said, I’m not used to online dating. ‘Clever play on words,’ I add, somewhat unconvincingly.
‘I know, isn’t it?’ enthuses Harriet.
It’s immediately obvious Harriet really likes him and it’s not my opinion she wants but my confirmation.
‘He’s from London but works here in Paris. We’ve got lots in common.’ She smiles. ‘Plus, more importantly it says he’s six foot seven, which means he’s bound to have bigger feet than me.’
‘Are there any more photos?’ I feel like such a hypocrite even asking as I’ve always held firmly to the belief that it’s personality that counts and not what someone looks like. And I still do in real life. Well, within reason. But that’s before I knew about online dating and men with black and white headshots.
‘Yes, lots,’ she says excitedly and starts scrolling through. There’s WineNot on a mountain bike, WineNot playing tennis, WineNot doing something goofy on a pair of skis . . .
‘Are you sure he’s not too sporty for you?’ I muse doubtfully. Harriet’s idea of getting her heart rate up is reading old Jilly Cooper novels.
‘Oh, the pictures don’t mean anything,’ she says dismissively.
‘They don’t?’ I frown, then gasp as she clicks on a picture of him jumping out of a plane. ‘Wow, look, in this one he’s skydiving!’
‘Find me a man on this website who doesn’t have a photo of himself skydiving,’ she says dismissively.
‘Really?’ I had no idea there was so much to learn about online dating.
‘Absolutely,’ she nods. ‘Just like every girl has a picture of themselves swimming with dolphins.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, I had to check out the competition, obviously.’
‘Do you have a photograph of yourself swimming with dolphins?’
‘No, but I’ve got this.’ She clicks on her profile and up pops a photo of Harriet in an ancient Barbour raincoat with the family’s beloved but even more ancient King Charles spaniel, Mr Piggywinkle.
There’s a pause as we both study it. As much as I adore Mr Piggywinkle, it’s not quite bikinis and dolphins.
‘Oh golly, I’m not much competition, am I?’ she says in a small voice.
‘Dolphins schmolphins.’ I pull a face.
She smiles gratefully. ‘Maybe, but he hasn’t winked back,’ she says after a moment.
‘Yet,’ I add, but she’s in a downward spiral of regret and too much champagne and is not to be reassured.
‘I know I shouldn’t have, but I’m desperate.’
‘Don’t say that!’ I protest loyally.
‘But I am, I’ve got the summer ball to go to!’
Abruptly I’m silenced. Oh god, the annual summer ball. I’d forgotten all about that. Harriet’s parents live in this big stately home and every year they have this ball where they invite all their friends and relatives, not to mention practically all the village. And every year Harriet goes by herself and has to put up with a barrage of questions from all her elderly relatives about when she’s going to meet a nice man and settle down.
‘I can’t go by myself again this year, I just can’t’ – she’s started to wail – ‘not after Imogen’s news.’
Harriet has five sisters and one by one they’ve all gone off and got married, all except her youngest sister Imogen; something she took great comfort in. Until last week, when Imogen’s Swiss banker boyfriend popped the question. Which of course is lovely and wonderful and Harriet is thrilled for her.
Just not for herself, as she’s now officially the spinster sister.
‘My little sister’s getting married too.’ I attempt a note of solidarity.
‘But it’s different for you, you’ll be going with Jack.’
‘Unless he stands me up again.’
Harriet pulls a face.
‘Look, I get it. No one wants to be
the single big sister at their little sister’s wedding. When Amy met her fiancé in India I had, well let’s just say, “my reservations” about him, then once I got to know him I was really happy for them. But if I’m honest, I was even more happy that I had Jack to take with me.’
‘See!’ wails Harriet.
‘Yes, but a lot of that was because I was going to be the big sister who’d got cheated on a week before her own wedding,’ I point out, thinking about my ex-fiancé Sam and then trying not to. ‘At least you don’t have that embarrassment.’
‘No, I have a different kind. Did you know last year Great Aunt Mildred asked me if I batted for the other team?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes.’
There’s a pause and then—
‘Do you?’ I ask cautiously, as suddenly I see another reason entirely for the lack of boyfriends in Harriet’s life. ‘Not that it would affect our friendship at all,’ I add hastily, but she lets out a snort.
‘Of course not, silly,’ she retorts, ‘I just thought it would stop her asking why I don’t have a boyfriend, let alone a husband, but instead she told Mummy. I had no idea until one day she invited me for tea at the Wolseley and started telling me all about an experience she had at her Swiss finishing school with another girl called Claudette . . .’ Harriet trails off and gives a little shudder. ‘I think she was trying to be nice for once, but it was so embarrassing.’
‘Because I want you to know our friendship would stay the same,’ I continue. ‘I have a lot of gay friends—’
‘Ruby, I’m not gay,’ she says, glugging back the rest of her mug. ‘I’m single, and I’ve been single for ever—’ She breaks off and heaves a heavy sigh. ‘It’s all right for you, you were with Sam, and now you’re with Jack.’
‘Well, I’m not too sure—’ I begin, but she cuts me off.
‘But you’ve had love in your life Ruby, you’ve been in love. I never have. I’ve never been in love and no one has ever been in love with me. Oh, I’ve had silly crushes and stupid flings and too many dates to even talk about, but no one has ever told me they loved me. Not one man. Not ever.’
She swallows hard and looks at me and I see her eyes brimming with tears and I know in that moment this is the real reason why she needed me to come to Paris.
‘Everyone thinks I took the job in Paris because it was a promotion and a better salary, but that wasn’t the real reason. I wanted to find love and where else but the city of love?’ She smiles, almost with embarrassment, then falls silent.
I wait patiently for her to continue.
‘And so I gave myself a makeover,’ she says after a few moments, ‘and I did all the things you’re supposed to do. I read all the articles, I signed up online, I went on another diet. And still it eludes me . . .’ She shakes her head and chews her lip, fighting back the tears that are threatening to fall.
‘You’ll find love Harriet, you will,’ I say, reaching out and rubbing her upper arm. Hearing her say all this breaks my heart. If anyone deserves love, it’s Harriet. ‘I’m no expert, far from it, but I do know it never quite looks like you expect it to. Like how you’ve imagined. It comes along when you least expect it, and in the strangest of places. You’ve just got to be open to it—’
‘But I am open,’ she protests, ‘I’m open to all of it, even the heartbreak that comes with it, because at least then you’ve felt love, you’ve experienced it . . .’
I think about Jack, about everything I’ve felt since the airport, and she’s right. Better all of that, and whatever is yet to come, than we’d never met and none of this had happened.
‘It’ll happen,’ I say softly, ‘I promise.’
Harriet gives a little smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘I think I might go to bed, it’s late,’ she says, putting down her mug.
‘Good idea, it’s been a long day.’ I nod.
‘Do you want me to help you make up the sofa bed?’
‘No, it’s fine, I can do it.’
‘OK.’ She gets up and stacks up the pizza boxes, then turns to me. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, so what was yours?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said you had a confession.’ She looks at me expectantly.
I suddenly remember the love letters. But the moment of confession has gone now. ‘Oh, um . . . it was nothing,’ I say, shaking my head dismissively.
‘OK, well goodnight, sleep well – and thanks for listening, Ruby.’
‘Any time.’ I smile. ‘Night Hattie.’
‘Night.’ And, giving a little wave, she pads a little tipsily into her bedroom.
10
It’s not stealing, it’s borrowing.
Ten minutes later and I’m tucked up on the sofa bed with Heathcliff snuggled up at my feet. OK, so it’s not a four-poster, but it’s not as bad as I thought. It’s actually quite comfortable. Well, -ish.
Though to be honest, I’m not really thinking about my comfort levels right now, I muse, feeling a flutter of excitement as I reach for my bag and pull out the bundle of letters. Then pause. Next door I can hear Harriet’s bed creaking. I wait and listen, careful not to make a noise. Until after a few moments it’s followed by the sound of faint snoring.
The flat is in darkness, apart from the glow from the small table lamp, and I angle the letters to the light. Seeing the faded address once again I feel a prickle of anticipation. I’m going to put them back, I promise. Apart from that one note I read this morning, they’re most likely to be all written in French anyway, so it’s not as if I’ll be able to understand them, apart from the odd word. Google Translate has its limits too.
But even as I’m thinking that, a part of me can’t help knowing I will be able to make out what they say. That I have found these letters for a reason and that somehow they are going to unravel the mystery of the apartment. What was the secret that Emmanuelle had to tell H? Did she see him again to tell him? Why had they rowed? And, more importantly, who was H?
Something tells me that in order to find out I need to go back to the beginning. Right back to where this story first began.
Carefully untying the pink ribbon, I glance through the envelopes, noticing the postmarks. They were all written over a period of roughly six months, between late September 1939 and the beginning of April 1940, and are neatly arranged in date order, the earliest at the top. Picking up the first letter, I turn it over. As I expected it’s already been opened, neatly, as if with a letter opener, most likely the same letter opener I had seen on Madame Dumont’s dressing table. I take out its contents.
It’s a folded slip of paper, the same pale blue colour as the envelope. I open it.
Dearest Emmanuelle,
Forgive me for writing without asking you to allow it, and in my mother tongue, but I feel I have no choice in the matter. For after our chance meeting outside Café de Flore, the image of your tumbling red hair and pale blue eyes has been imprinted on my mind, and I cannot stop thinking about you.
Just a few lines, written over seventy years ago, but the emotion hits me right off the bat. I pause, feeling both elated that it’s written in English and also an uncertainty. This is undoubtedly a love letter. I shouldn’t be reading this. Even though Madame Dumont’s died it somehow feels wrong, as if I’m intruding.
Yet it also feels as if I’m bringing her back to life again. And not as an old lady of ninety-five, whose belongings are to be broken up and auctioned off to the highest bidder, but as a beautiful, vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her.
My eyes sweep again over the author’s handwriting. Curly and slightly messy, it rushes across the page as if unable to stop itself. I can feel the immediacy of the emotion; even now, after being hidden for all these years, it’s still there in his words.
I read on.
Was it fate that caused our lives to collide? The universe that conspired to bring us together? Or was it just an accident and I am simply a lucky fellow? The romantic and the realist will for
ever disagree and I confess I am both. Yet, it matters not. All I know is that our meeting on that warm evening two days ago has brought a smile to my lips more times than I can count.
When I walked you home you asked me about my life, and I told you I was just a boy from Brooklyn, here in Paris as a writer eager to learn my craft, following in the footsteps of some of the greatest writers who have ever lived. All of this is true but what I failed to tell you is that words have eluded me of late. Nothing can be worse for a writer than to stare at a blank page, to be devoid of inspiration.
But now everything has changed. After meeting you it seems that my thoughts and ideas have come rushing back, eager to jump on the blank pages I have been for so long waiting to fill. Thank you Emmanuelle, for it is you, and you alone, who has inspired me.
I will keep this letter short, but before I go, may I ask you one more thing? I know this may seem forward but I would very much like to spend more time with you. If we are to believe these terrible rumors of war, time is a luxury we may not have and I do not want to waste a precious moment of it. That evening we walked together we talked of many things, but one was our shared love of jazz. I have tickets to see Django Reinhardt and his quintet this weekend and I would be nothing less than a fool if I did not ask you to accompany me.
I anxiously await your response.
Henry
Henry must be H, the intended recipient of the note that Emmanuelle wrote but never sent. This must be how they first met.
I finish reading, but the words on the page are now in my head, catching hold of my imagination and creating a whole new world. A world that is Paris in 1939, before war had broken out, a city enjoying the warm evenings of late summer. I can see the lively pavement cafés filled with patrons enjoying their carafes of wine and aperitifs, hear the laughter and the chatter and the distant sounds of jazz, smell the scent of cigarettes and perfume . . .
Gazing at the letter in my hand, I’m distracted by prisms of light dancing among the words, as if the faded notepaper has come alive, and looking up I glimpse the Eiffel Tower out of the window. From the angle at which I’m lying, I can see it sparkling in the darkness, illuminating the sky like a million shooting stars.
Love From Paris Page 9
