Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

  ‘Well at least that way there would be a good reason he couldn’t get in touch.’

  I love Harriet, but sometimes her logic gets a little skewed.

  ‘I’d rather he was mad at me than being chopped up into little bits and sent back to me as a ransom.’

  ‘If anyone should be mad, it’s you. Standing you up at the airport like that! I’d be so mad I’d want to kill him,’ she gasps loyally, tearing off another piece of croissant as if she’s tearing off one of his limbs.

  ‘To be honest, I want to forget about it,’ I say firmly, ‘at least while I’m here in Paris.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ cheers Harriet, approvingly. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘So I’ve decided, I’m going to buy a guidebook and do some sightseeing. I really want to go to the Louvre, I haven’t been since I was a teenager.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds lovely.’ She nods. ‘I’ve been six times and I’ve barely scraped the surface. You know someone once told me that if you looked at every artwork for one minute it would take you almost four years to see everything.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you join me? We can go for lunch somewhere fancy, my treat. I might as well make the most of it while my credit card is still working,’ I joke, even though I’m not really joking.

  ‘Oh I wish,’ she says wistfully, ‘but I’ve got a bit of a mental day. I’ve got to finish off cataloguing the apartment we went to yesterday.’

  At the mention of Madame Dumont’s apartment, I feel myself stiffen and I reach under my chair to check on my bag, where I’ve hidden the bundle of letters. ‘Oh yes, I suppose it’s going to be hectic trying to prepare for the auction this weekend,’ I say, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Yes, and they could easily go to another auction house if we said no.’ Harriet pulls a face. ‘It’s complete madness. Fortunately my company’s one of the oldest in Paris so they have the connections and experience to make it happen, but still. Quite what is the rush, I don’t know, but then the whole thing’s a bit of a mystery isn’t it?’ She checks her watch. ‘Anyway, orders are orders – I’d better hurry, I’m meeting my boss there.’

  ‘Everything is OK?’ Luc reappears by our table.

  ‘Yes, great, thanks,’ we both chorus.

  ‘Excellent.’ A large smile splits across his face. ‘The croissants were good, no?’

  I look down to see that the plate is completely empty apart from a few golden, buttery crumbs. Harriet colours. ‘Goodness me, how did that happen?’ she says, in an attempt at sounding shocked.

  ‘Ah these croissants, they are always disappearing.’ As he scratches his fuzzy head as if trying to figure out where they could have gone, Luc’s eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘It is, how you say, a puzzle.’

  Harriet’s face reddens a shade deeper and she busies herself by pulling out her purse and a euro bill.

  ‘Ah no, it’s on me,’ he insists, pushing away her money.

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ I smile, trying out my rusty French as we stand up to leave. My accent is horrible, but he smiles graciously.

  ‘That’s so very kind of you. OK, well better dash!’ Quickly kissing Luc goodbye, Harriet hurriedly leads the way outside where she hands me a spare set of keys for her flat. ‘Any problems, just call me,’ she says, throwing her arms round me in a hug.

  At the prospect of being alone for the first time in a strange city, I feel my resolve waver. ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ I reassure her as she sets off wobbling down the street.

  But my face must have betrayed me as after a moment she turns and calls after me, ‘Just remember what Audrey Hepburn said.’

  ‘Why, what did she say?’

  She shoots me a grin. ‘Paris is always a good idea!’

  12

  OK, well if Audrey Hepburn said that it has to be true, doesn’t it?

  I mean, she breakfasted at Tiffany’s, she can’t be wrong.

  Standing alone on the pavement, I take a deep breath and look around me. A whole day in Paris stretches ahead of me, filled with infinite possibilities. I can go anywhere or do anything I want. I don’t have to ask or answer to anyone. No one even knows I’m here, I suddenly realise.

  As the thought strikes, whatever doubts I might have had are replaced by an unexpected sense of liberation. Despite the circumstances that brought me here, I can’t help but feel a tingle of adventure.

  Plus absolutely no clue whereabouts I am.

  Probably a bit silly not to have asked Harriet for a few directions, I realise, but she’s already disappeared now, and I don’t want to turn on data roaming on my iPhone to use Google Maps. Only last week I read another one of those newspaper articles about how someone went to Spain for a week and ran up a bill into the thousands using Facebook. ‘SOME BARGAIN BREAK!’ ran the headlines. According to her status update the poor woman was distraught.

  So with Heathcliff trotting along beside me on his lead, I set off in no particular direction. It’s not long, however, before I find a small souvenir stall selling guidebooks in all different languages. I buy one. Then, feeling like a complete tourist, I spend a good twenty minutes sitting on a bench trying to make sense of the pull-out map.

  It’s not easy. Round and round I turn it, making the big, fat, blue line that is the river Seine horizontal, vertical and every which way, trying to work out which way is the Louvre. Finally I give up in frustration. I’m hopeless at maps. Wrong Way Ruby was always my nickname at school and while some things have changed about my schooldays (I no longer have a perm and a crush on Mr Hodgkins, my English teacher), my sense of direction is still much the same.

  I briefly think about asking someone, but several stylishly put-together women glide by and I’m too embarrassed by both my outfit and my pidgin French to try.

  God, if only Jack was here, he’s great at directions . . .

  I catch the thought as it appears, like a cartoon bubble above my head, and firmly pop it. I’m not going to think about Jack, remember? I’m having a Jack-free day. In fact, this will be the first day in months I haven’t thought about him, which isn’t a bad thing. After all, it’s not good to think about your boyfriend all the time. Even if he does have the kind of smile that makes your legs turn to jelly . . .

  Damn, there I go again.

  Folding up my map, I put the guidebook firmly in my pocket. I have no idea which way to head, but surely no way is the wrong way in Paris, I decide, as I set off walking. Everywhere I look is so incredibly beautiful. Just the way the sunshine streams across the elegant facades of buildings, a cobbled side street beckons invitingly or an ancient brass door knocker has been rubbed golden from all those callers over the years. Simple, everyday things are transformed into something special, making you want to whip out your camera and try to capture the magic.

  Turning a corner in Paris, I soon realise, is like unwrapping a gift. Round each one is something new to be discovered and I breathe it all in. There might only be a tunnel separating us, but Paris feels a million miles away from London. Wrapped up in a language that sounds so wonderful that I keep catching myself eavesdropping on conversations, even though I have no clue what’s being said, I see something gorgeous everywhere I look.

  Correction: gawp. I’m not kidding. I spend half the time pinned to the spot staring at things with my mouth wide open.

  No wonder this city has inspired so many love stories, I reflect, as I weave my way through cobbled backstreets and onto wide boulevards. Paris is just so seductive. Even the harshest cynic couldn’t fail to be charmed by the romance coming out of every cobble, every hidden courtyard, every snippet of French and whiff of a Gauloise cigarette.

  Accordion music drifts towards me and I pass a café and a musician serenading tables of nuzzling couples. I walk on, crossing a small square lit by dappled sunlight, where there’s a man selling roses. Towards an exquisite marble fountain and carousels of postcards, filled with Robert Doisneau’s famous black a
nd white photograph taken outside the Hôtel de Ville of two lovers kissing.

  Right, OK, that’s enough.

  Seriously, I know it’s gorgeous and all that, but could there be a worse place to visit when you’ve had a row with your boyfriend?

  Catching sight of yet another couple strolling hand in hand, I stuff my hands firmly in my pockets. Paris is for lovers. It’s not for single girls who’ve been stood up at the airport, let down on their birthday and are on a timeout from their relationship. My shoulders slump and I feel my earlier resolve weaken. What was I doing, thinking I could come here and forget all about what’s happened? I should have stayed home and eaten my own bodyweight in chocolate or drunk too much wine or read all his old emails, like normal people do. Or better still, all three.

  But you didn’t, did you? You came because Harriet needed you, a voice reminds me firmly. Because one of your closest friends has been having a hard time too and your first impulse was to be there for her, just like she’s been there for you. And because relationships may come and go, but true friendships last a lifetime.

  Plus, look on the bright side, I tell myself. At least this way I don’t have a hangover and my jeans still fit.

  After walking for a while, I turn a corner and stumble across the Luxembourg Gardens. I walk towards the fountain, the gravel making a satisfying sound beneath my sandals, and rest for a few moments in one of the green metal chairs. According to my guidebook, this is where the lovers Marius and Cosette meet for the first time in Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables.

  I look up from the pages and take in my surroundings. Bursting with lawns, fountains and an ornamental pond where children play with toy sailboats, it’s an oasis dropped in the middle of Paris. Slightly different to the circumstances in which I met Jack, I reflect, thinking about the row we had on that train in India the first time we laid eyes on each other. How he kicked me out of my berth and I thought he was a rude, smug, annoying idiot – but in fact he turned out to be the kindest, funniest man I’ve ever met.

  Right, OK, well enough about all that. Good or bad thoughts, it doesn’t matter. Today’s going to be a Jack-free zone, remember? Closing my book, I stand up and urge Heathcliff to his feet. So, moving on . . .

  Eventually I reach the river and make my way towards one of the bridges. It’s super busy. From a distance I can see the railings of the bridge shimmering in the sunlight and crowds of people congregating. I know Paris is busy at this time of year, but even so, it’s almost gridlocked with people.

  I start trying to make my way through them, excusing myself in my terrible French. What is everyone doing? And then, as I get closer, I suddenly realise. The bridge is covered in millions of padlocks.

  Behind me I overhear a tour guide explaining to a group of tourists, ‘There are two bridges in Paris with these love locks. A couple writes both their names on a padlock and locks it on to one of the bridges. They then throw the key into the Seine as a symbol of their undying love. But you must be very careful which bridge you put your lock on because Pont des Arts is for your committed love, while Pont de l’Archevêché is for your lover.’

  Love locks.

  I turn to look at them, in all their different shapes and sizes and colours. Some are carefully initialled, some engraved, some scrawled. Every tiny space is covered – surely there can’t be any more room? – and yet couples are still locking them to the bridge, finding even the tiniest gap.

  Because that’s the power of love, I reflect, watching a couple carefully locking theirs on. It might be a silly superstition, a tourist trap, that’s actually damaging the bridge with all the weight from the locks and just lining the street vendors’ pockets.

  But it doesn’t matter. It symbolises everlasting love and from time immemorial people have proved that they will do anything for that. Be it a great act or a small one, like locking a padlock on to a bridge. Because love is such an incredible thing, once you find it you never, ever want to let it go.

  And bam, it hits me.

  All day long I’ve been trying not to think about Jack. To push any thoughts of him aside and play the tourist. But now they all come rushing back in with the force of a tidal wave: the way the corners of his hazel eyes crinkle up when he smiles; him dancing around my living room in just his boxer shorts, doing a stupid chicken dance to my Avril Lavigne album; insisting on buying giant ice creams when it’s pouring down with rain and saying how much better they taste when you’re wet. I miss everything about him; the yearning is almost palpable.

  God, this is crazy. I can’t forget about him, and I don’t want to forget about him.

  Impulsively, I dig out my phone and dial Jack’s number. My heart racing, I wait for it to connect.

  It starts ringing and I hold my breath. I feel absurdly nervous.

  ‘Hey, this is Jack—’

  It’s his voicemail. I let out my breath, struck by crushing disappointment. I really want to speak to him. I need to speak to him. I listen to his recorded voice, the familiarity of it triggering all my old feelings.

  ‘Hi Jack, it’s me. Look, about yesterday – I’m sorry about the row. I didn’t want us to argue. I didn’t mean all those things I said – well I did at the time, but it was just that I was so looking forward to seeing you and when you didn’t arrive it was all such a shock . . . and, well, I was so disappointed and upset as we’d made all these plans and it was my birthday, and then when you said you were going to Colombia . . .’

  It all comes out in a big rush, my words falling over each other as I try to explain, to make things right. ‘But anyway, it doesn’t matter now, because you’re not here, you’re there and, well, I know we’re supposed to be on a timeout, but I’m English, and I don’t really know what a timeout is or how long it lasts . . .’ I pause, feeling suddenly choked, then, swallowing hard, whisper into my phone: ‘I love you Jack, will you please call me back?’

  And as I say those words, my mind flicks back to the first time he told me he was in love with me, on that rooftop in Udaipur, as the night sky lit up with a thousand fireworks bursting over our heads. And how when he pulled me towards him and wrapped his arms round me, I never, ever wanted him to let me go.

  BEEP.

  I snap back. I’ve been cut off. That was the end of the voicemail. I must have run out of space.

  ‘Cadenas?’

  I turn to see a vendor holding up a large cardboard display of locks. ‘Cadenas,’ he repeats, waving them at me. I hang up. It’s only then I realise I forgot to tell Jack I’m in Paris.

  I shake my head. ‘Non merci.’

  He looks at me, then shrugs and walks by. Tears prickle, and quickly brushing them away, I look out across the Seine.

  I’m not so sure Audrey Hepburn got it right after all.

  13

  The Louvre is on the other side of the river, just a short walk across the bridge, and as I walk through the grand archway I feel my spirits lift slightly. Even if my love life feels like it’s lying in tatters, I can’t fail to be wowed by this former grand palace. Standing in the courtyard, I tilt my head back and look all around me at its elegant architecture juxtaposed against the modern glass pyramid, which rises up from the centre. It really is the most incredible building. Even more incredible is the collection of art inside.

  Or so my guidebook says. Not that I know much about art. Probably like most tourists, I just know this is the home of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Still, it will take my mind off things. After all, you can’t be in Paris and not go to the Louvre.

  Correction: Apparently you can.

  After patiently standing in line for forever, I finally enter the glass pyramid and glide down the escalator to the ticket hall beneath, only to be told by the woman at the ticket desk that there’s a problem. They don’t allow dogs. Not even cute sausage ones called Heathcliff. So I have no choice but to turn right round and glide back up again.

  Oh well, I’ve never really understood what the big fuss was about the Mona Lisa anyway
. I mean, why is she so famous? It’s not like she’s particularly attractive, or anyone special. But then I suppose you could say the same about most so-called famous people these days. Maybe if the cast of TOWIE was around in Leonardo da Vinci’s day, there’d be portraits of them hanging in the Louvre too.

  Back outside, I sit down on the edge of the fountain and dig out my guidebook. OK, now what? I flick through some more museums, but they all seem to operate a no-pet policy. I suppose I could always go for a walk; the Tuileries Garden looks pretty impressive, I muse, glancing out across it stretching far into the distance with its manicured lawns and classical statues. It will make a bit of a change from our usual once round the local park back home.

  ‘OK, come on buddy.’ I motion to Heathcliff, who’s flaked out in the shade. ‘We’re going for a walk.’ Zero enthusiasm. Not even a wag of his tail. Though to be honest, I don’t blame him. I’m a little tired myself as we’ve been walking all morning. Plus, to be honest, after the incident on the bridge, I’ve lost my enthusiasm.

  I’m also a bit hungry.

  No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I notice people eating and drinking at tables underneath the arcades of the Louvre. I watch for a moment as suited waiters flit back and forth serving things on trays that, even at this distance, I know will be delicious.

  My stomach growls. I didn’t have any breakfast. I glance at my watch. And it’s nearly lunchtime. I hesitate. I’m sure it’s really expensive though, not to mention completely booked up, and they probably won’t allow dogs either. Plus I’m really broke and should just buy a sandwich somewhere.

  I stand up. Yes, that’s a lot more sensible. That’s exactly what I should do.

  ‘Would you like me to show you to your table?’

  Standing at the entrance of the restaurant, I’m beckoned by a tall, impeccably dressed maitre d’ who looks like a supermodel. Slipping a menu under her arm, she motions for me to follow her.