‘Colour is very powerful; until you have learned the basics it is better for you to wear only the classic palette,’ she adds, a little more kindly. She hands me another couple of hangers with something cream and navy blue hanging on them.
I’ve never been a fan of navy blue – it always reminds me of my school uniform – but I take them wordlessly as she shoos me inside a tiny cubicle and swiftly pulls closed the curtain.
‘OK, let’s go,’ she instructs, clapping her hands.
It’s a complete eye-opener. Celeste has chosen items that I would have never even noticed. Dresses that look like baggy, shapeless items on the hanger are transformed with a belt. A skirt that looks unflattering on the hanger looks great on. A pair of cream culottes that I assumed would make my hips look bigger actually makes them look smaller! Until now my little sister Amy has been my go-to person for fashion advice, but Celeste is something else.
Effortlessly she puts together outfits: a blouse with a skirt with a belt with a cardigan. As she snaps her fingers, I take things on and off and she frowns and nods, tuts and smiles, shaking her head one minute, looking delighted the next. Working her magic.
‘Rule number three: you must make friends with scarves.’
I balk, but she ignores me. Taking a scarf, she throws it effortlessly round my shoulders and, with a quick flick of her wrist, ties a loose knot. ‘Parfait.’ She nods.
I goggle at myself in the mirror. It looks amazing. How did she do that? After my earlier debacle in the department store, I’m aghast. It’s like a magic trick.
‘Number four, only one sexy thing. Never more.’ Taking a pair of vintage heels in bright purple satin, she slips them on my feet. Instantly I feel amazing. ‘Cindrillon,’ she quips, laughing at my astounded expression.
Well, who would have thought of trying on purple shoes?
Celeste, I discover, has spent her whole life in fashion, and it’s her passion. ‘Which is probably why I’m single,’ she laughs throatily, turning back to the clothes rack.
‘You? Single?’ I look at her in surprise. She’s so drop dead good-looking, I’d imagined she would have a harem of men.
‘Yes.’ She shrugs. ‘I have never loved a man more than a Chanel jacket.’
I laugh. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Absolument.’ She nods firmly. ‘A Chanel jacket will keep you warm, will never you let you down and will always make you feel fabulous.’
‘So does true love,’ I protest.
Brandishing one off a rack, she insists I try it on.
Actually, maybe she has a point, I reflect, thinking about Jack as I slip it on and give her a twirl. There are plenty of words to describe how I’ve been feeling since he stood me up at Heathrow and still hasn’t called, and none of them are fabulous.
And then suddenly, after less than an hour, I’m standing in front of the mirror wearing a simple navy silk dress and purple heels (would you believe it, blue and purple look great together), a pair of 1940s drop earrings and matching choker and a gorgeous tan belt. I swear, I almost don’t recognise myself.
‘Finally, the last rule. Before you go out, take a look in the mirror and take one thing off,’ and, walking behind me, she unhooks my necklace.
I begin to protest as it falls away from my throat, ‘But I love that necklace—’ then fall silent. Because she’s absolutely right. ‘It looks so much better without it.’
‘But of course,’ she says, and flashes a smile. ‘Now, you go enjoy your party, and always remember the most important rule of all.’
I frown. ‘What’s that?’
‘To look effortless requires effort. It is the same with everything in life. Nothing worth anything is easy.’
I smile. ‘Thank you so much—’ I begin, but Celeste waves my thanks away.
‘I just told you a few secrets.’ She winks.
16
After making a quick dash back to the apartment to drop off Heathcliff and give him his dinner, I jump on the Métro and head straight to meet Harriet. She’s given me directions to the party, but even so it takes me a while to get there, partly because of my terrible sense of direction, but mostly because of these new heels.
Ouch! I wince as my ankle nearly goes over on the cobbles for about the millionth time, and shoot an envious glance at an impeccably dressed woman who strides past nonchalantly in a pair of needle-thin stilettos. Honestly, how on earth do these Parisian women do it?
The sun is hanging low in the sky as I finally reach the banks of the Seine. I pause. Hang on, this can’t be right. I must have missed a turning. I look down at my hastily scribbled directions. No, it says Île de la Cité and that’s where I am. Confused, I glance around this island in the middle of the Seine. All I can see are several barges and boats and—
It’s the music I hear first. Wafting towards me. I turn towards the Latin dance tunes to see a large white boat moored further along the quay. Its wooden decks are adorned with a canopy of carnival lights and there’s a stream of stylishly dressed people making their way up the gangplank.
My eyes zoom in. The party is on a boat?
Then suddenly I spot Harriet, standing on deck myopically scanning the crowds for me. I hurry towards her, waving. She does a double-take when she sees me.
‘Wowee,’ she gasps, goggling at me in disbelief as I navigate my way gingerly up the gangplank. ‘What a transformation!’
‘Celeste worked her magic.’ I smile, proudly.
‘Aha, that explains it.’ She nods, her face flooding with comprehension, before adding quickly. ‘Not that you don’t always look amazing.’
I pull a face. Trust me, the only thing amazing about my earlier outfit is that I wasn’t arrested by the gendarmerie for crimes against fashion.
‘Just one thing – how do women in Paris walk in these heels?’
‘A lifetime of practice,’ says Harriet, knowledgably. ‘Failing that—’ She digs out a bottle of ibuprofen from her bag and rattles it at me, ‘—for the blisters.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll try a cocktail instead,’ I reply, turning to a passing tray of brightly coloured drinks. ‘Want one?’
Harriet pulls a face. ‘I shouldn’t really, have you any idea how many empty calories there are in alcohol?’
I reach out to take just one drink.
‘Oh go on then, if you insist,’ she adds hastily.
I take two and pass her one.
‘There’s so many people!’ I comment, glancing around the busy deck.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t know most of them either. We have a large client list and my boss likes to invite everyone, plus a few French celebrities and some journalists. That way we can guarantee column inches.’
‘Wow, I never knew auctioneering was so glitzy.’ And there was me thinking it was just musty old antiques and old men in corduroy jackets.
‘It’s not, but there’s a lot of competition and we need to stay ahead of it—’ She suddenly straightens up like a sentry, a large smile pinned on her face. ‘Monsieur Richard, meet my friend Ruby, Ruby—’
I turn to see a grey-haired man in a blue blazer with lots of gold buttons. He looks suitably serious. ‘A pleasure.’ He shakes my hand, then, saying something to Harriet in rapid French, moves off to introduce himself to a large crowd of people.
‘Golly, who was that? He’s a bit scary.’
‘My boss.’ She pulls a face. ‘I’ve been trying to impress him for months, but I’m not sure he really knows who I am. I’m hoping my work for Madame Dumont’s auction will put me on his radar and up for promotion.’
At the mention of Madame Dumont I think about her letters, still tucked in my bag. I should really tell Harriet about them. I open my mouth to say something—
‘Oh look, we’re off.’
I turn to see the gangplank has been drawn up and we’ve set sail down the Seine, floating past Notre Dame and towards the Louvre. It really is quite impressive. It’s been a long time since I went to a party an
d certainly one as fancy as this, I muse, feeling a bit intimidated. God I miss Jack. Out of nowhere the thought flashes across my mind and tugs at my heartstrings. I drain my drink.
‘Wow, you’re thirsty.’
‘Um – yes.’ I nod, suddenly feeling a bit unsteady as the alcohol goes straight to my head. Oh dear. Getting drunk and being on a boat are not a good combination. I feel a beat of relief as a tray of canapés comes into view, followed by a familiar face.
‘Luc!’ says Harriet, in surprise, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Can I be tempting?’ He grins, wafting dozens of small triangles of pastry, layered with all kinds of delicious-looking ingredients, under our noses.
‘It’s “can I tempt you”,’ she corrects, smiling.
He shrugs his shoulders in a Gallic way, and I have a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the canapés.
‘What are they?’ I ask, my stomach grumbling.
‘Artichauts—’
‘Artichokes,’ repeats Harriet automatically, like something from Rosetta Stone.
‘Ah yes.’ He nods, ‘and, how you say, champignons . . . ?’
‘Mushrooms,’ she says patiently, articulating each vowel.
‘Of course,’ Luc says, smiling, tutting at himself and shaking his head, ‘Mush-roooms!’ He repeats it enthusiastically, trying to copy her with almost comical pronunciation.
‘Excellent.’ She smiles, looking delighted.
Standing between them, I feel as if I’m intruding on a private lesson. I don’t care what Harriet says about the age difference, they are very cute together.
‘And I make a mousse with some of the ’erbs I took from my garden,’ he continues, wafting the tray under our noses.
‘You made these?’ Impressed, I pluck one from the tray and take a bite.
He nods, proudly.
‘Wow, they’re delicious,’ I groan through a mouthful of puff pastry and the yummiest tasting filling I’ve ever eaten. How on earth did he make that out of just a few veggies? It’s like he’s added some magic ingredient.
‘Mmm, yes,’ says Harriet, who doesn’t need much encouragement and is already on her second. She’s obviously on the canapé and cocktail diet tonight, I muse, following her lead and taking another.
‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ he grins and flashes a look at Harriet, but at that moment her phone makes a beep and she glances down at it.
Her face lights up like the Eiffel Tower. ‘It’s Rupert,’ she says, opening a text.
‘Who’s Rupert?’ I mumble, through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘WineNot,’ she explains, her eyes still locked to the screen of her phone as she reads his message, ‘that’s his real name.’
This morning when I left her she’d heard just six words from him, so at least this is progress of a kind. Though I’m not sure discovering that your date is called Rupert can be called progress, exactly. Seriously, Rupert is a cartoon bear who wears tartan trousers.
‘So are you meeting him for a drink?’ I cut to the chase.
‘Yes, tomorrow night.’ She nods excitedly, still reading his text. ‘He’s having dinner with friends first, so we’re going to meet later.’ She quickly types a response and hits send.
‘How much later?’ I ask, doubtfully.
I don’t like the sound of dinner with friends first, it makes Harriet seem like an afterthought.
There’s a pause, then a ping as a new text arrives. ‘About 9.30, or maybe 10,’ she says after she opens it. ‘He says he’ll call me.’
‘That’s a bit late for a first date,’ I say unsurely.
Or is it a booty call?
‘No, you cannot go,’ interrupts a stern voice, and we both turn to see Luc, shaking his head firmly.
‘Why not?’ asks Harriet, though I have a feeling there was no pun intended.
‘It is not respectful,’ he says, protectively. ‘When a man takes out a woman for the first time, it should be romantic and special, and how you say, exceptionnel—’
‘Exception-al,’ corrects Harriet automatically.
‘Dinner in a rooftop restaurant, dancing in the park – a moonlight Vélib’ ride around the city . . .’ He trails off, his chest heaving with passion.
If I had something of a soft spot for Luc beforehand, it’s now a really big soft spot.
‘What is this “drink”?’ He frowns, his expression grave. ‘Pah, this is not good enough!’
Actually, make that a bloody huge soft spot.
‘It’s a drink at a nice hotel,’ she says defensively.
‘An ’otel!’ Luc looks even more shocked. Which is kind of amusing, considering he’s reacting the way you’d imagine an elderly, conservative old man to react, not a twenty-something with a shaved head and tattoos of bloody daggers up his forearm.
‘I’m a big girl,’ Harriet retorts, a little snippily. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I will go with you,’ he says, authoritatively.
She looks aghast. ‘You can’t go with me!’ she gasps. ‘It’s a first date!’
Luc’s face crumples and he looks momentarily crushed. ‘J’ai reçu ton message,’ he replies tightly.
‘I get the message,’ she translates for me, equally tightly.
I fidget uncomfortably. Now, instead of feeling like I’m intruding on a private lesson, it feels like I’m in the middle of a lovers’ tiff.
‘I think I’ll go get myself a drink,’ I say hastily.
‘But you haven’t even finished that one,’ says Harriet, and we both glance at the cocktail I’m holding in my hand.
I down it in one. ‘Raging thirst,’ I splutter, almost choking on the alcohol fumes, ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
I quickly dash off before Harriet can protest further and Luc can ask me for the translation of ‘jiffy’ and accidentally find myself on the busy dance floor. A shirtless DJ is bent low over the decks, headphones clutched to one ear, spinning tracks for the achingly hip crowd. There are lots of tall, skinny girls in leather jackets and men with elaborate facial hair.
For several excruciating moments I get caught in the middle of a couple twerking, until finally I manage to escape. Freed, I try to find somewhere quiet. Which is nearly impossible as, as well as the music, there’s the chatter and laughter of the other passengers. Eventually I stumble across a quieter spot at the back of the deck where there aren’t so many people and, leaning against the handrail, I watch as Paris floats by.
Which is when I suddenly become aware of the faint burbling of my phone.
How long has that been ringing? I dig it out. It’s a number I don’t recognise. I pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘Ruby, it’s me.’
The line is terrible, but his voice is unmistakable. Jack. My legs wobble and I cling to the handrail of the boat to avoid losing my balance.
‘Hello me,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. I’ve tried to block him out, pretend like I don’t care, but adrenalin floods through my body, melting my insides and sending my heart racing. It’s incredible the effect he has on me, even from thousands of miles away.
‘I got your message, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
‘It’s OK,’ I reply automatically, my self-preservation suddenly kicking in like some primal security blanket.
‘There’s been a bad storm out here and my connecting flight was delayed,’ he continues. ‘It’s been chaos, a lot of the power lines are down and there’s no cell reception or wireless. I’m calling from a hotel in the main town—’
‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ I protest, talking over him before he can finish. ‘You don’t need to explain.’
He falls silent and there’s one of those awkward pauses where no one says anything out loud but there’s a million thoughts happening.
‘How are you?’ he asks, after a moment.
Upset, confused, missing you, I think, my heart aching, but instead I reply stiffly, ‘Fine.’
‘That’s two
fines in less than two minutes.’
‘So?’ My tone is defensive.
‘So, I know you well enough to know you’re not a “fine” kind of person,’ he says evenly, ‘you’re an angry, ecstatic, upset, crazy, passionate, pig-headed kind of person.’
That’s the annoying thing about Jack; he makes it impossible for me to stay angry with him.
‘You’re my kind of person.’
Hearing him say those words, I feel myself melt.
‘I thought you wanted a timeout,’ I retort.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not still angry about what happened. He let me down and really hurt me. And now he thinks he can just call up like this, expecting everything to be normal again.
‘I just thought we both needed some time to calm down, we were both pretty upset.’
Listening to his voice, I look up at the night sky. He feels so near and yet so far away. I think of our voices beaming up into the sky and bouncing off a satellite. Two people, two dots, connected over this vast galaxy.
‘And do you blame me?’ I ask, pressing the phone harder to my ear. God, I hate this distance between us.
‘Look, I realise I may have handled it badly, and I promise I was all set to come and see you in London, spend your birthday with you, but at the last minute I had this emergency work situation—’
And you put work first, a voice in my head reminds me. I don’t care what he says, there’s no reason good enough for him to choose work over our plans to see each other. Nothing can be that important.
‘—normally I would have said no way, but it’s for a charity.’
Except that one.
‘A charity?’ I repeat, not sure I heard him right.
‘Yeah, I do a lot of pro bono for Give the World a Home, a homeless charity that works in developing countries. They needed an architect to help with the building of new housing and when they approached me I was more than happy to help. Mostly, I’ve been doing it remotely from the States, but there’s been a major structural problem and there’s no one else on the ground they could ask. I needed to come out here and be on site . . .’
Love From Paris Page 14
