Today, I heard a song on the radio. I could not understand all the lyrics as my French is still sadly lacking, but I knew immediately it should be our song. It is called ‘J’attendrai’. Have you heard it? I shall buy the gramophone record and we can dance to it together the next time we meet.
Write to me my darling. Write to me and tell me when I can see you.
For you, always, I will wait.
Your beloved
H
Wow, what a beautiful letter. Feeling my eyes prickling with tears, I wipe them away with my fingertips. It’s just so romantic, so heartfelt, so—
My thoughts stall as I’m distracted by the faint sound of music. I turn my head, trying to hear. It must be coming from a neighbour’s apartment. It sounds like a TV; maybe someone’s watching a movie and they’ve got the soundtrack turned up high. I strain harder. Though, it doesn’t sound like a soundtrack. Maybe it’s coming from a car radio in the street below . . .
Then I hear it. Much clearer this time. Louder. It’s someone singing, a woman, a soprano . . . I listen to the voice as it rises and falls to a melody. I can’t quite catch the lyrics but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. And now I can hear violins accompanying her, the tinkling of a piano, and is that a trumpet? The music swells and as it does I’m aware of something else, something much more subtle, a faint crackling, a static, almost like the sound of a needle on an old record. A record playing on an old gramophone. And as it registers, I realise she’s singing in French.
It’s that song. ‘J’attendrai.’
Abruptly, I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
What the—?
My heart skips a beat. That’s unbelievable. What a freaky coincidence. But that’s all it is, I remind myself quickly. Just a coincidence. I listen harder, totally absorbed by the arrangement of the orchestra, the soaring voice as it swoops and trills, the haunting melody, and as I do it hits me.
It’s coming from the next room.
No sooner has the thought struck than a shiver scurries down my spine and goose bumps prickle on my arms. I’m hearing things. It’s impossible. It can’t be. There’s no one else in this apartment—
My mind is scrambling, and yet even though the rational, sensible, sane side of me knows there has to be a logical explanation, there’s a secret, romantic, quite frankly terrified part of me that is thinking the unthinkable.
They’re here.
My breath catches inside my chest and I freeze. It’s Emmanuelle and Henry. They’re dancing to their record, just like Henry wrote in his letter. The spirits of two lovers, bringing their memories alive again . . . and yet I don’t feel as if I’m surrounded by the ghosts of the past, I feel as if I’m in the present. Their present. As if somehow I’ve slipped through the cobwebs of time and stepped into their secret world.
For a few moments I sit completely still, listening to the music, then with my heart hammering in my chest, I slowly rise up from the chaise longue. Something is propelling me forwards. Curiosity. Desire. Fascination. This is insane, completely and utterly insane.
But it’s also exciting, I realise, every nerve ending in my body tingling. I can hear my breath coming out in short, sharp bursts and I try to steady myself.
This cannot be happening. It just can’t. I don’t believe in ghosts.
But I do believe in Emmanuelle and Henry. I believe in their love for each other. I believe in the power of love that compels us to do the most incredible, wonderful, mind-blowing things, like lifting cars up with our bare hands or paying the rent on a secret apartment in Paris for seventy years. A love so strong that it continues to burn like an eternal flame, long after we are gone. An everlasting energy that in itself is a kind of magic.
I wished that the music would never stop playing and we would forever twirl together around the dance floor. And in my heart we always will.
This is what Henry wrote of in one of his letters, what he wished for . . .
Slowly I push open the door, heady with anticipation. The music is even louder now. I can hear footsteps on the floorboards, see the flash of yellow silk reflected in the patina of the mirror standing opposite, catch the sounds of laughter. And now I barely dare breathe as I step forward to catch sight of Emmanuelle and Henry, dancing around the room, his arm round her waist, her hand on his shoulder, her silk dress twirling around her as they—
‘Ruby?’
A voice jolts into my consciousness.
‘Ruby, are you there? Can you hear me?’
Huh? What’s happening? I can hear Harriet. Where is she?
Where am I?
Disorientated, I sit bolt upright, my head spinning, my eyes darting around me. I’m still on the chair in the bedroom. The music’s stopped. Or was it ever playing? I feel something hard wedged underneath my thigh and pull out my phone.
‘Ruby?’
It’s Harriet’s voice again, coming out of the speaker. Confused, I stare at it, my thoughts whirling. I must have fallen asleep and been dreaming – the music I thought I heard must have been my ringtone – somehow my phone must have slipped out of my bag and I answered it by accident when I shifted in the chair—
‘I can’t hear a thing, it’s so loud at this party, hang on I’m going to call you back—’
‘No!’ I blurt hastily, ‘I mean yes, it’s me, I can hear you.’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Over the top of the umps-umps beat in the background, I hear a relieved sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, your phone was ringing for ages and then when you didn’t answer . . .’
‘Sorry, I was just—’ I break off, groggily. I cannot even begin to explain. ‘I thought your phone was dead?’
‘It is, I borrowed a colleague’s when I realised I’d given you the wrong keys. Golly, sorry Ruby, I’m such a klutz! Anyway, don’t worry, I won’t be long, I’ll be home soon!’
‘Um yes, OK,’ I reply dazedly, hanging up.
I remain motionless for a few seconds, still absorbing the sudden turn of events, then quickly stand up. OK, I need to pull myself together. I need to leave. The letter I was reading is still lying on the chair, and hurriedly I slip it back into the bundle.
I glance towards the bed underneath which I found them. And as I do, I think about everything that’s happened. Before I came here tonight I tried to convince myself that their love story wasn’t important, that it had happened so long ago, before the war, and that it was all in the past. But I was wrong, I was so very, very wrong. It is important. And it’s not just in the past. Our bodies might not be eternal, but love is.
Madame Dumont closed the shutters on this apartment over seventy years ago, but she kept it for a reason, just like she kept these letters for a reason. And I found them for a reason. Fate, destiny, call it what you want, but I just can’t leave them here and walk away.
But what about the repercussions if anyone were to find out I had these letters? What if Harriet got into trouble? I can’t risk that. And yet, on the other hand, how can anyone find out? No one knows of their existence but me.
I stall, an internal battle raging. I feel completely torn. But still, despite my misgivings, I know I have to do the right thing.
Holding the letters, I reluctantly walk towards the bed. I wonder who will end up finding these? Probably whoever clears out the apartment ahead of the auction. Most likely they’ll be read by dozens of strangers, experts, maybe even lawyers, to see if they hold any value or importance, before being passed on to her distant heirs.
My fingers hold tightly on to the faded ribbon, my thumb tracing Henry’s handwriting. Maybe they’ll keep them, treasure them, as Emmanuelle treasured them, but even as I’m hoping, I know it’s unlikely. They’re not valuable in a monetary sense. The chances are they’ll be tossed away with the rest of her belongings that don’t carry a price tag. Gone for ever.
And in that moment I know I can’t let that happen. I don’t have a plan, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but
whatever happens, I owe it to Emmanuelle and Henry. Like I said, I need to do the right thing – and I’m doing it.
Clutching their letters tightly to my chest, I turn away from the bed and walk quickly out of the bedroom. As I do, I pass through the moonlit drawing room where I thought I’d heard music and dancing. I glance across at the gramophone player with its large brass trumpet, lying silent in the corner. Curiosity prickles. Which is crazy. It was just a dream, remember? A bad case of REM. A figment of my overactive imagination.
But still, I can’t resist. I step towards it. Though I don’t know what I’m expecting to find—
‘J’attendrai’ by Rina Ketty.
As I see the gramophone record on the turntable, I stiffen. Coincidence. It has to be. Nothing more. And yet . . . I stare at it for a few seconds, my eyes tracing the grooves in the shiny black disc, something else niggling at me, before dismissing it. Enough of this nonsense, I need to hurry up and get home. Quickly turning away, I pull open the heavy panelled door, but it’s only as it closes behind me that it finally hits me.
There was no dust on the record.
18
Fast forward to the next morning and I’m in the café on the corner with Harriet, drinking café crème, before she heads off to work.
‘He’s working for a charity?’ she repeats, as I finish filling her in on last night’s phone conversation with Jack. ‘So he’s not been kidnapped by Colombian drug lords?’ She looks almost disappointed.
‘No, sorry.’ I smile and shake my head.
‘Oh well, at least that’s good news,’ she says. ‘You must feel much better.’
‘Well, yes and no.’
Harriet frowns. ‘Hang on, let’s recap. The man you’re madly in love with called you last night from a far-flung corner of the globe. In the middle of a storm, no less. Furthermore, he’s not being chopped up and sent to you for ransom. He has all his bits intact.’
‘True.’ Well, if she puts it like that.
She stares at me across our wobbly table. Despite various napkins from previous customers being wedged under one of its legs, one misplaced elbow and our morning coffees are liable to end up in our laps. ‘So, how can this not be good news?’ she demands.
‘Because now I feel even more terrible about the row at the airport,’ I confess, with a heavy voice. ‘He had a good reason for not coming and I totally lost it. I should’ve trusted him.’ I stir my café crème glumly. ‘I just didn’t understand, and the thing is, I didn’t want to understand.’
‘Since when are men and women supposed to understand each other?’ she says dismissively. ‘We’re from Venus, they’re from Mars. We speak a different language.’
I nod in agreement. Harriet isn’t known for her sage advice when it comes to relationships, something she admits herself, but for once she’s actually talking a lot of sense.
‘Women will forever be a mystery to men and vice versa,’ she continues wisely. ‘For example, why do men send us pictures of their penises?’
I’ve been listening and nodding, but now I nearly choke on my café crème. ‘What did you just say?’ I splutter, putting an elbow on the table to steady myself and spilling coffee on myself in the process.
She waves her smartphone at me, and I have to use my saucer to shield myself from the image on her screen. ‘Ugh, god Harriet, what is that?’
‘You can’t tell? Hang on, let me see if I can zoom in—’
‘No! No! I don’t mean that.’ I start waving my hands madly and Luc looks over from behind the espresso machine. After last night’s run-in at the party, he’s kept his distance and has instead been flashing furtive glances across at Harriet. I think he’s still sore about her going on a date.
‘Is everything OK?’ He beetles his eyebrows.
‘No – I mean yes,’ I say hastily, and flap my hands even harder, ‘it’s just a fly – buzz . . . go away . . .’
He nods, satisfied, and continues making coffee.
I turn back to Harriet, who’s peering at her screen, angling it this way and that.
‘I suppose it makes sense if he’s six foot seven . . .’ she’s murmuring.
‘That’s WineNot?’ I look at her, aghast. I’m not a prude, I’ve had Skype sex, remember (though admittedly I was pretty rubbish at it) but even so. ‘He sent you that before you’ve even gone on a date?’
I’d expected Harriet to be shocked – after all this is someone who still uses the phrase ‘front bottom’ – but instead she seems curiously composed.
‘His name’s Rupert,’ she reminds me calmly, ‘and believe me, he’s not unusual. Chaps are forever sending photos like those to girls these days. When they’re not posting skydiving selfies they’re taking pictures of Mr Winky.’
‘They are?’
Seriously, where have I been? I don’t remember it being like that when I was single, but then again, I didn’t date. I just sat on the sofa eating crisps and nursing a bottle of wine and a broken heart. By the sounds of it, I had a lucky escape.
She nods matter-of-factly. ‘Give a man a camera-phone and . . .’ She trails off with a Gallic shrug of her shoulders and takes a sip of her coffee.
‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit different from the traditional bouquet of flowers,’ I concede, stirring extra sugar into my coffee. After that shock, I need it.
‘Maybe I should post this to his Facebook page,’ she says, tapping on her smartphone.
I shoot her a look. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘No, of course not,’ she giggles, ‘anyway, he hasn’t accepted my friend request yet. I do follow him on Twitter but that’s quite dull as it’s his company’s account. Just lots of tweets about grapes and vintages.’ She waves his Twitter page at me.
‘Does he know you’re stalking him on social media?’
Harriet looks affronted. ‘I’m not! I’m just trying to get to know him.’
‘What happened to actually meeting someone in real life?’ I suggest, ‘getting to know them in person, instead of through status updates, and likes and photos on their Instagram?’
‘He’s not on Instagram,’ she points out innocently.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say, my mind flashing back to the road trip I’d taken with Jack across Rajasthan and how we’d gradually gone from strangers to lovers, through a million, small things. Like a smile after a stupid argument, a shared sunset in the desert, a comfortable silence.
Or dancing around your apartment together to a favourite gramophone record, I reflect, suddenly thinking about Henry and Emmanuelle and feeling goose bumps prickle, despite the morning heat.
‘I am going to meet him. It’s our first date tonight, remember?’
At the reference to a first date, Luc’s head flicks towards us, his ears almost visibly waggling.
‘Sorry, yes, you told me,’ I apologise quickly. With everything that’s going on it had slipped my mind. ‘That’s great.’ Despite my misgivings, I want to be supportive. I know how much this means to her. ‘Where are you meeting?’
Lowering her voice so she’s out of earshot of Luc, she continues, ‘A boutique hotel in the eighth, apparently it has a fabulous new oyster bar—’ Abruptly, at the mention of oysters, she suddenly goes very grey.
‘Are you all right?’ I look at her, concerned.
‘Yes, fine, just a tad hungover.’ She winces and reaches for the plate of pains au chocolat Luc had insisted on giving us with our cafés crèmes. ‘I wouldn’t, but I need to settle my stomach,’ she says, although it’s muffled through a mouthful of flaky pastry.
I nod, understandingly, though quite frankly it’s not the idea of oysters that’s making my stomach go funny. I’ve still got the image from her phone seared on my mind, like when you’ve looked at the sun for too long. Actually, doesn’t looking at the sun make you go blind? Which is probably the same effect as that photo has, I reflect, with a shudder.
‘Anyway, you were saying, about Jack . . .’ she prompts, coming back to me again.
Reminded, I let out a deep sigh. ‘I just feel awful. I gave him such a hard time and yet he’s there working for a homeless charity in the middle of goodness knows where, and here’s me cavorting around Paris.’
‘Hardly. Not in those heels you were wearing last night,’ she corrects me, pulling a face.
I smile ruefully. ‘I’ve tried calling him back a few times, but it just goes straight to voicemail. I just want to explain. I feel so guilty.’
‘Well don’t,’ she says firmly, fiddling with her smartphone, ‘you had every right to be upset and anyway, he doesn’t look like he’s working too hard.’
I look at her in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Give the World a Home has a Facebook page.’
‘So?’
‘And Jack’s been tagged in a photo.’
‘He has?’ I look at her incredulously. ‘Here, let me see.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in stalking on social media?’ she says archly, not letting me look.
‘I’m not stalking, he’s my boyfriend!’ I dive into my bag and start scrambling for my own phone. Sod data roaming charges, I’m getting online.
‘Who’s Beth?’
It’s like someone just plugged me into the mains. My head jerks up. ‘Jack’s ex-girlfriend. The one he met at a fundraiser in New York. Why?’
Harriet pauses, in that ‘me and my big mouth’ kind of way. ‘Oh – oh, no real reason . . .’ she says trying, and failing, to sound all nonchalant, ‘she was just tagged with him, that’s all.’
That’s all?
Reaching across the table, I grab her phone from her before she can protest. ‘I thought she worked for a charity in India.’
‘Maybe she got transferred to a different office. Or maybe it’s not her.’ Realising she’s just dropped a bomb, Harriet is quickly trying to engage in damage limitation. ‘Beth is a really common name, there must be millions of Beths—’ but even as she’s saying it I recognise the pretty, dark-haired girl immediately.
Love From Paris Page 16
