Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  She never let Henry go.

  As the thought whispers in my head, I’m convinced of it. It’s not the fact that she kept secretly paying for her apartment, for all those years. It’s not the loveless photograph of her and Monsieur Dumont. It’s not even that she never danced again. I just know it, deep in my heart. And that’s why I can never think of this as a happy ending. In fact, that’s why I can’t think of this as an ending at all.

  Leaving the coolness of the church I walk back outside, into the bright midday sunshine. I pause by the bicycle, partly because I’m reluctant to get back on the instrument of torture but mostly because I’m not sure where to head. There must be more to discover in this village that would give me further information about Emmanuelle.

  It’s then I notice a small cemetery beyond the church, where several headstones and crosses hug a small grassy patch of hillside. I wonder if that’s where she’s buried? Curiosity prickles and, leaving my bicycle again, I pass through the small iron gate and follow the narrow path that leads between the gravestones. It’s so nice here. So many cemeteries are gloomy and depressing, but this one is dappled in sunlight and offers its sleeping guests the most gorgeous view.

  I pick my way between the headstones, shading my eyes to read the inscriptions and looking for any mention of Emmanuelle. All are in French, but still I can read the names. After a few minutes I come upon a large marble tombstone, much bigger and more imposing than all the rest, and I see the name ALEXANDRE DUMONT and the dates 1901–70. This must be Monsieur Dumont, the dates seem right, and yet – why is there no mention of his wife, Emmanuelle? Puzzled, I frown at the inscription. And surely she would be buried next to him? Instead there’s just an empty plot—

  ‘Est-ce que je peux vous aider?’

  A voice behind me makes me jump and I spin round to see a woman. She’s wearing a headscarf and carrying a gardening trug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin to apologise, ‘Je ne – um – parle Francais.’

  Her hooded eyes look me up and down. ‘You’re English? My father was from Newcastle.’

  ‘Oh – nice.’

  ‘Not really, too many people.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Can I help you? I look after the cemetery.’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you, I was just . . .’ I feel as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  I glance back to the tombstone. ‘I was looking for Emmanuelle Dumont. Is this her husband’s grave?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says with a nod, ‘but she is not buried here.’

  ‘She’s not?’ I frown, surprised.

  The woman eyes me suspiciously. ‘I haven’t seen you before. Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, I’m just . . .’ I pause. What am I? It’s the strangest thing. I never got to meet Emmanuelle in her lifetime, but through Henry’s letters, I feel as if I know her. ‘I’m a friend of a friend,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘Madame Dumont was cremated, her ashes were scattered.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘The Dumonts’ was a double plot, but it is said she left strict instructions not to be buried there.’

  There’s a pause, and I feel like the woman wants to tell me more. There’s something about villages and the desire to gossip. My parents live in one and there’s always someone eager to say something about someone.

  ‘Many people were surprised, but not me.’ Pursing her lips, she shakes her head.

  ‘Really, why?’

  ‘Would you want to lie for eternity next to someone who cheated and lied? Pah!’

  Crikey. I wasn’t expecting that outburst.

  ‘Well, I had heard rumours . . .’ I trail off, hoping she’ll say more.

  I’m not disappointed.

  ‘He liked too much of a drink and when he did he was very loose with his affections, you know?’ She raises her eyebrows pointedly. ‘And his money.’

  ‘He was a gambler?’

  ‘It was said she had to hide family heirlooms from him so he couldn’t gamble them away. They would have probably lost everything if he had lived longer. It was lucky for her that he left this mortal coil early.’

  As she’s talking I suddenly have a memory of Trixie talking about a Picasso. Felix dismissed it as a rumour, but what if it wasn’t? What if she did have a priceless painting, and she kept it hidden in her apartment in Paris?

  As one thought strikes, another follows. What if, in fact, I’ve got this completely wrong and the answer to the mystery isn’t anything to do with love at all?

  I’m distracted by the chimes from the church bell and I look up to the clock tower. Gosh, is that the time already? Xavier should have finished going over the documents with Trixie by now; he’s probably wondering where I am. I glance at my phone, but there’s no signal. I’d best be getting back to the chateau.

  Quickly thanking the woman for her time, I make my way out of the cemetery and, mounting the bike, slowly begin to pedal. The whole village feels like it’s gone to sleep as, weaving through the narrow backstreets, I pass houses with their faded shutters pulled tight, shops with their grilles down – even the square with the fountain, which was so busy earlier, is now deserted. I start to slowly climb the hill that leads out of the village, pushing down hard on the pedals and fantasising about my own siesta.

  All this exercise and sun has exhausted me. Not to mention the bucket of wine I drank earlier. What I wouldn’t do to be on Harriet’s sofa bed right now, and trust me, that’s saying something.

  Daydreaming about feather pillows, I barely notice that the road has flattened out. It’s only when I realise I’m not having to pedal any more that I see I’m starting my descent. I feel a rush of relief. And delight. Gosh, I’ve forgotten how much fun cycling can be. Freewheeling down the other side, I begin picking up speed. The warm breeze rushes up, blowing my hair back from my face and cooling my sticky skin. This is so great!

  The countryside whizzes by as I gather speed, and I feel a rush of exhilaration. Feeling braver, I lift one hand off the handlebars, letting my hand surf the stream of air rushing past me. Wow, I haven’t done this since I was a kid. In fact, I remember I used to be able to take both hands off my handlebars, which of course was really dangerous, and something I’d never do now—

  I feel a prickle of temptation. Oh my god, don’t be insane, yells the voice in my head, you’re way too old and sensible now, you could kill yourself!

  But giddy on adrenalin and my own speed, I don’t feel old and sensible, I feel young and alive. Whizzing down a country lane in the south of France on a bicycle, all my worries blow like cobwebs out of my mind. I’m not thinking about Emmanuelle or Henry or me and Jack. I’m not thinking about the past or the future. I’m totally in this moment. Here. Right now. I feel like a kid again. I want to be a kid again. I lift off one hand, then slowly peel back the fingers of the next, four, three, two – until it’s just my forefinger left and then—

  Look, no hands!

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ I cry, throwing back my head and laughing, and in that split second I see a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye, hear the sound of a car horn, the screech of brakes—

  Then everything goes black.

  25

  I’m floating. Like a balloon. Higher and higher. All around me is silent and dark. And soft. Everything is so soft, it’s like being wrapped up in cotton wool. Warm cotton wool. Wow, I’ve never felt this relaxed. It’s so peaceful and calm. I can feel myself drifting further and further away . . .

  Except now I can hear something. A faint pattering. Almost like rain on a windowpane, pat-pat-pat-pat – only it’s not raindrops, it’s louder than that. It sounds more like tapping, or a drumming. And now I can feel something on my face, but it’s not warm, wet splashes, it’s more cold and hard, and actually not very nice. In fact, it kind of hurts, rather like someone’s slapping my face—

  Hang on, someone is slapping my face!

  What the—?

  Dazed and
confused, I open my eyes and make out a blurry shape bent over me, slapping the sides of my cheeks and saying something in a flurry of French. I blink rapidly as everything starts swimming into focus. I see flashes of purple, something glittery, a mouth filled with lots of white pointy teeth that seems to be moving in slow motion.

  Ugh. What happened – where am I . . . ?

  But it’s the weirdest thing. I can’t speak, all I can do is lie completely motionless as slowly I become aware that the mouth belongs to a woman who has a purple scarf tied in her hair, a twinkly nose stud and lots of earrings that go all the way round the outside of her ear. And there’s something else. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a large yellow shape, and as the image sharpens I realise it’s a car. Hang on, that’s the same car that I saw . . . My fuzzy mind grinds to a halt as I try to remember where. It’s like grasping at something just a little out of reach. Actually it’s all a bit tiring, I might close my eyes again, go back to sleep—

  ‘Merde!’

  I’m jolted back awake by a string of expletives and a much harder slap.

  ‘Ouch!’ I cry loudly, snapping open my eyes. All the warm cotton wool has disappeared and suddenly I feel sore as hell.

  More French. And now hand signals. There’s lots of gesturing and hands being waved around. Bracelets are jangling. A dragon is bobbing up and down—

  A dragon? Oh god, I must be hallucinating.

  Everything is swimming before my eyes. I try to sit up on my elbows, but the woman shakes her head and pushes me back down, and says something to me. Crikey, these French can really talk fast, can’t they? It’s coming out in a torrent.

  ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ I finally manage to croak, coughing dust.

  ‘Ah! You’re English!’ she suddenly gasps, hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand.

  ‘Ugh . . . yes – from London,’ I splutter, putting my fingers up to my temples. Ouch, it feels really sore. I look at my fingertips and let out a shriek. ‘Oh my god, I’m bleeding.’ I suddenly feel like I’m going to faint again.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re OK.’

  OK? I have blood coming out of my head. I might not be a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that blood coming from anywhere is not the definition of OK.

  ‘Don’t worry, I did a course in first aid.’ Pulling the patterned scarf from her hair, she dabs my head. ‘You’re in the recovery position, your airways are clear and nothing appears to be broken,’ she reassures me.

  She sounds so confident, I feel slightly comforted. ‘Um, what happened?’ I mumble, trying to move, but my legs are in a tangle and my body is doing that thing it did when I drank too much Merlot.

  ‘I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault, I didn’t see you, I need to get my mirrors fixed—’ She gestures to her car, ‘—but then I had to pay the rent and more bills and . . .’ She makes a blowing-out noise. ‘I’m just glad you are OK, I feel terrible, I was rushing, I wasn’t looking where I was going—’

  She looks so upset that for a moment I think she’s going to burst into tears. ‘It’s OK, it’s not your fault,’ I say quickly, ‘It’s my fault too. I shouldn’t have been riding a bicycle with no hands,’ while under the influence, I add silently.

  ‘No, no, I should have been paying attention,’ she berates herself, shaking her head. ‘I take full responsibility.’

  I don’t have the energy to argue. Instead I tell her I want to sit up and she helps me, holding me underneath the armpits and putting her arms round my waist as I shakily go from sitting to slowly standing. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Though in my case it’s a battered old yellow Renault.

  ‘Let me drive you to my house, I will clean you up, I need to dress that.’ She points to a rather nasty gash on my shin.

  ‘What about my bike?’

  It’s lying in the road, all mangled up. From where I’m standing I can see the front wheel is all bent out of shape, and its tyres both look like they have punctures.

  ‘Don’t worry, I will put it in the car,’ she reassures me, seeing my expression. ‘Stay here, please,’ she instructs.

  Gingerly I prop myself against a stone wall and watch as she strides over to the bike in her frayed denim shorts and clumpy workman’s boots. She’s small and slight and for a moment I think of offering to help, even though I’m in no fit state, but instead she picks it up as if it weighs nothing more than a feather. I stare at her rippling biceps in astonishment and it’s then I notice the large dragon tattoo running down one arm. So I wasn’t hallucinating.

  As she chucks it in the back of the car I hear a loud squawking, and notice a crate of chickens in the car. ‘Shush,’ she says with a frown, putting her fingers to her lips. ‘It is the cockerel, he is always complaining,’ she says to me, shutting the back door with a slam. ‘Men, huh?’ she grins.

  She opens the passenger door for me. It swings off its hinges and makes a loud squeaking, rusty noise. Striding back to me, she helps me hobble across the road. ‘Please.’ She motions for me to get in. The seat is covered in tie-dye fabric and what looks like lots of dog hairs and several feathers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Napoleon normally likes to travel in the front with me,’ she apologises, and gestures into the back where I spy a black and white mongrel squashed between the chickens and my back. He doesn’t look very happy.

  ‘Thanks.’ I nod and gingerly climb inside.

  Inside the car is like a treasure trove. The dashboard is a little shrine, filled with various crystals and a small carved Buddha, while hanging from the rear-view mirror are long strings of coloured beads.

  ‘Are these from India?’ I ask, recognising them as the same as the ones I saw in Rajasthan.

  ‘Yes, aren’t they beautiful?’ she says, fingering them. ‘I would love to go there one day.’

  ‘You must, it’s magical.’

  ‘You’ve been? Oh wow, you are so lucky! One day, when I win the lotto . . .’ She smiles. ‘But first I need to make money to fix my side mirrors, huh?’

  I look out of the window and for the first time I realise there actually aren’t any mirrors.

  ‘By the way, I’m Gigi,’ she smiles, and sticks out a tanned hand, its fingers filled with lots of silver rings with big stones.

  ‘I’m Ruby.’

  She grasps my hand in hers and gives me a firm handshake, then turns the ignition. The engine fires up with a loud splutter, then she sticks the car into gear and we lurch away.

  After only about ten minutes, we turn off the main road and into a narrow dirt lane that can obviously only accommodate the width of one car. It’s unmade, and as we drive down it we bump up and down on the front seats of the car, the springs of which appear to have gone, almost hitting our heads. Crikey, I’ve only just been concussed, I don’t want it to happen again.

  I glance across at Gigi, but she seems unperturbed. Crunching the strange gearstick, she keeps her foot firmly on the accelerator. I hang on to the door handle as the car rocks from side to side. There’s a loud noise as a stone is spat from underneath the tyres, and the crunch of the undercarriage on a rock. And I thought driving with Harriet was bad. At least with her I felt the car was going to stay together.

  I glance at the glove compartment, which appears to be held together by a piece of string, and have second thoughts about hanging on to the door handle. I release my grip slightly before I risk it coming off in my hand.

  After what feels like for ever, we finally pull up in front of a small stone house with faded blue shutters and a large vine from which cascades an abundance of creamy white flowers. It’s attached to several tumbledown outbuildings, and what looks like an old barn where chickens run around, pecking at the ground, and a donkey stands chewing lazily from an old wheelbarrow filled with hay.

  As we get out of the car, a little sandy-coloured dog with a grey snout runs out to meet us, wagging his tail nineteen to the dozen. Gigi says something to him, stooping down to scratch his ears, then opens the boot so he can be reunited wi
th his obvious companion. I say obvious as no sooner has the door opened an inch than the black and white dog that’s been held captive in the back leaps out, and the two dogs begin playfully chasing each other round and round in delight.

  ‘Let me help you into the house. I’ll come back for the chickens,’ she says, ignoring their squawking chorus as she helps me get out of the car and hobble up to the front door.

  ‘Maman!’ she calls, flinging it open and leading me into a small flagstoned hallway that in turn leads into a small kitchen on the left. She gestures for me to sit down at the scrubbed pine table, moving a glass jam jar filled with wild flowers and a large patterned fruit bowl to clear a space. Then, pouring me a glass of water, she begins busying herself opening and closing cupboards until, finding what she’s looking for, she pulls out a small first aid kit.

  ‘This might sting a little,’ she warns, unscrewing a bottle and shaking some of its contents on to a cloth. She goes to wipe my temple.

  ‘Argh, fuck,’ I gasp, shooting backwards in my chair as a searing pain shoots through me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says with a smile, ‘I don’t mean to hurt you, it’s just I need to use antiseptic, it’s important to clean the wound.’

  I nod, understanding, and she holds up the cloth. ‘I promise I will be as quick as possible.’

  I brace myself, then give the go-ahead, and for the next few minutes I wince and grimace and bite my tongue as Gigi carefully wipes and cleans and patches me up. ‘Fini,’ she says finally, putting away the spare dressings and snapping the lid closed on the first aid kit.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say gratefully.

  She bats away my thanks with her hand. ‘It is the least I can do.’

  ‘Gigi?’ a voice calls from another room.

  ‘Finally, she speaks,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘She can hear, she just chooses not to.’

  ‘Is that your mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘please come and meet her, you can rest where it is more comfortable.’ She motions for me to follow her and leads me from the kitchen, instructing me several times to watch my head as we pass underneath low beams, and into a cosy living room with a huge old fireplace. In the corner an elderly lady sits in an armchair, watching a portable TV that looks almost as old as she is.