I burst into giggles. ‘God you’re right, it does look like a squirrel!’ I guffaw, unable to stop myself. Well, that’s what happens when you’re on your third bottle of wine.
‘Squirrel? What is this squirrel?’ asks Luc, looking bewildered, but Harriet is too busy zooming further in on her hairstyle to give him another English vocabulary lesson.
‘I mean, goodness, what on earth was I—’ abruptly she breaks off and peers at the screen of her phone, her brow furrowed.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I try to reassure her, looking over her shoulder, except she’s not looking at a close-up of herself any more. Instead she’s focused in on a table in the far corner of the room behind us, and a man sitting alone drinking wine, a man who looks to my slightly blurry self like—
‘Rupes!’ she cries, twisting round.
As his name rings out across the restaurant, his head pops up like a meerkat’s. And as soon as he spots Harriet, he visibly freezes.
So do I. Otherwise I would have attempted to stop her before she grabbed her crutches and swung herself over to his table. It’s incredible how agile she is on those things.
‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone out of town on business,’ she demands in a voice loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. Harriet’s never been a quiet speaker, she has a tendency to boom at the best of times, but when she’s had a few drinks she’s positively foghorn-like.
I look at Rupert. He’s like a rabbit in the headlights. Frozen, he can’t seem to move. Hand frozen on his wine glass, he just stares at Harriet. For a brief moment I actually feel quite sorry for him.
‘Er – um – bit of a change of plan,’ he manages to stammer. His eyes are going back and forth like in a haunted house painting. ‘I was going to call you but you know what it’s like . . .’
Oh god. I get up from my seat, ready to go Harriet’s rescue, but she suddenly seems to notice something. A gift, lying unwrapped on the table, its tissue paper and ribbon discarded.
It’s a bottle of perfume.
‘No, why, what’s it like?’ she asks, an edge to her voice.
Uh-oh.
Quickly, I excuse my way through a few tables towards them. ‘Maybe we should sit down—’ I begin, but don’t finish – I’m interrupted by the appearance of a thin blonde who emerges from the bathroom and sits down at the table.
I’m suddenly more sober than I’ve ever been.
The blonde looks quizzically at Harriet as if it to say who’s this woman on crutches and what is she doing at our table?
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ asks Harriet, raising her eyebrows at Rupert.
His expression is the same one as he had on his skydiving photo. Absolute terror.
‘This is my wife, Susan. Susan, this is Harriet.’
It’s like waiting for a car crash to happen. I hold my breath. There’s an infinitesimal pause. I can barely dare look at Harriet as I wait for the inevitable.
Only it never comes.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says, smiling politely.
Harriet behaves with perfect grace, nodding pleasantly at the blonde and Rupert as if she’s greeting them at church. ‘Well, I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your meal.’ And without giving anything away, she turns and with as much dignity as she can muster, which on crutches is no mean feat, lurches back to our table.
‘You tried to tell me, didn’t you?’ she says a few minutes later as we sit back down. Luc has gone to talk to the owner and is standing over by the bar, seemingly oblivious to what’s just occurred.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to be right,’ I say, and I really mean it. For all my feelings about Rupert, I didn’t want Harriet to get hurt.
‘Don’t be,’ she says, topping up her glass. ‘Eau de Cheating Husband isn’t my scent anyway.’
I smile as she takes a large gulp of wine. ‘He’s lucky he met you, many women would have made a scene.’
‘I just feel sorry for his poor wife.’
We both glance over to see Rupert looking ashen, knocking back a bottle of Shiraz while his wife chats animatedly, seemingly none the wiser.
‘You were right, all that Internet dating and social media, it’s just a facade to hide behind. None of it’s real. We create these perfectly edited versions of how we’d like to be, but all that happens is we end up falling in love with people’s profiles, not how they really are. Then when you meet them in real life . . .’ She pulls a face.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you in real life,’ I say hotly, ‘you’re gorgeous, and anyway, that’s not the point, you’re not the one that said you were single when in fact you were married.’
I’m actually feeling quite angry now. Rupert is very lucky he’s in a crowded restaurant because I’ve had a lot of red wine and I’m wearing very sharp stiletto heels that are just aching to be dug into shins right now.
‘True,’ she says, ‘but I wasn’t completely honest either. I thought I had to be a certain way to find love, that there was this formula, if I was just thinner, or had smaller feet and didn’t wear glasses, or if my hair wasn’t frizzy – or my guilty pleasure wasn’t Googling old episodes of Antiques Roadshow in bed at night—’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ I say loyally. ‘I think that’s perfectly normal.’
‘And trying to beat the experts when they say how much it is, and keeping score in a little notebook on my bedside table.’
‘Well OK, perhaps that’s not normal,’ I admit, ‘but it’s still not married.’
She smiles appreciatively and squeezes my arm.
‘And so I did this whole makeover when I came to Paris, and worked so hard trying to find love, that I didn’t realise I’d already found it without even trying.’
Hang on. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ she confesses with a sigh, ‘You were right all along, Ruby, and if it wasn’t for you I would never have seen it. I would never have opened my eyes, I would have remained closed to it, because it’s just nothing like I expected it to be . . . I had this image in my head of what love would look like, what he would look like, but it didn’t fit into the box I’d created for it.’
‘And what does it look like?’
Harriet’s face creases into a sheepish smile as she nurses her glass of red wine. ‘It looks like foam hearts in cafés crèmes and a smile that brightens my every morning; like home-made soup being delivered up six flights of stairs without being asked; like someone who sees me for who I really am and still likes me enough to book me a restaurant when everywhere else in town was full—’
She breaks off as Luc reappears at the table. ‘So, is this the date?’ He gestures stiffly towards Rupert, his dark eyes flashing.
So he wasn’t oblivious after all. Far from it.
‘Was,’ corrects Harriet. ‘Past particle.’
For a moment there’s a pause as it registers, then Luc’s face relaxes.
‘You know, we really need to work on your grammar,’ she adds after a moment’s pause.
‘Is it really that terrible?’
‘Appalling,’ she says firmly, ‘in fact, you’re going to need lots of private lessons.’ Her eyes meet his. ‘Lots and lots and lots.’
A look passes between them and his mouth twists up into a smile.
‘You think so?’
There’s a pause, then Harriet’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Absolutely.’
31
Luc joins us for pudding and the rest of the meal passes in a warm and gooey blur of melted chocolate soufflés, sticky, chewy toffee-topped tarte tatin and Harriet and Luc staring doe-eyed at each other across the table. At one point I think I catch them holding hands underneath their napkins. It’s so incredibly sweet and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harriet look happier, or more relaxed. But then that’s what happens when by some miracle you finally find someone who just gets you.
It’s as if all those years of not fitting in with her sisters, or being accepted by her mum, of fruitlessly searching for love and being constantly disappointed, of trying to be thinner or blonder or something she wasn’t were all whipped up into a perfect storm in Paris. But now all of a sudden, it’s over and there’s this stillness about her.
Something tells me she won’t be going to the summer ball alone this year. Or ever again.
And just for the record, Mrs Fortescue-Blake – Luc has enormous feet.
We leave the restaurant full of good food and spirits, and spill out on to the pavement, where we linger for a few moments, chatting and laughing under the streetlamps, until talk turns to heading home.
‘I would give you both a ride but I have only a scooter,’ says Luc, shrugging apologetically, ‘so there is space for only one person.’
‘One person and a pair of crutches?’ I ask, grinning.
‘But of course, I have a roof rack,’ he nods, completely straight-faced.
‘Seriously?’
‘No, I am joking,’ he says with a grin, before breaking into his deep baritone laugh.
‘Wait a minute, I’m not leaving you, Ruby!’ protests a rather drunken Harriet, suddenly twigging. It’s as if she’s out of sync with the conversation and is a couple of steps behind.
‘Yes you are,’ I say firmly. ‘I can get a taxi.’
‘You know this isn’t London, you can’t just hail one.’
‘That’s fine, I can walk to one of the taxi ranks. I feel like some fresh air anyway and it’s a lovely night.’
‘But it’s nearly midnight.’
‘Midnight in Paris,’ I quip, and feel an unexpected thrill. What could be more magical? ‘Who knows what might happen?’
‘Exactly. Which is why I’m coming with you,’ she says stubbornly.
Honestly, for someone who went to Cambridge and graduated with a First, Harriet can be completely thick. How much more obvious do I have to make it that I am giving her and Luc some time alone?
‘On crutches?’ I remind her and her face falls as she realises she’s been foiled.
I can see her weaken. I know she really wants to go with Luc but is being the loyal girlfriend.
‘Please, go,’ I insist, ‘you’ll get to ride through the city at night on the back of a scooter. It will be like Roman Holiday.’
At the mention of one of her favourite films, Harriet’s face lights up.
‘If it’s good enough for Audrey . . .’ I smile, reminding her of her icon.
Harriet crumbles. Throwing her arms round me, she gives me a hug. ‘Sweetie, you’re the best friend in the world,’ she gushes into my neck, ‘I love you so much, I really do . . .’
Oh god, and now she’s getting all teary-eyed. Luc and I exchange looks and I make a motion with my eyes for him to peel Harriet from me. Which he does with an amused grin, lassoing her round the waist with one tattooed forearm while unlocking the top-box on his scooter with the other and pulling out his spare helmet.
‘. . . I don’t know what I’d do without you . . . I just think I’m so lucky to have such a wonderful—’
She’s suddenly muffled as Luc slides the helmet over her head.
‘And don’t wait up for me,’ I instruct, as she clambers on to the back of the scooter behind Luc and, with her arms wrapped firmly round his waist, zooms off into the night.
Turning away, I start walking. It’s one of those perfect early-summer evenings. Despite being nearly midnight, the air is bathwater warm and there’s not a breath of wind. With my silk scarf slung over my arm, I stroll bare-armed through the cobbled streets, past the pavement cafés and bars that are still busy with tourists and locals, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.
Paris is so different at night. It’s as if one part of the city falls asleep and another wakes, shimmering in the darkness. Now I know why it’s called the City of Lights: everywhere I look seems to glitter and sparkle, making it seem magical.
I’m not sure of my way to a taxi rank, but I’m in no hurry to get back to the apartment, so I take my time, meandering through the side streets until, turning a corner, I realise I’m lost. Seriously, I don’t have a clue where I am and I don’t have my guidebook on me.
I look around to see who I can ask for directions. Only the streets are empty. There’s no one here but me—
Except – what’s that? Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of colour and turn round to see a girl in a yellow dress disappearing into the shadows.
‘Hey! Excusez-moi,’ I call after her, but she’s gone. I hesitate, unsure what to do, but there’s no one else around and it’s just turned midnight. In the distance I hear a clock striking twelve. She might be my only hope.
I quickly hurry after her and as I turn the corner I glimpse her again. She’s just a little way ahead of me. She turns briefly, as if hearing my footsteps behind her, and I’m struck by her long red hair; it covers the side of her face and almost reaches her tiny waist.
‘Excusez-moi—’
As she passes underneath a streetlamp I notice how the folds of silk swing round her legs, the dainty pattern of white polka dots against the yellow, the vintage silhouette. Quite unexpectedly it strikes a chord of recognition. Wait, I’m sure I’ve seen that dress before—
All at once my heart starts to race.
It’s Emmanuelle’s. It was hanging in her apartment. It was the one she was wearing when Henry first saw her at the café.
I can almost feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. But that’s impossible – it can’t be.
I’m suddenly reminded of the gramophone playing in her apartment, the sounds of Emmanuelle and Henry dancing. It was all just a dream, I was asleep, I was imagining things . . . and yet, I’m not asleep now. I’m wide awake. This is happening. This is real.
Is it her? Can it really be her?
I swallow hard, my heart thudding hard in my chest, then find my voice. ‘Emmanuelle?’
As I call out, the girl in the yellow dress pauses. For a split second I think she’s going to turn to face me. And for that briefest of moments everything stands still in that silent little street, in the depths of Paris, at some magical moment past midnight. But then, blink, and she’s gone again and all I’m aware of is the echo of her footsteps catching on the cobblestones.
I stand, frozen, my mind whirling, listening to her hurrying away into the night. It’s almost as if she wants me to follow her, as if she wants to lead me somewhere—
No sooner has the thought struck than I hurry round the corner and stumble across a small garden square. I probably never would have noticed it, sitting quietly opposite a church and lit only by the pale glow of the streetlamps, but for the large wall covered with writing that lies beyond the railings that catches my attention.
For a few moments I peer at it, trying to make out what it says. I wonder if she’s gone in here? I can’t see her further down the street. I try the gate. At first I think it’s locked, but when I push at the chain it releases and swings open. I hesitate, feeling suddenly apprehensive. There isn’t anyone else around and it is very late. But I’m also incredibly curious, and buoyed up by several glasses of Merlot and my keys, which I dig out of my bag and grip in my hand, a home-made knuckleduster for self-defence, I walk inside.
There’s no sign of anyone, least of all a girl with red hair and a yellow silk dress, but I needn’t have worried. It’s empty and quiet, but instead of feeling scared, I’m imbued with a sense of peace and tranquillity as I approach the wall. It’s made up of hundreds of dark blue tiles and covered in white writing, hardly any of which I understand, but as I draw closer I make out a phrase in French. Then in Spanish. Then in English. It’s the same phrase over and over but in a hundred different languages. And it’s then that it dawns on me.
It’s a whole wall of I love yous.
Standing motionless, I stare at it transfixed. It wasn’t what I was expecting. So often walls divide, but this one brings
everyone together in a great big symbol of love. Just as it was with the Taj Mahal, I reflect, feeling again the rush of emotions I’d felt when I was in India faced with that monument to love.
Reaching out my hand, I trace my fingers over the words, marvelling at all these different languages made into one: the language of love. And I think about all the couples from all over the world, all the lovers since time immemorial, all the people who have whispered this to each other. I think about Henry and Emmanuelle. About me and Jack. Because it doesn’t matter how many different languages it’s written in, or how many ways you can say it – for each person there’s only one other in the whole world who you want to hear say those words.
For me that’s Jack.
Is that why I was led here? To remind me of what’s important? Except, now, in the sobering stillness, such a thought feels faintly ridiculous. I don’t believe in ghosts, remember? It must have been a trick of the light. A heady mix of wine and the magic of Paris.
It’s then that I notice the fragments of red. Scattered among the words, they’re like pieces of a broken heart that the wall is trying to mend and I feel an ache, deep down inside me. It seems like for ever since I heard Jack say I love you.
Out of nowhere a breeze appears, fluttering the leaves above me and carrying a trace of scent. It smells like musk and orange blossom, just like the perfume I found in Emmanuelle’s apartment. A shiver runs down my spine.
Will I ever hear him say it again?
32
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, staring at the wall, when I’m distracted by the feel of something on my skin. It’s a drop of water. I brush my fingers against the wetness. Is it raining? Lifting my face to the sky, I stare up into the darkness. Nothing. I must have been mistaken. I can’t see anything—
There. Another drop. This time it lands on my cheek.
It is raining.
Reluctantly I turn away from the wall and make my way out of the park. Already the raindrops are falling faster. I feel their warm wetness on my bare arms, hear their faint pattering on the leaves of the trees.
Love From Paris Page 27
