‘Do you want anything to eat?’
At the sound of Xavier’s voice, I zone back.
‘I can make you some eggs,’ he offers.
My stomach does something strange and I shake my head, ‘No thanks, just coffee is great.’
He can cook too. He does cook in that minimalist kitchen. Harriet was right; dating Xavier would be like dating a Ferrari. What woman could go out with someone like—
My mind suddenly springs up an image of Celeste. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.
‘Before I forget, Miss Fortescue-Blake called your phone last night, wondering where you were . . .’
I snap back from my matchmaking fantasies. ‘She did?’
‘Yes, and I answered because you were in the bathroom.’
My blush deepens. We might have reached the friends stage, but I don’t really want to be reminded.
‘I explained about getting caught in the thunderstorm and how you couldn’t get a cab. I told her not to worry, that you would stay here for the night.’
I smile. ‘Thanks Xavier.’
Forget ten out of ten. This guy is an eleven. He’s taken care of everything. Sinking back into the pillows, I sip my coffee. It tastes divine.
‘And there was someone else who called you. Early this morning, just as I’d got out of the shower. A guy.’
My body stiffens. ‘What was his name?’
‘He didn’t say,’ Xavier says, shaking his head, ‘but he sounded American.’
Jack. It has to be. My heart starts pounding.
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing much, he said he needed to speak to you, I explained you were still asleep.’
My stomach does an impression of an elevator and drops about thirty floors. It doesn’t take an Einstein to realise immediately how this must have sounded.
‘Is this the boyfriend?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes . . .’ I nod, my mind racing, ‘yes – I think so.’
I put down my coffee and start to scramble out of bed, still clutching the sheet. ‘I’m sorry,’ I gabble, grabbing my dress, which is lying over the back of a chair, ‘I need to get dressed – I have to go . . .’
I need to call Jack. I need to speak to him. I need to explain.
Xavier watches me, his expression a mixture of surprise and resignation at my reaction. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘If you need anything—’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks—’ I pause in locating my shoes to shoot him a grateful smile, ‘—thanks for everything.’
He surveys me for a few moments as if about to say something, then, seeming to think better of it, he shrugs and smiles. ‘Any time.’
Outside the city is waking up. It’s still early. Rubbish trucks rattle through the streets, flower stalls are setting up, the scent of freshly baked bread wafts from the open doors of a boulangerie. Puddles of water nestle in between the cobbles, a reminder of last night’s storm. Only, I don’t need to be reminded.
Clutching my phone, I find a quiet corner and hastily dial Jack. My heart is thudding.
It rings for a while, and just when I think it’s going to click on to his voicemail:
‘Hello?’
He answers.
I swallow hard. ‘Jack, it’s me, Ruby.’
There’s an infinitesimal pause, but it’s long enough to feel the chilliness.
‘Hi,’ he says, coolly.
No warmth, no ‘hey babe’, nothing. I hesitate. I was so desperate to talk to him, to explain, but now I’ve got him on the phone I don’t know where to start. I try to steady my breath. Come on, just tell him.
‘Look, about earlier when you called—’
‘There’s no need to explain,’ he says, cutting me off.
‘No, but there is,’ I protest, ‘it’s not what you think—’
‘Really?’ His tone is sarcastic. There’s a pause and then, ‘So tell me, what should I be thinking when I call up my girlfriend to wish her happy birthday and I discover not only is she in Paris, but she’s asleep in another man’s bed?’
Put like that it does sound pretty bad.
‘Xavier’s just a friend, there was a storm, I couldn’t get a cab . . .’ I sound more defensive than I’d like.
‘Like I said, you don’t have to explain.’
God, he’s not making this easy for me. I try again.
‘Jack, please, don’t be like this, nothing happened. I mean, for god’s sake, he slept on the sofa!’ I cry almost desperately.
‘Seriously Ruby, I don’t want to talk about it.’
He cuts me off dead and I fall silent. Before suddenly feeling angry towards him for being such a hypocrite.
‘You’re not being fair!’ I round on him, my voice shrill. ‘What about you? You’re with your ex-girlfriend!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Now he’s the one who sounds angry.
‘I saw you on Facebook, on the charity’s page, she’s with you in Colombia! You’ve got your arms round each other!’ My words are tumbling out and it’s impossible to stop them. ‘And you’re trying to make me feel guilty! You’re being a hypocrite!’
I break off, panting. I know I’ve just lost it but I don’t care. I’m sick of avoiding this. I’m sick of trying to play it cool and pretend like I don’t care.
There’s a heavy silence on the other end of the line, as if he’s just been hit by a left hook he didn’t see coming.
‘We’re working together,’ he says finally, as if choosing his words carefully, ‘she’s working for the same charity, it doesn’t mean anything.’
In hindsight perhaps I should have accepted his explanation. Let it drop. Been reasonable. And maybe if I had things would have taken a different turn; emotions would have died down, we’d have patched things up, maybe even laughed about it.
But it’s hard to think clearly when you’re upset and hungover. Even more so when all your unspoken emotions that have been pent up the last few days have suddenly found a release valve.
Plus there’s a reason why hindsight is so wonderful. It’s because nine times out of ten, you don’t do what you should have done.
And I didn’t.
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’ I persist, not letting it go. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth when I asked you if you knew anyone out there?’ I hesitate, then say what’s been on my mind for days. ‘Why did you lie?’
There’s a pause.
‘Because I was afraid you’d react like this,’ he says quietly.
I fall silent.
‘I know what Sam did to you and I didn’t want you to worry. In my own stupid way I was trying to protect you, protect us . . .’ His voice trails off and I feel a tugging inside. ‘There’s already been enough miscommunication between us, we didn’t need any more. But now I find out you’re in Paris and you didn’t even tell me.’
‘Well you haven’t exactly been the easiest person to get hold of,’ I say quietly, in my own defence.
‘True, but when were you going to mention it?’
I feel myself stiffen a little. ‘OK, look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I apologise, ‘but I think that’s a little rich coming from you.’
‘Meaning?’ There’s an edge to his voice.
‘Well, you didn’t tell me you were going to Colombia until I was standing at Heathrow waiting for you and you didn’t show up.’
‘That’s not strictly true. I tried calling and emailing—’
‘When? A few hours before? That’s hardly a lot of notice.’
‘I’ve told you, that was out of my control.’
‘So you’ve said,’ I reply, a little snappily, ‘and I know you’re working for a charity so that makes you the good guy and me the bad guy for not understanding, but it still doesn’t change what happened.’
‘So this is some kind of payback?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
Oh god. Any headway we might have made is fast getting lost and I can feel everything starting
to rapidly unravel.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ he accuses. ‘You went to Paris to pay me back.’
‘No, I went to Paris because a friend needed me,’ I fire back.
We both break off, the silence between us widening, neither of us speaking.
‘You know what, I can’t do this any more.’
As Jack breaks the silence I feel my heart constrict. ‘Can’t do what?’ I manage to keep my voice even, but inside my stomach lurches. I know we were having an argument. I know things haven’t been good between us; but I wasn’t prepared for this.
‘This long-distance relationship stuff – I’m no good at it, never have been.’
And suddenly it’s as if the ground has given way beneath me and I’m in freefall. I can hear him speaking but I can’t respond. There’s so much I need to say but I can’t say any of it. I can’t do anything but just stand here on this street corner, the phone pressed up against my ear, as everything comes crashing down around me.
In the background I hear the sound of a tannoy making an announcement.
‘Look, I’ve gotta go, I’m at the airport, they’re calling my flight . . .’
I nod dumbly, tears leaking down my face.
So this is it.
‘OK. Safe flight.’ I struggle to keep my voice steady but I can already feel the sense of him leaving, of him disappearing from my life as quickly as he entered it, of how without him it will never be the same again.
I stay on the line, eking out those last few painful silent seconds, then, mumbling our goodbyes, we both hang up.
And, just like that, he’s gone.
34
After that it’s all a bit of a blur.
I can’t remember much about how I got back to Harriet’s apartment. I vaguely recall sitting on the Métro, the rattle of the train, the throng of strangers around me. But nothing really registered. Even the sounds of the city seemed muffled. As if there was a filter between me and the rest of the world, like when I was a kid and would swim underwater in the local pool. I used to be able to hold my breath for a whole length and I remember the strange feeling of being detached from real life.
Back then I used to love that sensation, but now the circumstances are very different. Now, I don’t feel much of anything.
Which, to be honest, is probably a good thing.
Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I let myself in. Heathcliff greets me like always, his soft warm body pressed against my legs, his wet raspy tongue licking my hands. And as always I scoop him up and give him a hug and make a fuss. But this time everything looks different. Everything feels different.
‘Hello?’ I call out for Harriet, but there’s no answer. Everything is quiet. I tiptoe tentatively towards her bedroom, wary of what I might find, but the door is ajar and the room is empty. I say empty. What I mean is there is no Harriet. There are, however, plenty of signs of her getting ready this morning, with stuff chucked all over the bed and the floor, and out into the hallway.
I follow them, like Hansel and Gretel following a trail of crumbs, and find two coffee cups in the sink. So Luc must have stayed.
I smile to myself. Despite the sadness I feel about my own love life, I’m happy for Harriet. If anyone deserves a break when it comes to love, it’s her. And Luc is more than a break, he’s the real deal. Absently it crosses my mind to text her, to find out what happened after they left the restaurant, to do what girlfriends do. Though to be honest, I’m not much in the mood for texting or talking, especially about affairs of the heart. Well, I made such a bloody rotten mess of it all, didn’t I?
But Harriet’s a dear friend and I know she’ll be dying to share all the details with me. Well, maybe not all the details, but she’ll want someone to share in her excitement. I’m reaching for my phone to send a text when out of the corner of my eye, I’m distracted by something on the counter. It’s a catalogue for the auction.
Of course, it’s today. I’d completely forgotten.
Picking it up, I flick through the glossy pages filled with photographs and descriptions of all of Emmanuelle’s belongings. It’s so strange to see them catalogued. Her gorgeous dressing table with its ornate mirror has been cleared of her perfume bottles, jewellery and make-up. Wiped clean and dusted down, it’s described as: ‘a fine tulipwood Louis XV style dressing table with a triptych mirror and gilt-bronze banded tabletop . . .’
The description is quite lengthy, with mentions of ‘cabriole legs’, ‘floral motifs’ and ‘exquisite ormulu mounts and gilt-bronze sabots’, whatever they are, together with the measurements and starting-bid price.
I feel a beat of sadness. To the rest of the world it’s just a piece of antique furniture, but I know it’s more than that. This was the dressing table that Emmanuelle sat at to get ready for her first date with Henry. That mirror is the one she would have looked into when applying her make-up and combing her hair; upon which she would have been gazing when Henry fastened his locket round her neck.
I read somewhere once that mirrors work by absorbing energy that they bounce back as a reflection, but that not all of it is reflected. Where does the rest go? Energy can’t be destroyed, it has to go somewhere. Is Emmanuelle’s energy still there, trapped in the silver mercury?
I flick through the pages, my gaze sweeping across the china tea set that was laid out on her dining table, several first editions of novels by French authors, whose names I don’t recognise but who are no doubt well-known, gilt-edged paintings that hung on her walls, the faded lavender chaise longue that graced her bedroom . . . I can’t bear seeing her home broken up like this.
Oh god, and look! My chest tightens as I see ‘Lot 217’. It’s her gramophone player. Photographed starkly against a white background it’s just another item to be sold, but in my head I hear the sounds of ‘J’attendrai’ playing and imagine Emmanuelle and Henry dancing around her apartment . . .
Swallowing hard, I turn the page.
‘An original, 1930s Steiff bear . . .’
I stare at the photo, at Franklin’s smiling face and big black eyes. This was one of Henry’s many gifts. My memory spools back through his letters.
He is to keep you company in my absence. Do you like him my love? I have named him Franklin, after my president, and he has a smile as big as mine when I see you.
The yellow fur has become grimy with age, but the years haven’t affected the width of that smile. Despite myself, I smile back. Henry’s piece of America, for her. Their confidant.
I have found him to be a very good listener. You can tell him anything, for I promise he will keep all our secrets.
Secrets.
I turn the word over in my mind, looking at it this way and that like you might a pebble you’ve picked up on the beach. So many secrets. The apartment, their love affair, the letters, a child . . . Has the apartment truly given up all its secrets? I look harder, turning the word back and forth, searching for something I’ve missed. Or is there still one more to discover?
I’m distracted by a faint noise. A burbling. It takes me a split second to register – my phone! Dropping the catalogue, I bound across the room and dive into my bag. Please let it be Jack.
I get to it and snatch it up urgently, just in time. ‘Hello?’
‘’Allo?’ It’s a man’s voice, but not one I recognise. ‘Mademoiselle Miller?’
I feel more resigned than disappointed. Of course it’s not Jack.
‘Yes . . . yes, that’s me,’ I answer, snapping back.
‘It’s Monsieur Laurent.’
He says it like I should know who he is, but my mind is a total fog.
‘From the parfumerie,’ he adds, jogging my memory.
Ah yes, of course!
‘Oh, hi,’ I say warmly, my mind flicking back to a few days ago when I discovered his scent-filled shop in the backstreets of Paris. So much has happened since then, it seems like forever ago.
‘I have found him!’ he says triumphantly.
‘Found who?
’ I ask, still not fully up to speed.
‘Monsieur Baldwin. He purchased one of our custom scents on the twenty-first of February, 1940. It was to be sent to an Emmanuelle Renoir. I have his signature right here in one of our ledgers, a Mr H. Baldwin—’
Oh my god, that’s Henry. That’s his full name.
I feel a sudden euphoria as one of the missing pieces of the jigsaw finally snaps into place.
‘How did you find him?’ I ask, incredulous.
‘The missing fragrance that I could not recognise. Finally it came to me, it was lemongrass, an unusual combination if not a unique one, and a wonderful one. And then of course, I knew his first name was Henry and also the year. The rest was easy.’
He sounds so proud and pleased and I thank him profusely, staying on the line for several more minutes while he waxes lyrical about fragrances. Never have I met anyone more passionate about what they do, which is wonderful and fascinating and normally I would love to hear all about it, but I can’t concentrate. My mind is buzzing with this new piece of news and I can’t think of anything else. Only when I’ve promised to pay another visit to his shop does he finally bid me farewell.
Henry Baldwin.
I put down my phone and gaze dazedly into the middle distance. Finally, after all this time and all this effort, I’ve got his name. I reach for my laptop, flick it open and quickly type his name into Google. Over 47 million results pop up. It’s a long shot, but maybe now I can find out something. I know the identity of Henry, the lover of Emmanuelle, the author of the letters and yet . . .
So what?
Unexpectedly, the euphoria I felt at first is rapidly replaced by a sense of pointlessness. So what if I know Henry’s full name? It doesn’t change anything. And that, in itself, just makes everything worse. I got so close, and yet, at the end of the day, close just isn’t enough.
Defeated, I close my laptop again and slump back against the sofa bed. Someone once told me that the mark of happiness was setting yourself a goal and achieving it, in which case:
1. Fall in love and live happily ever after with Jack. FAIL.
2. Solve the mystery of the apartment. FAIL.
Love From Paris Page 29
