Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  3. Get Gigi and her family the inheritance that’s rightfully theirs. FAIL.

  Well done Ruby. Three out of three. I’m such a failure.

  Kicking off my shoes, I curl my feet up underneath me and flop my head against my bare arm. Then get a whiff of something unpleasant and realise it’s coming from me. Correction: I’m a stinking failure. I need to get in the shower. Unfolding my limbs, I pad into the tiny bathroom, into which is shoehorned an old cast-iron claw-footed bath. Actually, on second thoughts, I’ll run a bath. That way I can soak in my own misery.

  I pull back the white shower curtain and reach for the taps. They’re made of brass and I can’t help noticing their large polished spouts and pretty detailing. Usually, I’d never notice a tap. A tap is just a tap, right? But that’s the thing I’ve learned about Paris – it’s all in the details. Like the curling swan neck of a lamp post, the delicious rind on a piece of cheese, the act of cracking the hard, caramelised top of a crème brulée with your spoon and letting the filling ooze out. The little things that transform the seemingly ordinary, everyday moments into what Parisians call petits trésors, the treasures of life.

  I pour in various oils and shower gels I pick out of the higgledy-piggledy assortment on the shelf and attempt to make some bubbles, trying to cheer myself up. Steam rises, making everything soft-focus, and I slip off my clothes. The bath fills quickly. The taps aren’t just pretty, they’re like fire hoses, fiercely spurting out water, and turning them off, I dip in my toe.

  Then pull it out again. Hang on, I need something to read. I can’t lie here, poaching myself in bubbles and brooding about Jack and the auction. I need something to at least try to distract me.

  With a towel wrapped round myself, I head back into the living room in search of reading material. I’ve read all of Henry’s letters, though maybe I’ve missed something – a tiny flame of hope flickers, but I quickly snuff it out. It’s over, remember. Why punish myself by reading them again? I know, what about a magazine? Harriet must have some . . .

  I spy a stack next to the coffee table: Antiques Weekly, Furniture Restoring for Fun, Ming Vases Made Easy. Hmm, on second thoughts, perhaps not. Then I remember the copy of A Farewell to Arms Gigi gave me that belonged to Madame Dumont and dig it out of my bag.

  Perfect.

  Being careful not to get it wet, I leave it on the side as I submerge my limbs one by one into the perfumed bubbles, then, drying my hands, reach for it. I haven’t looked at it since that time on the train, and now I turn back the cover and read the foreword. Then I pause.

  I have a bit of a guilty secret when it comes to reading books. As a writer, I know I shouldn’t, and I know my readers would be horrified, but you see, I can never start a story without knowing how it ends. I think it’s the hopeless romantic in me – I have to know everything turns out OK and there’s a happy ending; only then can I happily enjoy the whole thing. If I didn’t I’d worry about the characters all the way through.

  Though in this instance I know the ending – doesn’t everyone? And it doesn’t turn out OK. Yet I still have to read the last page first. It’s become a sort of ritual.

  So, with no one to see, I turn to the end of the book, flicking backwards over the pages while telling myself that maybe reading one of the classic all-time tear-jerkers will make me feel better about my own doomed love affair—

  Hang on, what’s this?

  A bookmark slips out and I catch it with my fingers before it falls in the bathwater. At least I thought it was a bookmark, but instead it appears to be a ticket.

  I stare at it through the steam that rises up from the water. It’s a train ticket, but not the digital kind you get these days. This looks distinctly old-fashioned, with the departure and destination printed clearly at the top – AVIGNON–PARIS – and below, on the line that says Nom, in large looped handwriting:

  Emmanuelle Renoir.

  As if someone has pressed play on a recording, I hear Xavier’s voice in my head: ‘Madame Dumont left Paris sometime in 1940 . . . she passed away recently at the age of ninety-five, having never returned to the city again . . .’ at the same time as my eyes flick to the date, rubber-stamped over her signature. The ink isn’t evenly distributed, but I can make out the month and the year: June 1945.

  I frown. Wait a minute – this means she did go back. And just a month after the war was officially declared over.

  I stare again at the date, the cogs in my mind turning. This proves Emmanuelle returned to Paris after the war. But why? What happened? Why does no one know? Why did she deliberately keep it a secret?

  One tiny word. Why? But it throws itself at me again and again and again. I start picking over the pieces of the jigsaw: dates, photographs, the page from Paris Match that featured her wedding. Her wedding that took place just a month after she bought this ticket, after she went to Paris . . .

  The timing is too much of a coincidence. Henry wrote his last letter to her in 1940 after their row and it’s been nagging me why would she wait five whole years before she married ‘that other man’. Something must have happened in Paris that made her return to Provence and marry Monsieur Dumont.

  My mind turns faster and faster. The answer’s there, I know it, I just can’t see it yet. Did she go back to Paris to find something? Was it something she discovered?

  Or did she go back to Paris to hide something?

  And just like that, it’s like a light being switched on. They don’t call it a light bulb moment for nothing. Jumping out of the bath, I begin pulling on my clothes without drying myself.

  I have to get to the auction. Now. Before it’s too late.

  35

  What is it about being in a rush that makes everything in the whole world conspire to slow you down? It’s like some secret law of the universe. Keys go missing. Your left shoe hides under the sofa. You get stuck on the stairs behind an elderly neighbour who descends one cautious foot, then the other, on each and every step. A mother with a pushchair cuts you up. A gang of children crowds a pavement. Every single pedestrian crossing is against you.

  And don’t get me started on the Métro.

  If there’s not a queue for the ticket machine there’s one for the turnstiles. Trains are delayed. You finally get on one only to get stuck in a tunnel. Then on the platform behind a group of tourists when you finally get off. Frustration is a word that doesn’t even begin to touch the sides. And just when you think the coast is clear, the same woman with the pushchair cuts you up again in the tunnel and you end up offering to help her carry it up the stairs, huffing and puffing.

  Forget being late, at this rate I’ll be lucky to even get there.

  Finally, finally, after what feels like for ever, I make it to the auction house. I almost collapse in the doorway. I’ve run the last bit from the station and am so out of breath I have to rest for a few moments to catch it. Hands on my knees, I take a few deep breaths while at the same time trying to corral my thoughts, which are galloping madly around my head like a pack of wild horses.

  Am I really going to do this? I mean, really?

  Straightening up, I take in the building in front of me, with its imposing entrance, polished brass sign and high, grand windows. As I do, the sobering reality of my situation sinks in.

  Do what exactly?

  Now I’m here it suddenly dawns on me that I haven’t thought this thing through. Not even slightly. I’ve been so focused on getting here before it was too late that I haven’t thought about what happens next. I can’t just burst in, all guns blazing like I’m about to pull a bank heist. I’ve come completely unprepared. I don’t even have a pair of tights to put on my head.

  Not that I think wearing a pair of tights on my head would be the best approach, but even so—

  I feel a lurch of panic. Forget best approach, I don’t even have an approach. It’s not like I can stand here, running through the various options as if this is a multiple choice question. There is no A, B and C. Instead there’s lots o
f scary security, a bloody great big auction, tons of valuable antiques and little ol’ me.

  I glance at my watch. And I’m fast running out of time.

  Oh fuck.

  Suddenly I’m not sure this is such a good idea after all. I’m not a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type person. I do not think on my feet. I think on the sofa with my laptop and Google. But there’s no time for Google. No time to research. And anyway, how do you research ‘how to rush in and stop an auction’? I’m not sure even Google could throw up any suggestions.

  Like a couple of cops, anxiety and regret begin pounding on my resolve, trying to break it down like a door. Perhaps I should have called Xavier, explained the situation, and got some legal advice before I rushed over here like a crazy woman. Or even my friend Rachel in London, she’s a lawyer—

  But then, that would have taken for ever. Lawyers are always so careful and obsessed with details, and so, so incredibly slow. They’re not interested in whims, or gut feelings. They’re not into taking risks or acting on impulse, or making a scene. If I’d taken their advice I wouldn’t have done anything. I’d still be sitting on Harriet’s sofa while the chance of unravelling the mystery of the apartment once and for all would be lost for ever.

  And with it, Jean-Paul’s chance of going to college.

  And no sooner has that thought flown through my mind than anxiety and regret stop pounding and all my doubts evaporate into thin air. I don’t have a choice. I have to do this. I am going to do this. Because it’s not about me, it’s about a whole family. It’s about an old lady who never knew her parents, a daughter who hasn’t felt she’s fulfilled her role as a mother and a grandson who hasn’t been able to achieve his dreams. It’s about doing something that could alter the course of destiny and change all of their lives for ever.

  Put like that, I can’t just stand back and do nothing, now can I?

  In which case I’m going to have to do what I haven’t done before. I’m going to have to wing it.

  Taking a deep breath, I push open the door to the building and go inside. There are several officials milling around wearing laminated badges and a few burly men in suits who look like security guards. I think they might even have guns.

  Fuck.

  I keep walking. Nobody stops me. A red-carpeted hallway opens up and ahead of me is a large staircase. There appear to be several smaller auctions going on downstairs, but a large sign advertising the catalogue for Madame Dumont’s directs me upstairs. I take a quick look around me. Nobody’s looking.

  OK. Go.

  I take the stairs two at a time. Despite the adrenalin coursing through my veins I feel strangely calm. I’ve read this is how people feel when they’re about to do something completely mental. Like jump out of a plane, or rob a bank, or charge into the middle of an auction room yelling—

  Actually, I have no idea what I’ll be yelling. Or even if I’ll be yelling. First things first – I have to find this auction.

  I charge down the corridor. It’s much longer than I’d imagined, with lots of rooms leading off it, some holding auctions, others that look like viewing rooms. Damn, where is it? I’m losing valuable time. I’m going to be too late. Several minutes tick by as I go back and forth, peering into various rooms that all turn out to be the wrong one, and thinking, ‘This is it, I’m going to get chucked out,’ whenever I spot an official.

  Until finally, at the far end, I reach two big mahogany and glass doors. Immediately I recognise the catalogue on display. This is it! This is the one! I pause outside. Remember the bit where I said I was strangely calm? Well, not any more. My heart is now racing and I’m pretty sure my knees actually knocked together just then.

  I can hear noise inside. See shapes through the frosted glass. The sound of a hammer.

  OK. Deep breaths. I reach for the handle.

  This is it. I’m going in.

  ‘Excusez moi—’

  A loud voice in my ear causes me to spin round. A steely-faced woman with short grey hair and a uniform is staring hard at me, her face immovable like cement. Oh fuck, it’s one of the security guards. My heart crashes. I’ve been busted.

  ‘Oh hi . . . I’m here for the auction,’ I stammer.

  I’ve got this far. I can’t fail now.

  ‘It is already in progress,’ she snaps back.

  ‘Yes, I know – le Métro.’ I roll my eyes and try a Gallic shrug of the shoulders in an attempt to connect with her.

  It’s like trying to connect with a guard dog.

  There’s a pause as her eyes sweep back and forth across me, like Checkpoint Charlie spotlights. ‘What is your name?’ she demands.

  Briefly I think about fibbing, pretending I’m someone else, but before I know it I hear myself saying meekly, ‘Ruby Miller.’

  Honestly. And to think I’m a writer. What happened to my imagination?

  From behind her back she whips out a clipboard on which appears to be printed a long list of names. My heart sinks. Well that’s it then, I’m doomed. I watch as her pen slides slowly down the list, taking my hopes with it. What’s the point of making this any more painful than it is already? She’s going to throw me out, so I might as well just leave. I start stepping back from the door.

  ‘Actually, I think I might need the loo,’ I begin, gesturing vaguely behind me even though she’s still scrutinising her list, ‘so I think maybe—’

  ‘Bien!’ Striking through a name, she looks up and nods.

  What? I stare at her in astonishment. You mean—?

  Twisting my head, I squint at her list and sure enough, there I am. This must be Harriet’s doing, she must have put me on the list. And I’m being allowed in!

  ‘Please, this way.’

  I snap back to see her handing me something that looks like a wooden lollipop with a number on it, and before I know what’s happening, she’s opening the doors and I’m being thrust inside.

  It’s a hive of activity and for a moment I stand there, frozen. I wasn’t expecting such a big room or so many people. Quickly, I survey the scene, like I’m casing the joint. Rows of chairs greet me, stretching all the way to the front, while down the side several news cameras have been set up. I feel a jolt of surprise. I hadn’t realised the auction had generated quite so much interest.

  The auction is in full swing and I can see lots of the wooden lollipops being thrust in the air to the soundtrack of the auctioneer’s bidding. I zoom in to the middle of the stage – which is when I realise it’s Harriet standing behind the lectern.

  Oh god, of course. In all the panic and commotion I’d somehow forgotten all about Harriet being the auctioneer. This is her big break.

  As the doors swing closed behind me, she looks up and spots me. Our eyes meet, just for a nanosecond, but it’s long enough for me to register her nervous excitement, the achievement of a lifelong dream, the relief of seeing a friendly face.

  Bollocks. Now what? I can’t ruin this for her. I can’t start yelling or making a fuss.

  Thrown off balance, I dive into the only spare seat I can find, in the back row. I need time to think. Across the aisle and a few rows ahead of me, I spot Trixie and Felix. Both wearing dark glasses, they look like a middle-aged Barbie and Ken – well, that’s if Barbie was addicted to plastic surgery and Ken was an alcoholic. I thought they weren’t going to be here; they must have changed their minds when they got the scent of money.

  Clutching the ball of fluff that is her dog, Trixie is also clutching the knee of the man sitting next to her. Xavier. Someone coughs at the back of the room and he glances over his shoulder. He catches sight of me and looks faintly surprised. Understandably, considering it’s not that long ago that I was throwing up in his loo.

  Flashing him a quick smile, I try to duck out of view behind the burly shoulder of the stranger sitting next to me. As nice as Xavier was about it all, it’s still mortifying. And proof, if any more was needed, that sadly it’s going to take a lot more than a few days in Paris and a carefully tied sil
k scarf to make me très chic.

  I turn my attention back to Harriet. I was in such a tizz before, but now I feel a huge burst of pride. To be up there, in front of all these people, orchestrating this entire auction! I watch her in action as one lot is sold and bidding on the next begins.

  Crikey she’s good. She’s just so professional; you’d think she’d been doing this for ever. And to think she used to be nervous about public speaking, I muse, as she switches effortlessly between French and the English translation. I listen to her speaking authoritatively about the different lots, oozing confidence and adding just a dash of the theatrical to the proceedings so as to make them entertaining.

  And there was me thinking auctions were dull, I reflect, trying to keep up with the pace as she brings down the hammer on the bidding for a glass vase that just went for a fortune.

  ‘And finally this afternoon, we come to our last lot—’

  My heart jumps into my mouth. Oh god, this is it.

  ‘A wonderful and rare Steiff bear dating from the 1930s.’

  Holding my breath, I watch as the photo of Emmanuelle’s teddy bear is projected up on the big screens.

  ‘It has the original trademark button in its left ear and measures almost seventy centimetres when standing. Made from mohair, it has full joint and limb movement, black boot buttons for eyes and felt paws. There is the appearance of some minor repair stitching on the back seam, but overall it is in extremely good condition . . .’

  OK, it’s now or never. I need to do something.

  ‘Who will start the bidding at one thousand euros? Thank you, to the gentleman at the back . . .’

  Except I’m paralysed. I can’t move. I listen as the bidding starts like a sprinter off the blocks and increases at an alarming rate. Fuck, it’s all happening so quickly. Hands holding these wooden lollipops are shooting up all around me, while Harriet sounds like she’s repeating numbers from a phone book, at speed. My heart is racing. I need to say something before it’s too late.