Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  Praise for India's Summer by Thérèse:

  “India’s Summer is a furious, fast-paced, fun romp through the excesses of life in the Hollywood fast lane, with some thought-provoking wisdom interspersed throughout.”

  – Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author

  “A book has an energy field all of its own and India’s Summer has a really great one.”

  – Ekhart Tolle, spiritual leader and New York Times bestselling author

  “India’s Summer offers a timeless tale of women supporting one another – delivered in a way that makes it feel fresh, alive, and utterly of the moment.”

  – Arianna Huffington

  “India’s fascinating character is what makes India’s Summer a compelling read. She is trying to make a big shift in her life, in her career, in the choices she’s making. She’s funny, clever and vulnerable and you are rooting for her every step of the way.”

  – Goldie Hawn

  “India’s Summer avoids the familiar clichés of LA and yet captures the character of the city so well.”

  – Orlando Bloom

  “I love how India learns to trust her inner voice and begins to let her light shine.”

  – Miranda Kerr, Victoria’s Secret “Angel” and author of Treasure Yourself

  “I loved this book. India made me smile.”

  – Kim Eng, Presence of Movement Workshop Leader

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2014 by Thérèse

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

  Cover photo © 2011 by Jeff Eamer

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-141-7

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-142-4

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant printing: June 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Ken, James, and Kate.

  I love you more than words can say.

  “It is important to have rain the first day in Paris

  and never an umbrella.”

  – Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina

  Hotel de l’Abbaye

  Saint Germain

  Paris

  December 15, 2013

  Dear lovely reader,

  Letter from Paris is the continuing story of India Butler who has not long turned forty, and is technically still single.

  India has always longed to be French, to have that illusive je ne sais quoi, a signature style of dressing, a certain confidence. She dreams of an apartment in Paris with its air of “benign neglect” and casement windows she can fling open to breathe in lavender-scented air. She longs to speak better French, to cycle down Rue de Rivoli with her baguette tossed casually in her basket, her hair swept up in a casual chignon, her lover waiting for her in Brasserie Lipp on Boulevard Saint Germain… If you ask me she’s watched far too many Audrey Hepburn movies, but a girl can dream can’t she?

  If you have yet to read India’s Summer, then no spoilers; all you really need to know is that India is back from LA, living in London, and in a long-distance relationship with Adam Brooks. She’ll tell you the rest herself.

  Writing this sequel has been a labor of love for me. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed living vicariously through India again and I hope you will too. Do let me know. I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me at www.thereseblogs.com.

  A bientot mes amies

  Bisous

  Thérèse x

  1

  “Are you okay? You shot out from nowhere. I could have killed you,” the biker shouted, wrestling to unfasten his helmet.

  “I’m fine…I’m fine,” the girl stammered, scrambling to her feet and collecting the strewn contents of her purse. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking. I was distracted by the fountains.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked anxiously, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Let me see you. Have you hurt yourself?”

  “No. I’m fine. Absolutely. I promise,” she said, brushing the dust off her pants and lifting her bag over her shoulder. “I’m okay, just a bit shaken up…”

  “Here. Catch your breath a minute,” he said, taking her by the elbow and helping her back onto the pavement. “I’m Adam. What’s your name?”

  “Natalie,” she said, running her hands through her hair and attempting a smile. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I really am okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” she said, looking around in something of a daze. “I think I should go back to my hotel. I’m clearly not safe to be out on the street.”

  “Let me get you back there. You’ll be perfectly safe,” he assured her. “I do know how to drive.”

  “You certainly know how to stop.” She laughed. “I’m really sorry. I feel so stupid. Yes. Thanks. It’s just up the street – The Paris,” she said, pointing across the Las Vegas strip.

  “Okay. Here. Put this on,” he said, handing her his helmet. “Let me fasten it for you.”

  He snapped the strap under her chin, climbed back on the Harley, and fired up the engine.

  “Okay? Take your time,” he shouted.

  Natalie swung her leg over the wide leather seat.

  “Are you on?”

  “Yes,” she yelled back.

  “There are foot pegs. Got them? Great. Hold on to me and lean into the curve.”

  Natalie put her arms around his waist as the engine gave a throaty growl. In the few short minutes it took to get back to her hotel, she became acutely aware of the strength of his muscles under his cotton shirt.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said, climbing off and shaking out her long hair. She handed him back the helmet.

  “Can’t stop here,” he said, nodding toward a truck reversing in his path. “I really want to know you’re okay. Can I catch up with you later? Are you doing anything tonight?”

  Natalie shook her head. “Not especially,” she said.

  “How ’bout I take you to dinner? Would seven o’clock work?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up over there by the lobby. See you later,” he said, revving the engine and negotiating his way around the truck.

  Natalie didn’t waste a second grabbing her phone from her purse.

  “Hey Monica,” she said, breathless with excitement. “Omigod. Never, as in never, are you going to believe what just happened to me.”

  “Let me guess. You just won a million dollars on a slot machine?”

  “Ha! Not exactly…Okay…so I tripped in the street and this guy on a motorcycle almost killed me…and he’s just given me a lift back to the hotel…and…”

  “Are you insane?” Monica screamed. “The guy nearly kills you and you get on his bike?”

  “I didn’t finish yet. It wasn’t his fault and the GUY was Adam Brooks.”

  “Adam Brooks? As in…Adam BROOKS? Omigod, that changes everything. Are you sure it was him and not some lookalike? Maybe you have a concussion.”

  “Too funny, Monica. Yes. I’m positive. It was him all right, right down to his six pack. Okay.
Are you sitting down? I haven’t even told you the best part yet.” She paused for effect. “Ready? Wait for it…he’s taking me to dinner tonight. Adam Brooks as in People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive…is taking me to dinner.”

  “Cool, as in really cool. But sorry to break the news Nat, he’s in a serious relationship. He’s got a thing with Annabelle Butler’s sister. What’s her name? India. I think they might even be engaged.”

  “Monica, he could be married with kids for all I care. All guys cheat,” Natalie said, examining the long scrape up her elbow. “Anyway, gotta go. I’m mad late for my meeting.”

  Natalie left herself plenty of time to get ready for the evening. After a long shower, she took time doing her makeup and shimmied into a tight cocktail dress. She checked her reflection approvingly before jostling her way through the packed casino to the hotel entrance where Adam shouted to her from the open window of a black Mercedes.

  “Over here. Climb in. I guessed you’d feel safer on four wheels.” He grinned.

  “Good call. I’d have had to have ridden sidesaddle in this dress anyway.” She laughed, sliding in next to him in the back seat and arranging one long tan leg over the other.

  Adam turned to her. “Hungry?”

  “Yes. Where are we going?”

  “Le Cirque. I think you’ll like it. I did think of taking you to MIX. I was at a party there last night.”

  “With Prince Harry?”

  “Not that kind of party. I’m working this week.” He laughed. “Anyway, I thought you’d like to see the fountains properly.”

  A short while later, the car turned into the entrance for The Bellagio. The driver slowed down to let them see the cascading water as Pavarotti’s aria built to a penetrating crescendo.

  “Awesome,” Natalie said, as the car continued snaking up the driveway. “Thank you for thinking of that.”

  “Least I could do,” Adam said.

  They made their way down endless corridors, past the heaving bars and roulette tables to a vivid canopied restaurant where the maître d’ led them to a quiet corner table. He shook Adam’s hand and pulled out a velvet chair for Natalie.

  “Bonsoir Monsieur Brooks. C’est un grand plaisir. On est honore que vous avez revenir. Bonsoir Madame.”

  “He seems to know you well,” Natalie observed.

  “I’ve eaten here most nights this week. My character’s French, so getting the French vibe helps me stay in role.”

  “Are you in a show in town?” she asked.

  “No. Filming. We’re doing outtakes for a movie. It’s based on Omar Sharif’s life, his horses, gambling…women.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Last time I spoke to him.” Adam laughed. “What are you drinking, red or white?”

  “Red, thanks.”

  Natalie glanced at the menu, her eyes widening at the price of the starters.

  “Flat Evian for me. Early start tomorrow,” Adam told the sommelier who had appeared at his side. “Please bring a glass of your best Merlot for my guest.”

  Their drinks order taken, he turned back to Natalie.

  “How are you feeling? I’ve fallen off a bike more times than I care to admit, but running someone over would be a first.”

  “I really am fine,” she assured him.

  “Okay. Good. So, what brings you to Sin City? Are you here with friends?”

  “Work. I’m a publicist. My client is speaking at the convention center in the morning.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Arizona. I went to school at UCLA. Went back home afterward. Big mistake.”

  “Oh really? I love Arizona.”

  “Too hot for me.” She shrugged. “I’m planning on moving back to LA just as soon as I can. I’m talking to Ogilvy Mather, Saatchi’s, and a few other ad agencies, putting it out there. It’s time for a change.”

  A waiter was hovering behind her, waiting to take the order.

  “So have you decided what you want yet?” Adam asked her.

  “Yes. To get out of corporate representation and into advertising.”

  “I meant to eat,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes. Okay. Let me look,” she said, casting her eyes down the menu. “I’ll have the sole, please.”

  “Starter?”

  “Caesar salad.”

  “Le Filet Mignon. S’il vous plait et le potage du jour. Merci,” Adam said, handing him back his menu.

  “Merci Madame,” the waiter nodded, lifting Natalie’s menu. “Merci Monsieur.”

  “So where were we?” Adam picked up. “Ah! Yes. So tell me more about your job.”

  “I’m sure yours is a lot more interesting,” she said, cocking her head to one side and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me about the film? It sounds super cool.”

  “It’s a challenge, that’s for sure,” he said. “Very different from the other characters I’ve played and of course there’s the accent. I’m working on that one.”

  As they chatted, Natalie began to forget that Adam was one of the biggest stars in movie franchise history. He seemed so down to earth, so normal, until a couple of hours later when they were leaving the hotel and he grabbed her hand.

  “Quick,” he said, pulling her toward the waiting car. “Get in fast.”

  Turning around as she scrambled into the back seat, Natalie was momentarily blinded by the whirring flashbulbs of paparazzi cameras.

  2

  So. Here we go again, India thought, hurling a copy of The Mail on Sunday at the wall. She flung a copy of Hello magazine in the same direction, picked up her phone and speed-dialed Adam Brooks.

  “Hey you…how’s it goin’?” he said sleepily. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not sure,” she said. “You tell me. I just saw your photograph in the paper. You were in front of a hotel holding hands with a half-dressed woman. A former Miss Arizona it says. I need to know. Is she the reason you’re not coming to Paris with me? Is that the real reason?”

  “Of course not, Indie. It’s not how it looks.” He yawned. “I almost killed her on my bike the other afternoon. She came flying out in front of me. I felt bad about it. I bought her dinner. It’s not what you think. Now can I go back to sleep?”

  “So why was she wearing your jacket?”

  “Because she was cold, India. It’s freezing here at night. It’s the desert. Stop it already.”

  India said nothing.

  “You’ve got to trust me at a certain point.” He sighed.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling a bit raw that you aren’t coming to Paris. It’s been two months and I miss you…and…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I don’t pick the locations, Indie. You think I like shooting my scenes around a fake Eiffel Tower when I could be going to the real Paris with you?”

  “No. Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Well anyway, I’ve decided to go for a few days by myself. Just letting you know.”

  “Okay. Fine. Look, I’ll call you later. It’s the middle of the night here.” He clicked off.

  India lifted the booking confirmation from Hotel de l’Abbaye off her printer. How very generous of Annie, she thought, remembering the previous evening’s conversation and how sympathetic her sister had been about her ruined plans, how she’d suggested the boutique hotel in Saint Germain and insisted on treating her.

  “Take a breath, darling,” Annie had told her. “It’s tough for Adam too, remember? It’s lonely and exhausting being on location. I understand that only too well. You know how the paparazzi twist everything. Remember the craziness of that last summer you were in LA? Don’t be too fast to jump to conclusions.”

  Annie was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to believe the worst of Adam. He certainly sounded convincing. She was tired. She needed this getaway. Folding the receipt carefully into a wallet, India took her cup of tea over to the couch, presse
d the television remote and snuggled up under a throw to continue watching her movie. An image of Owen Wilson froze on the screen as she scrambled around for the phone vibrating under a stack of French fashion magazines. She located it and sank back into the couch.

  “Bonjour Sarah,” she said.

  “Hey Indie. How’s it going?”

  “Tres Bon. I’m watching Midnight in Paris to get in the mood for my trip next week.”

  “Are you on a kind of Eat, Pray, Love mission?” Sarah responded.

  “Sarah, ma petite amie. Alas, no ‘love’ as you know. I am making this trip purely for the intellectual rigor, for the galleries, the museums and to practice my French. I am committed to the life of an aesthete.”

  Sarah laughed. “Well whatever that is, it doesn’t sound like you. Anyway, do you fancy joining Roger and me down the pub? I’m waiting for him now.”

  “Okay,” India said, jumping up and stretching. “Give me half an hour. Order me chicken curry pie and chips please. I’m starting my juice cleanse tomorrow.”

  She twisted her long dark hair into a clip and went to take a shower. An hour later, the three of them were crowded into the benches of The Cat and Lion pub. Roger raised his martini glass in India’s direction.

  “To a whole new adventure. We’re going to miss you Miss Butler. Hackney Community College will not be the same without you.”