Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  “I’ll miss working with you too, Roger. It’s been great. Be sure to let me know if you get wind of any more maternity leave I can cover,” she said, taking a sip of her Chardonnay.

  “Back in a sec,” Sarah said, pushing away her plate of fries. “Need to go to the loo.”

  India stood up to let her squeeze past.

  “Roger, did Sarah tell you Adam’s not going to Paris with me now?” she said, bouncing back down on the leather banquette.

  “She did. Dahling, I feel your pain. Long distance relationships are the worst. You’ve hardly been out at all these last few months. Frankly, it’s a waste of one hot mama. Believe me if I were straight, I’d snap you up like a shot.”

  “Why thank you, Roger!” India said with a smile.

  “Seriously. You’re absolutely beautiful. When you walked in just now, every man in the place looked up. You’ve legs up to your armpits, porcelain skin, cheekbones to die for…that Adam should be so lucky. You’re fabulous, darling. Fabulous.”

  India blushed. “Now you’re embarrassing me, Roger,” she said. “I’m sure you must be sick to death of me talking about him all the time.”

  “Not at all. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Sarah?” Roger said, leaning across and giving India’s hand a squeeze as Sarah joined them again.

  “So what did I miss?” Sarah asked, sitting back down and pouring herself a glass of Pellegrino.

  “Are you okay?” India said. “You look a bit pasty.”

  “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” Sarah smiled. “Now tell me all about your plans for Paris.”

  3

  I should have taken the Eurostar, India thought, nervous as ever about taking off and squirming in her tiny seat as the Air France plane taxied down the runway. I can handle this, I can, she told herself. It’s only a short hop.

  Briefly making eye contact with the man squashed next to her, India pretended to be absorbed in her copy of Le Monde. She flicked over the pages, determined to look as French as possible as the flight attendant approached her.

  “Bonjour Madame. Aimeriez-vous quelque chose à bois? Peut-etre voulez un verre de vin ou de certains canapés?”

  “Non Merci.” India smiled sweetly, thrilled she had been addressed in French but not at all sure what she had just declined. She sighed as she opened Parisian Chic, the book by Inès de la Fressange that had become her bible in the last couple of weeks. India had copied all of the basic style tips and was surprised at how many of the key elements she already owned: the biker jacket, the white jeans, the navy sweater, the little black dress. It seemed somewhat formulaic, but who was she to argue with the muse to Chanel, the supermodel who had graced so many catwalks?

  This is such a beautiful book – the red leather cover, the bookmark ribbon – everything she does is so special, she thought wistfully.

  After a mercifully smooth flight and landing, India stood up with a wave of excitement, lifted down her carry-on case and made her way along the glass-walled terminal to join the passport control line. At baggage claim, she scoured the line of waiting drivers and finally located a sign with her name on it. The short man holding it announced himself gruffly as ‘Emanuel.’

  “Bonjour Monsieur.” India beamed at him. “Merci,” she said, pointing to her cases on the carousel and smiling gratefully as he dragged them onto a cart. Thank goodness for Annie. I’d hate to be getting a shuttle right now, she thought.

  Taken by surprise at the fierce wind and driving rain as they crossed the concourse to the car, India reminded herself she was not in Paris for the weather. Even if the sky were a cloudless blue, there would be no romantic walks in Les Jardins de Versailles or picnics at Pont des Arts with Adam. Pushing that depressing thought to the back of her mind, she climbed into the back of the Peugot.

  The traffic was surprisingly light and as they left the auto route from Charles de Gaulle Airport way behind, India, with mounting excitement, began recognizing landmarks – the Louvre, the Place de la Concorde, the Egyptian obelisk, the Champs-Élysées. She could hardly contain herself when the car swung over the arched bridge of the Seine to the left bank and she was finally in the Sixth Arondissement.

  They pulled up to the cobblestoned courtyard of the hotel, where the driver deposited India’s suitcase on the sidewalk and, without ceremony, took her euros and drove off into the night. India was negotiating the stone steps while struggling with the wheels of her carry-on suitcase when the door opened and a porter helped her inside.

  This was not at all the entrance I was planning on making, she thought, running her hand through her bedraggled hair and taking in the elegance of the foyer and sitting room where a few couples were relaxing on luxurious couches in front of a roaring log fire.

  “Bonsoir,” India said with a smile to the concierge.

  “Good evening, Miss Butler. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us,” he responded in clipped English while reaching for a set of keys from a wooden cubbyhole.

  India registered quickly, then followed the bellman down a short hallway. As the door closed behind him India looked with delight around her room, at the floral wallpaper, the exquisite drapes, the gilt mirrors, the marble bathroom. It’s like a doll’s house, she mused. Like stepping back in time.

  After pulling off her boots, she threw down her raincoat and opened the window, drinking in the damp air of the leafy courtyard. She was in Paris, in Paris for four whole nights. Dismissing the nagging feeling that dinner would be a whole lot more fun if she were not alone, she began to plan out her evening. She would shower, then order a vin blanc before dinner.

  4

  Luella’s eyes filled with tears as she watched the closing scene of the movie. A girl wrapped in a shawl was cradling her newborn baby.

  “They’ll take her from me; I know they will,” the girl cried.

  “Well now, we can’t allow that to happen, can we?” the older woman replied.

  God, that was intense, Luella thought as the credits rolled to the haunting strains of an Irish lament. She switched on the side–light and glanced around the walls of her study. The shelves were lined with the novels she had written, the foreign language editions displayed next to the Brassai print, the paperbacks, hardbacks, audio tapes and CDs arranged in chronological order.

  There isn’t a single sentence in one of those books that comes anywhere near the power of that final line, she thought, repeating it softly to herself. “Well now, we can’t allow that to happen, can we?”

  Dragging herself up from the armchair, she checked her phone. No messages. Peter won’t have landed yet I suppose, she thought, gathering up a pile of Sunday papers and a coffee mug. Going into the kitchen, she emptied the trash-can, cleared a few dishes from the countertop and glanced up at the clock. God, weekends are interminable when he’s not at home. The house feels so empty.

  Going into the hallway, she pulled her coat out from the closet, wrapped a scarf around her neck, grabbed her purse and left the house. She walked a couple of blocks to the newsstand and bought a pack of cigarettes and a magazine. Maybe Peter’s right. We probably should get another dog, she thought.

  Luella smiled remembering how she had argued the merits of slobbering Labradors over flatulent bulldogs. How they had agreed to disagree, both of them understanding it was too soon to fill the gaping hole left by Chester, the Pointer who had been their ‘baby’ for so many years. She unwrapped the packet, took out a cigarette and cupped the lighter against the wind.

  “Hey careful,” she snapped as a girl flew past on roller skates almost knocking her into the wall.

  “Kids,” she muttered, taking a drag and watching the teenager race past the bus stop and disappear around the corner. Seconds later, hearing the screech of tires, Luella’s stomach lurched. Running the few yards down the street, she took in the scene instantly. The driver was dashing toward the girl.

  “Call 999,” he yelled. “Someone. NOW!”
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  Rummaging in her purse, Luella found her phone and called the emergency number. Then she crouched down next to the girl and held her hand. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “Help is on its way. Don’t be frightened. Keep your eyes open. Keep looking at me.”

  The paramedics were on the scene quickly. Luella watched as they laid the girl onto a gurney and with a deafening wail of sirens raced off in the direction of Ealing General Hospital. She answered a few questions from the police. Yes, she had made the call. It all happened so quickly. No, she didn’t know her. Sorry she couldn’t be more helpful.

  When there was nothing more to be done, Luella turned back in the direction of home. Picking up the pace, her walk turned into a run as she reached her front door. She threw down her coat in the hallway, dashed to her desk and began writing – Fate, serendipity, fragility, frozen moment in time, hopes dashed, plans changed.

  She was startled out of her thoughts an hour or so later when her phone vibrated and slid across the desk.

  “Hey Lu…”

  Her husband’s voice was as clear as if he were in the same room. Luella sank back in her chair.

  “Hi sweetheart,” she said. “How’s Hong Kong? How’s the hotel?”

  “They’ve put me up in the Residences here at the Shangri La. The room’s pretty amazing. I’ve a great view of the harbor. How are you getting on with planning the new book? Have you been working all day?”

  “No. It was frustrating. I gave up in the end and watched Albert Nobbs. You remember the movie I wanted us to see a while ago, the one where Glenn Close plays a woman pretending to be a man? She really should have won an Oscar for it.”

  “Good for you. You work too hard. You sound exhausted.”

  “I’m a bit rattled. There was an accident down the street this evening.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine, but it was awful. This kid went careening into the street on her skates. She was almost knocked unconscious by a car. I called the ambulance.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I’ll never know. I don’t know who she was. I really hope so. She was so scared, so helpless, and her leg was at a peculiar angle. I haven’t been able to get the image out of my head,” Luella said quietly. “Makes you think how life as you know it can change in a millisecond.”

  “I’m sorry, Lu. You couldn’t have done anything more.”

  “I suppose not, though I do wish I could find out how she’s doing.” She took a sharp intake of breath. “Okay. So…take my mind off it. Tell me how your meetings are going.”

  “I’ve just had an eight-course dinner with the Shanghai client. I thought it would never end,” he said. “They’re keeping me pretty busy in the daytime too. The line’s not good. I was just checking in to say good night. I miss you.”

  “Me too. Sleep well,” she said. “Love you. I’ll text when I get to Paris.”

  Luella was in a deep sleep when her alarm went off the next morning. Remembering her hair appointment, she showered quickly, dressed and dashed down the street.

  I wonder how that girl’s doing, she thought, passing the newsstand and turning into the salon. Please let her be okay.

  “Luella?” The hairstylist jolted her out of her thoughts and spoke to her reflection. “Shall we smooth it with the flat iron?”

  “Sorry. Yes please. I was miles away,” she said, forcing herself back into the moment. “It’ll last longer. It always amazes me how just an hour or so on a plane from London can wreak havoc with my hair.”

  “Lucky you, off to Paris. I’m so jealous,” he said, clicking off the dryer. “It’s so romantic.”

  “I wish.” Luella grinned. “I’m not going for romance, sadly. I’m going there for meetings and to work on my next book.”

  Luella crossed her legs underneath her and turned back to her magazine as Joseph pulled her chestnut bob into sleek strands.

  “Where are you staying? Somewhere exotic with all those little cafés and bars and cobbled streets?”

  “Saint Germain.”

  The woman sitting next to her with a head covered in silver foils leaned across. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re a writer?”

  Luella turned her head and winced as she caught a stream of hot air. Joseph swiveled Luella’s chair around so she was facing his other client.

  “I’ve written a few books.” Luella smiled. “What about you?”

  “Travel journalist,” she said, scribbling on the back of her card. “I’m just back from Saint Germain. If you do need a hairdresser, look up Studio Thirty-Four and ask for Marcel.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Luella said.

  “My pleasure. I’m Helen. Helen Davis. Tell them I sent you.”

  “Will do, and I’m Luella Marchmont.”

  “Goodness,” the woman gushed. “Are you really? I’m so thrilled to meet you. I’ve read all your books.”

  “Thank you.” Luella smiled. “I’ve a new one coming out in September. I have your e-mail address now, so I’ll arrange for a copy to be sent to you if you’d like.”

  “That’d be wonderful. Thank you. And if it isn’t too cheeky of me, could you sign the copy?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Luella said. “My pleasure.”

  Leaving the salon, Luella decided to walk home through the park. It was early March – too soon for the daffodils – but there was a signal from the budding sycamore trees that spring was on its way. She walked quickly past the children’s playground area toward the lake, narrowly avoiding some cyclists.

  How could it possibly be more than twenty years since we moved here? she thought, remembering the weekends watching her husband play football or sitting with his sister Maisie and having lunch in the garden of the Kings Arms Pub. Where had the years gone? Luella could hardly remember a time when Peter had not been around – growing up a mile away from each other, walking to the village school most mornings, riding their bikes down the lanes. Nobody was surprised when they announced their engagement. It was a given.

  They were still so great together even now. Sure, with his international travel for the bank and the pressure of her career, they didn’t exactly live in each other’s pockets, but that was probably why they’d lasted. Space was important to them both. He was her best friend and as he reminded her so often, she was his soul mate.

  Of course if we’d had kids, the whole dynamic would be different by now, she mused, distracted by the excited shrieks of a little boy as his dad unraveled a kite. Sitting down on a wooden bench, she pulled her coat around her tightly, watching them run back and forth across the grass together, struggling to catch the breeze to get it airborne.

  Luella felt a rush of adrenalin as the multicolored dragonfly swirled into the air. She watched it swoop and curve effortlessly, its tail trailing against the clouds. Tomorrow I will be flying too, she thought, and then feeling the chill in the air, she stood up and walked briskly back home. She closed the heavy double doors behind her, threw her coat on the hallstand and ran up the stairs.

  Joseph’s right, she thought. I AM very lucky to be going to Paris. I should never take my wonderful life for granted.

  Going into her bedroom, she made a mental list. Okay. What do I need for carry on? Nightie, underwear, tights, layers…space for my coat…she thought. Then balancing on a wicker chair, she reached up to a high cupboard and pulled out her suitcase. Remembering the broken fastener, she slung it to one side and dug around for another. Spotting Peter’s Hermès Holdall crammed at the back of the shelf, she stretched up and made a grab for the strap. The chair swayed as she tried to reach it and catching her balance just in time, she managed to fling it across the room.

  If Peter were here he’d be furious with me for being so stupid, she thought, climbing down and catching her breath before picking up the bag. Then noticing the bundle that had landed at her feet, she leaned down and picked up a shea
f of envelopes. Untying the ribbon around them, she fanned them in her hands. Each one was addressed in the same cursive handwriting. There was no stamp and no address, simply a first name, Peter.

  Luella recognized the feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sense of premonition she had felt years ago, seconds before the doctor told her she had lost her baby. A wave of panic swept over her as she leaned against the edge of the bed and caught her breath.

  Dropping the letters onto the quilt, she went into the bathroom and began dispensing cleansers and toners into travel-sized containers. Realizing she was pouring nail varnish remover on top of moisturizer, she stopped and splashed her face with cold water.

  “Open the letters. You know you want to. You know you must,” her reflection seemed to be saying. Another louder voice was clamoring in her head. “They’re addressed to Peter; they’re none of your business. Put them back where you found them.”

  She dried her face and stared in the mirror hardly recognizing her reflection, feeling strangely detached. Surely this is happening to someone else, she thought, leaning against the sink for support, her heart pounding. Returning to the bedroom, she lifted a single envelope and turned it over in her hands. She sat down, pulled out the letter and ran her finger over the embossed logo of the hotel letterhead, Le Meurice. Paris.

  I’m sorry for doubting you, Peter, but I have to know, she thought. Please, please don’t let this be what I think it is.

  Moments later, unable to control the violent tremor in her hands, Luella let the pages drop to her side and stood up. Walking unsteadily downstairs, she leaned for a few seconds on the newel post before crossing the hallway. Switching on the dining room light, she headed for the drinks cabinet where she downed a double shot of brandy. It burned the back of her throat. It was good to feel something – the rest of her was numb.

  5