by Thérèse
Maybe the secret of savoir faire lies in body language, India thought sitting in the bistro on the corner of Rue Cassette sipping her coffee. She was having a sartorial crisis: her navy blazer was far too predictable, her Breton T-shirt a little clichéd, the square silk scarf too considered. She observed that the young woman across the table had broken all of Inès de la Fressange’s rules with her tousled hair and sheepskin jacket, although with her air of insouciance, she still looked decidedly French.
Standing up carefully, straightening her back and walking briskly in the direction of what she hoped was Rue de Rennes, India eventually found Monoprix without having to ask directions and was soon the proud owner of a long beige linen scarf.
A woman approached her as she was handing over her euros. “Excusez-moi Madam. Ou sont les produits de beauté?” she asked.
“A bas,” India answered, gesturing to the back of the store.
How wonderful, India thought. She must have assumed I was French. Her phone rang as she was leaving the store.
“Bonjour,” she said. “C’est moi, India.”
“Bonjour ma petite.” Adam laughed. “Je suis desole. Je ne pouvais pas etre a Paris.”
“Desole?” She laughed. “You feel desolate? Sorry always sounds much more extreme in French don’t you think? Do they have a word for when they are feeling REALLY bad?”
“Not sure, but I AM pretty cut up about it,” he said. “Where are you right now?”
India looked around at the crowded street, unsure of her bearings.
“Not far from the hotel. You?”
“Don’t ask. I’m by a miniature Arc de Triomphe in ninety-degree heat and it’s still early. I can only stay on for a minute. I just wanted to check in, make sure we’re okay.”
“We are. I’m sorry I lost it the other day. I was so disappointed.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Indie. We’ll do Cannes together. You’ll love it.”
“Great. Okay. Great,” she said. And this really was great, wasn’t it? She could relax and enjoy the trip now that they had cleared the air properly. She must learn not to overreact if she saw tabloid pictures of him. It was as Annie said, just par for the course when someone was famous.
“A bientot,” he said.
“A bientot,” she chirped.
I will practice my French – impress him with my fluency in Cannes. What a beautiful day, she thought, walking in the direction of what she guessed was Rue Bonaparte.
India spent the next several hours striding the streets at rapid Parisian speed, stopping occasionally to browse in bookshops or to step inside the doorways of the many delicatessens to savor the sugary aroma of bonbons and artisan chocolate. By the time she arrived back at the Hotel de l’Abbaye she was on a high, greeting the doorman with a cheery “Bonsoir Monsieur” and adding “D’accord” for good measure. Then sweeping through the foyer, she allowed herself the thought that if she were any more ‘almost’ French, she would be French.
“Susie, I’m completely thrown. How can I have lived with a man for all these years and not have had the slightest inkling he was gay?” Luella said with a deep sigh, pushing away the over-spilling ashtray and her coffee cup. “Tell me. How can this have happened? How?”
“Luella,” her friend said, “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve known you both since forever and I’m totally shocked too.”
“Thing is… it’s challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. I hate to admit it, but I’m wrestling with all these emotions. At first I thought the letter was from another woman, the handwriting was so delicate.” She paused. “I mean, why should it make any difference? A love letter’s a love letter, right? An affair’s an affair, but the thought of him with a man makes me feel nauseous. I’m hoping I haven’t discovered some deep-seated prejudice in myself. I thought I was more broad-minded than this.”
“I’m sure it’s just shock, Luella. I mean you weren’t even expecting him to be having an affair at all, let alone having one with a man.”
Luella rolled the edge of the sepia paper placemat in front of her.
“Well, if I’m honest with myself I chose not to ask too many questions. I always allowed for the possibility; he’s away from home so much. But this is different. It means that I never really knew him. It’s torturing me.”
“Lu, are you sure you don’t want to tell him you found the letters?”
“Certain. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. I can’t. I just can’t deal with that right now.”
A group of tourists scraped out chairs and sat down next to her.
“Susie, this is impossible to discuss in public. I’m at Café de Flore and it’s getting busy. I’ll call you back from the hotel tonight.”
“I’ll be here for you whenever you want to talk, day or night. I can only imagine what you must be going through.”
“Thanks, it means a lot. Oh. And by the way, did I tell you Air France lost my bags too? Least of my problems right now I suppose. Bye Susie. Thanks for being there.”
Luella waved for the check and put her phone into her purse. She sat for a while absently watching a pigeon scavenge bread from a nearby table. Then quickly finishing her glass of Evian, she settled the check and set off across the cobbled streets to Monoprix for a few of the toiletries she needed while she waited for her suitcases to arrive. She pulled her scarf around her to ward off the chilly evening air.
Leaving the store, she resisted the overwhelming urge to go back to the hotel and curl up under the duvet. Instead, she wandered across the footbridge among the throngs of tourists toward the Louvre.
Luella’s love affair with Paris had begun years back when she’d found grainy photographs of her grandparents in wartime Paris. She had often imagined the two lovers running toward each other or locked in each other’s arms under the foggy light of a lamppost, oblivious to the people around them. Her grandmother’s story had been the inspiration for One Night in Cap d’Antibes, the romance novel that had been her first bestseller.
Today she was thinking very different thoughts as she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets, racked with questions, questions that may well have been answered if she had read the other letters. The thought of that made her throat constrict. One letter had been all she could take. Any more would have been pure masochism.
As she crossed the Place des Pyramids in front of the Regina Hotel she wondered how often Peter had strolled here with his lover. Who is he? she asked herself. Is he French? Why was he staying at Le Meurice?
She walked across the square, drawn toward the gilt monument of Fremiet’s Jeanne d’Arc charging on her horse, sword in hand, French flag waving above her head. Gazing up at the monument, Luella remembered the quote from Joan of Arc she had used to open one of her books: You say that you are my judge, but take good heed not to judge me ill.
“I will do my best Peter,” she whispered. “I will try not to judge you.”
As the sky began to blacken, Luella turned back in the direction of her hotel and managed to flag down a cab before it began to rain. Throwing her shopping bag onto the backseat, she climbed in wearily next to it.
India would be dining alone again tonight, a woman of mystery, an international traveler with un histoire. She rehearsed out loud the phrases she had learned from her online Language 101 course many times before calling the concierge to make her reservation. Lifting the phone, she took a deep breath.
“Bonsoir Monsieur,” she said.
“Good evening, Madame Butler. How can I help you?” Jean-Paul responded.
“Je voudrais faire une reservation pour sept ce soir,” she said in her best accent and at speed.
“Of course, Madame, a table for seven people tonight. What time would you prefer?”
“Non, la table pour un a sept heure,” she said, enunciating slowly.
“Of course, a table for one at seven o’clock. Merci Madam.” H
e clicked off.
India put down the phone. Damn. Okay let’s try again, she thought, picking up once more and dialing room service.
“Good evening Madame Butler, Jean-Paul here. How can I help you?”
There’s no escaping him. All the calls seem to go via the concierge, she thought.
“Je voudrais un verre de Sancerre, s’il vous plait,” she said, confident his reply would be a simple, “Oui, bien sûr Madame.”
“I am sorry, Madame Butler,” he answered. “By the glass, we only have a house white. I assure you it is an excellent wine from the Loire valley. I would be pleased to have it delivered to your room.”
Frustrated at her inability to reply in French, India settled for “Merci Monsieur” and put the phone back down on the receiver defeated. Give up. Jean-Paul is clearly not going to let you win this game, she thought. Opening the closet, she picked out her knee-length silk black dress and laid it out on the bed. She rested her patent leather high-heeled pumps alongside it.
Even though I shall be dining alone, it is important to make a good impression, she thought. Inès is adamant that much of French élan is the emphasis of style over comfort on all occasions.
After dressing and paying particular attention to her makeup application, outlining her eyes with a kohl pen and applying two layers of mascara, she sipped her wine slowly. Inès had also been clear that while French women enjoyed their wine on a daily basis, they would be horrified at the idea of appearing tipsy in public and drank only with food. India was tipsy within minutes but decided that as she would not be speaking to anyone this evening, it would not be apparent and her fall-back position was that at the end of the day she was, well…English.
The dining room was quiet. India took in the room with a sweeping glance: the young couple with immaculately turned out children; the ancient woman with the younger companion leaning in to help steady the water glass that she was gripping with trembling hands; the distinguished-looking gentleman swirling his wine glass.
The barman greeted her politely. “Bonsoir Madame Butler,” he said, coming out from behind the bar and leading her to a table near the window. India took her seat and smiled up at him as he handed her the menu. Fiercely determined to order in French, she scanned it for words that she could say with confidence and was delighted when he made no attempt to speak to her in English. A little while later the Saumon en croûte, the pomme de terre and her verre de vin were presented exactly as ordered.
Feeling a little awkward, she pulled out her iPhone and began checking nonexistent e-mails. She looked around as she ate. Tomorrow she would pick out a leather-bound book at Melodies Graphiques to bring with her to dinner. She would emulate the stylish woman at the next table who was also alone.
It was still early when India finished dinner. She decided she would take her digestif, a port perhaps, by the fire in the sitting room. She sank into the downy cushions of an old armchair with a contented sigh. The perfect place to journal, she thought, pulling out her blue mini Smythson notepad inscribed with the words “Travels and Experiences.”
India glanced up as a woman about her own age sat down on the opposite couch. She watched her polish off one drink and order another. She could not be certain, but from the distinctive bob, the red-rimmed glasses and the air of distraction, she was pretty sure it was the same person who had asked for directions earlier in the day at Monoprix.
6
Luella undressed quickly, climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the rain pounding the windowpanes. She was drifting into an uneasy sleep when the hotel phone rang.
“Hey Lu. How are you?”
She propped herself up on the pillows and fumbled around for the switch on the bedside light. “I think I was asleep,” she mumbled.
“Sorry. I thought I had the time right. Are you getting my texts? Is everything okay?”
“No, Peter,” she said quietly. “Far from it.”
The silence reverberated in the room.
“I found letters,” she said eventually, realizing her voice was slurred.
“Oh…Lu…I don’t know what to say…”
“Neither do I, Peter. It’s why I’ve not been answering your texts.”
There was an achingly long pause.
“Lu. I can explain. I’m sorry.”
Luella sighed. “Peter, we can’t do this on the phone. We’ll both be back in London in a week or so. Can we leave it ’til then?”
“I’m sorry, Lu. I really didn’t mean for you to find out this way. This is very bad timing.”
“Is there ever a good time to tell your wife you’re sleeping with another man? One thing though, now that I think of it. I need you to move out of our house as soon as you get back.”
“Lu. I need to talk, Lu. I still love you. I…”
Luella hung up, cutting him off midsentence. Awake now, she climbed out of the bed and pulled a sweater, her jeans and a pair of boots from her suitcase. Rifling through her purse for a packet of Marlboros, she dressed and left the room. Reaching the courtyard, she put up her umbrella, struck a match, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She walked through the gateway onto the empty street and carried on walking toward the river to the water’s edge as the sky lightened and a weak sunrise gave way to daylight.
India had planned on visiting the Rodin museum the next day, had imagined sitting outside in glorious sunshine surrounded by sculptures, perhaps sipping a limonade before wandering around the gallery. As soon as she pulled back the drapes, she realized she would need a change of plan, as the rain was clearly settled in for the morning. Negotiating your way around a miserable Paris crowded with hundreds of visitors over the Easter holiday would require more careful planning than she had thought.
She dressed quickly in Inès de la Fressange’s suggested ‘go to’ uniform of a navy V-neck cashmere sweater, blue jeans and ballet flats, then piled her hair into a topknot, secured it with a clip and threw her trench coat over her arm. She would have breakfast in the hotel and then make a new plan for the day.
A middle-aged man was shaking off his raincoat in the foyer as she approached the busy dining room where the waiter gestured her toward a window table. Once seated, she observed the English family at the adjoining table who were planning out their afternoon trip. The father was tapping away on his iPad booking tickets for Disneyland Paris while their mother was encouraging the girls to eat. To her left, a couple about her own age was cooing over a baby in a bassinet.
An unexpected wave of loneliness came over her. She shifted awkwardly and picked up the menu. She gave her order for coffee, boiled eggs and a chocolate croissant in passable French, then sat back and stared out into the courtyard where a woman was sitting alone on a bench, barely sheltered from the rain by a canopy. India recognized her once again, the same woman who had been drinking brandy the previous night. She glanced up at India as if sensing she was being watched, then stood up and walked away.
India finished her breakfast, signed the check and went back to her room. The day stretching ahead seemed less full of promise than it had the evening before. Traveling alone was not as easy as it appeared. Your head filled with thoughts you needed to share with someone else. You kept thinking of all the things you wanted to do and the sites you wanted to see with another person, particularly if that person were, well, Adam Brooks.
She flicked through her guidebooks. There were so many wonderful restaurants, but eating alone was not romantic or much fun. There were majestic churches, but after years of attending mass at school she was in no rush to check them out. Museums. That would be a start. India’s mood lifted when her phone buzzed and she saw the text from Adam and the image of the Eiffel Tower, incongruous against the potted palm trees.
This sucks, it read.
We’ll be together in Cannes soon. A bientot mon amour, she typed.
Setting off on foot in the direction of Musée National d’Histoire Naturelle, India fough
t the wind with an umbrella. Pulling it down defeated, she stopped by Compton des Cottonier to buy a hat. It was so much fun speaking Franglais with the shop assistants that the prospect of a museum teeming with school parties seemed a lot less inviting than a morning spent shopping. She decided to leave the cultural pursuits for the afternoon.
When the stores closed for lunch, she walked back to the hotel. The wind had died down, the sun was coming out and she was now the proud owner of a whole new closet. A French closet. Yes, shopping was the one thing that was better done alone.
Reaching the hotel, India realized she had not eaten for hours. Lunch, a little glass of wine and a quick snooze were the order of this spectacularly beautiful day. She walked in the direction of her room to drop off her shopping when someone opened the restroom door onto the cramped corridor and she careened straight into them, spilling her bags and making the whole thing worse by tripping over them.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I really am overloaded here. I didn’t see you. I’m terribly sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
India looked up. “Oh! Hello. I’m India. India Butler. We keep bumping into one another. Well, I know I actually just bumped into you. Oh! Sorry. Etes Vous Francaise?” she added, realizing she possibly wasn’t being understood.
“Luella,” the woman answered. “I’m fine. Sorry, I wasn’t looking either.”
India scrambled to her feet.
“We’re neighbors,” she said, nodding her head to the adjoining door. “How long are you here for? I’m on vacation for a week.”
“Me too,” Luella said, “though it’s not vacation – work.”
“Oh! What do you do?” India asked, relishing the opportunity to speak in full English sentences while attempting to balance her bags on top of one another.
“I’m a writer. Novels. Can you manage all those bags?”
“Yes. Thanks,” India said cheerfully. “Great. Well, see you.”
