Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  How romantic, India thought wistfully, turning the tasseled key in the lock. To be in Paris writing a novel. That would make traveling on your own so much easier. You could sit around in cafés with all the other writers, just like Hemingway or Sartre had done years ago. You would blend in seamlessly.

  After a lunch of yet another Saumon Fume, smoked salmon being the only meal she could order with absolute confidence at speed and with a decent accent, India decided not to waste time napping. She set off for the Musée d’Orsay. Walking along Rue de la Paix, her eye was caught by the dance display in the window of Repetto. Time to buy a new pair of ballet flats, she thought.

  Coming out a while later carrying her delicately wrapped new shoes, she took a stroll around the market stalls. Perhaps it’s too late to go to a museum. May as well stop in APC for a little gentle browsing, she thought.

  An hour or so later, India emerged carrying several shopping bags with a spring in her step. Another perfect day, she thought. Tomorrow I will most definitely get to the Pompidou.

  At the hotel, the doorman allowed her to struggle with the handle for only a few seconds before pushing open the door for her. I wonder if I’m supposed to keep tipping him everytime I go out, she thought. That could get very expensive.

  “Merci beaucoup,” she said with a smile.

  After arranging her purchases on the bed and carefully removing the many plastic tags with a tiny pair of nail scissors, India showered and put on her new APC sweater with the silk trim, then turned her attention to the unexpectedly complicated issue of dining alone again.

  Maybe, she thought, glancing at her watch, maybe there will be more people eating at the hotel this evening, perhaps some other travelers. Luella might be there. I wonder what kind of novels she writes. Then remembering to pick up a book for appearances sake, she closed the door behind her and went across the hall to the dining room.

  Luella ate in her room. After the trays had been cleared, she leaned her head out the window of the conservatory and smoked a cigarette. The rain had turned to sleet. Springtime in Paris. Huh! she thought, wrapping a sweater around her shoulders before turning on the table lamp and opening her laptop. She thumped at the keyboard for a while, then shoving back her chair pressed ‘delete.’ She took her cognac over to the bedside chair and sank into the cushions.

  I can’t even write, she thought. On top of everything else, I can’t write. She glanced at her watch. “Shit! I forgot to get back to Susie.” She took another sip of brandy before calling her friend.

  “Sorry to call so late,” she said.

  “It’s fine, Lu. It’s perfect timing actually. The kids are finally in bed. I’m having a nightcap and watching a rerun of Downton Abbey. I’m all yours. How’re you managing?”

  “I spoke to Peter,” Luella said.

  “You did? Did you find out anything?”

  “No. I was half-asleep when he called. It didn’t go so well.”

  “But you told him you knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” She paused. “Lu, you don’t need to tell me if you’re not up to talking about it right now.”

  “I want to talk. I’ve been spending too much time alone. Another of life’s cruel jokes don’t you think…me having to come to Paris the same time I find out about all this. Everywhere I go, I wonder if Peter was there with his lover. I mean, that man could be right here, right now in this hotel. I might have passed him in the street. Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything. Anything at all…”

  “What do you think is important? I mean, tell me what I should I be focusing on.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Susie said quietly.

  “I don’t know quite what I’m trying to say.”

  Luella stood up and paced the tiny room, sitting down on the side of the bed, then getting up again and wandering into the conservatory. She opened the window, shut it again and went back to the bedroom.

  “He’s been unfaithful. He’s having an affair. He’s been living a lie. Over and over. I keep asking myself does it make any difference if it’s with a man or a woman? I’m really wrestling with it. I’ve been trying to imagine how I’d feel if it was another woman, and I think I’d be angry, I think I’d be hurt but I don’t think I’d be feeling so helpless.”

  “I’m sure it makes things different, but honestly Lu, the best I can keep suggesting is that you talk to him, listen to what he has to say.”

  Luella flopped onto the bed. She flung the cushions onto the floor and leaned back on the pillow. “Well I’ll have to at some point I suppose, but I need time. It’s not like I can save our marriage. There’s something so final about knowing I can’t compete, knowing he needs something that I’ll never be able to give him. It’s all so complicated.”

  “It is and at the risk of sounding like a broken record, it will take time, and the only way you’re going to attempt to understand it is to talk to him.”

  “I keep asking myself how come I didn’t know.”

  “Lu. I’m no expert on this, but I think you’re right. It is complicated and maybe in ways you’re not seeing right now. I mean a lot of people are bisexual.”

  “That’s true. I know that, but I’ve never really thought about what that means. I’m not even sure I want to. I’ve always believed that what two consenting adults do behind closed doors is none of my business. Now it turns out it kind of is my business.”

  “Lu, I’m thinking you should get some professional advice, someone you can talk to about your sex life.”

  “What sex life?” Luella quipped. “Sorry, lame joke, over share, you’re right. I’m sorry. Look, I’ll let you go, it’s getting late. Thanks for being a sounding board.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve been very much help. But I’m here for you. Be kind to yourself, Lu. Try to get some sleep. You sound exhausted.”

  “I am. I’m going to go to bed right now. Thanks. Thank you.”

  Luella undressed and climbed under the bedcovers. I’m a wreck, she thought, closing her eyes.

  7

  India woke early and soon became aware of an all-pervading silence. She went over to the window and pulled back the drapes. The courtyard was covered with a thick blanket of pristine snow. The air was still. A dusting of flakes was smattering the windowpanes. For a few minutes, she stood transfixed with delight at the picture-perfect scene and then grabbing her phone, she snapped a photograph of the stone fountain against the bare branches of the heavily laden trees.

  Adam – Look what I’ve woken up to this morning. So wish you were here – you remember that night in St. Petersburg when we drank Schnapps at The Caviar Bar and that guy serenaded us at the table? Do you remember the walk home? I bet you do. Am thinking about that right now…

  She pressed ‘send.’ How could a girl ever forget that night? she thought. The gypsy music, the sledging, the hotel, the way we ran out toward the frozen river and… Snapping out of her reverie, she took in the implications of more bad weather. Today was her museum day. Despite all her careful planning and shopping, she had no suitable clothes for an outing in snow, yet the thought of being marooned indoors was totally depressing.

  Maybe it isn’t so bad outside the front of the building, she thought. They’ve probably cleared the main roads by now. It’s nine o’clock already.

  Not bothering to shower or brush her hair, she pulled on a warm cardigan over leggings and hurried to the foyer, where guests were sitting in disgruntled groups, their luggage piled in front of them, shivering from the icy blasts of the lobby doors, which kept swinging open.

  “Charles De Gaulle est ferme,” the guy standing next to her offered with a shrug.

  “Sorry?” India, who was not yet fully awake, responded.

  “People can’t get out because of the snow, but some of these people did manage to get in. Chaos as usual. It’s what the French are good at. They’re wasting their time,” he said nodding to the cou
ple in front of him who were venting their frustrations on Jean-Paul. “There’s not a lot he can do about it.”

  “Have you already checked out?” India asked.

  “Not yet. I was about to, but I get the impression from what he’s saying, that all the rooms are booked for tonight. As I’ve no way of getting to the airport and the airport itself is closed, I am not about to give up that room. Stalemate. They want it. I need it. Tough.”

  “I’m sorry,” India said. “Maybe it’ll stop snowing soon. Anyway, they can hardly kick you out onto the street.”

  “I need coffee. I’ve been standing here for an hour,” he said. “Care to join me?”

  “Actually I was about to have some too,” she said, noticing that her new companion was rather good-looking in a Jake Gyllenhall kind of way in his black blazer and open-neck shirt. Not that she was interested in him of course, but a girl could be objective couldn’t she? Just as this thought struck India, she looked down aghast at her leggings and oversized hotel terrycloth slippers.

  A waitress was clearing off a table as they walked in. Assuming they were together, she quickly set two places opposite one another.

  “Henry, by the way.”

  “India,” she replied. “So are you here on business?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Visiting,” she said. “I live in London.”

  “Me too,” he said, pausing to look up to where the waitress was hovering with a coffeepot. She placed it down between them.

  “Cafe au lait s’il vous plait,” India said. “C’est tout.” It’s bad enough to be in public and not showered, without spraying him with a mouthful of croissant, she thought as Henry rattled off his order.

  “Les oeufs brouilles et bacon, un petit jus d’orange et les champignons, merci beaucoup. Il neige dure la bas.”

  “Merci Monsieur. Oui, il m’a fallu un certain temps pour arriver ici ce matin.”

  “Your French is very good,” India said.

  “It’s okay. Having a French mother helps.”

  “I’m struggling. They say immersion is the only way to learn. I think you need to be here for a couple of years. Everyone speaks so fast.”

  “I thought you were French when I saw you yesterday,” he said, pouring them each a cup of coffee. “You have the look.”

  Secretly thrilled, India coughed a little. “I’m barely dressed but rather pleased to hear you can look French when you’ve just gotten out of bed.”

  “That’s the secret, don’t you know.” He smiled and India couldn’t be certain, but she felt that he was flirting with her.

  “All French women want to look like they’ve just had sex.”

  India laughed. “Well maybe most of them have but as I said, I’m traveling alone.”

  “Well that hardly stops you from having sex,” he answered, a little too quickly for her comfort.

  India twirled her spoon in her coffee cup.

  “You’re blushing,” he said. “How sweet.”

  “Well, I think a change of subject is called for here,” she said.

  “Absolutely.” He grinned. “By the way, did anyone ever tell you, you look a whole lot like that film actress, Annabelle Butler?”

  “Well there’d be a reason for that,” India answered. “She’s my sister. We’re fraternal twins.”

  “Really?” Henry said. “So, are you close? I hear twins have a special connection, but maybe that’s just spin.”

  “We’re as close as you can be when there are thousands of miles between us,” she said. “We Skype, I visit, sometimes she comes to London.”

  Henry put down his fork. “I hear she’s great to work with.”

  “How did you hear that? Are you in the business?”

  “Kind of,” he said. “So what about you?”

  “I’m a drama teacher.”

  “Did you ever want to be an actress?”

  “Never. I’m more into process. I love putting on shows. I like to think of myself as a producer. I’m more into being backstage than in front of the camera. So what do you do?”

  Before he could answer, Henry’s cell rang and he picked up.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed to her, “I have to take this.”

  India pointed toward the door to indicate she was going, slid her chair back and then left with as much dignity as her slippers would allow. Going back to her room, she checked her phone, then remembering the time difference, she sighed. Of course Adam will still be asleep, she thought.

  India spent the rest of the morning practicing French online. Her course involved parrot repetition of sentences spoken by a French woman at conversational speed. By lunchtime she had mastered a series of phrases that might be useful in the unlikely event she were ever searching for eggs in a supermarket where nobody spoke English. The irony of interacting with a computer while being in Paris struck India all at once, and she realized she was ravenously hungry. Before venturing out of her room this time, she would shower and dress properly. She wasn’t getting caught out again.

  Just as well, she thought, a little while later, turning the corner into the sitting room where Henry and Luella were chatting by the fire. They both looked up as she came in.

  “Hey there, good to see you again,” Henry said, gesturing to the armchair across from him. “Care to join us?”

  “Do they serve food in here? I’m starving,” India said, hesitating. He’s moved in on her fast even though she’s wearing a wedding ring, she thought.

  “Yes. We’ve just ordered soup,” Luella said. “Do you two know each other?”

  “We met earlier,” Henry said. “India. Right?”

  “Yes,” she answered, sitting down in the red velour chair opposite him as an elderly waiter cleared the table in front of them and set out silverware.

  “Et vous Madame?” he asked.

  “Moi aussi Monsieur. Le potage du jour s’il vous plait,” India said, feeling rather delighted at her ability to order soup in French without hesitating. “It’s still snowing hard out there.”

  “Yes. We’re marooned like in an Agatha Christie play,” Luella sighed. “I hope nobody gets bumped off.”

  “I’ll probably be the first to go if that happens.” Henry laughed. “I’ve not made any friends around here this morning.”

  “Have you resolved the accommodation issue then?” India asked.

  “Yes. I won. I suspect they just wanted the drama. I bet they always have free rooms in case one of their celebrity guests calls in on a whim. I hear Diane Keaton’s very fond of the place.”

  India looked around her. She could see that it would be the kind of hotel for a discreet stay – the chairs arranged in cozy groups, the family feel – well, if your family were fabulously wealthy and French she supposed.

  “I love how intimate this hotel is. Do you usually stay here when you’re in Paris?” she asked Luella.

  “Pretty much. They always give me the room on the ground floor with the conservatory. I can write there – well, I usually can. Oh good. Here’s our soup. So what brings you here?”

  Henry appeared to have lost interest and was texting furiously on his iPhone.

  “It was spur of the moment. I was supposed to be here with a friend, but his plans changed last minute. I decided to come anyway, but I wasn’t planning on snow. It’s a trick to know what to do with yourself. I suppose you’ll spend the time writing,” she said. “Is your novel set here?”

  “Yes, my next one. It’s why I’m here.”

  “Lulu’s written ten books,” Henry chimed in. “All bestsellers.”

  “Ten books?” India gasped. “I wrote one and it nearly killed me.”

  “You did? Well done, you. What was it about?” Luella asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.

  “Un verre de vin blanc merci,” India said to the waiter, then turned back to her. “It was a guidebook for parents of teenagers.”

  “How did you come to wr
ite that? You don’t look old enough to have teenage kids.”

  “I don’t have kids, but I’ve taught that age group for years. I was staying in Los Angeles a few summers back with my sister. I worked with some of her friends who were struggling with all these issues. Anyway, I ran some workshops for them and turned the workshop materials into a book. It did quite well actually, but not well enough to give me a living. I came back to London.”

  “Yes. It’s tough to make a living from writing. I’ve been really lucky. I made a name for myself before the industry changed. The market’s flooded now.”

  Luella sat back in her chair and took another sip of wine.

  “God, I could kill for a cigarette. Do you mind?” she said, standing up and grabbing her purse. “I’ll be back.”

  “Did you get your work done?” India asked Henry, who had pushed away his bowl and was leaning back into the cushions contentedly. He rested his arms behind his head.

  “Some,” he said. “Then I bumped into Luella again. We had meetings earlier in the week. My company represents her. She’s an old friend.”

  “Are you a book agent?”

  “No. Our agency, Lichtenstein and Cowan, does her PR and promotions. I’m the Cowan by the way. We’ve represented Lu for about seven years now.”

  “I feel a bit foolish not having read any of her novels, I mean, given she’s so successful I should have I suppose.”

  “You’ve probably got better taste,” Luella said, appearing behind India’s chair and then sitting back down next to her again. “Frigging freezing out there. I changed my mind.”

  “You should try the patch,” India offered.

  “I like to smoke,” Luella said. “Especially with a good glass of wine. God, I miss the old days when you didn’t feel like a pariah. What now then, Henry? Are we done for the day? Can I clock off and get another drink?”

  “Your call, Lu. Sounds like a splendid idea to me. More white for you India?”

  Why not? India thought. If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, what happens in Paris stays in Paris, thinking of which… She checked her phone and smiled when she saw the text from Adam.