Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  Miss you too. Stay warm, xxoo.

  By seven o’clock, India and her new companions had moved into the dining room, and India was negotiating her way around a plate of steaming mussels in a white wine and garlic sauce.

  “I think the idea of a link with the Paris Fashion Institute has legs, but we may not be able to pull it off given the time constraints,” Henry said, through a mouthful of bœuf bourguignon. The London Institute of Fashion and Technology is on board, and I’m getting very nice noises from a couple of potential sponsors.”

  Luella forked a piece of Dover sole. “Sorry India. We’re talking shop again,” she said.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Henry agreed.

  “Well I’ve got some news then,” Luella interjected, clearly buzzed. “Henry, did I tell you Peter’s having an affair…”

  “No, you didn’t, but maybe we should talk about this later,” Henry said.

  “Possibly, but you might not want to wait to hear the punch line. He’s having an affair with another man.” She paused and turned toward India. “Peter’s my husband of some twenty years.”

  Omigod and I think I have problems, India thought.

  “Hey Lu, steady on,” Henry said taking Luella’s hand. “Let’s talk about this later.”

  Feeling increasingly awkward, India smiled sympathetically.

  “So where do you teach, India?” Henry said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that followed.

  “Currently unemployed,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. “I just came to the end of a temporary teaching contract in Hackney and decided not to renew it. I’m ready for a change of direction.”

  “If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading,” Luella murmured. “I used that Lau Tzu quote in my last book. Changing direction is good I hear. I’m a coward; I don’t like change. I like things to float along the way they always have. Henry here on the other hand is an adrenalin junkie.”

  India felt sure that Luella would regret these over shares in the morning. She mopped the last of her sauce with a chunk of bread, ate it and then wiped her mouth on her napkin. “That was beyond delicious.” She sighed. “Has anyone seen a weather forecast recently?”

  “I found a letter from his lover,” Luella continued. “Several in fact.”

  “Do people still write letters these days?” Henry asked.

  “It would appear they do – all handwritten and no doubt sealed with a loving kiss.” Luella muttered, knocking back her drink.

  “I miss getting letters,” India said. “I’m addicted to the papeteries here. I’ve a gorgeous Christian Lacroix notepad too. I collect notepads, mostly the Smythson ones. Currently I’m using J’Adore, but my favorite is Profound Thoughts. I’ve a beautiful fountain pen. I’m kind of old-fashioned that way. I suppose it depends on your handwriting. People have always said mine’s lovely.”

  Aware that she was starting to babble and that Luella was looking at her strangely, India pushed back her chair.

  “Well, I think I’ll turn in. I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” she said, glancing at Henry. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Luella. Thanks for adopting me today, guys. I’d have gone mad on my own.”

  Henry pushed back his chair, leaned toward her and whispered, “Most wise my dear.”

  India smiled. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said.

  8

  India was woken by the constant thuds of the elevator in the corridor outside her room. She stared at the clock, and then realizing she had slept later than planned, leapt out of bed and pulled back the heavy drapes. The sky was gray but the snow had melted, leaving a thin layer of gray slush. A light sleet was splattering the window. She glanced across the room and lifted a note from under the door. She sat on the edge of the bed to read it.

  Hi India,

  I have to leave for Lucerne this morning. Back tomorrow. Any chance I can take you to dinner at the Lutetia tomorrow night? I’ve a business proposition I’d like to run past you. Here’s my number. 0208-789-2571. Text me. I can pick you up from the hotel at seven.

  Henry

  Intriguing, India thought, as she texted her reply. Dinner it is. Maybe I’ll let Henry loan me his jacket and get my picture taken in it. Ha.

  With the prospect of dinner the following evening, India was content with the thought of spending the day alone. She would visit Musée Marmottan Monet. She loved Impressionism despite the inverted snobbery around it. It seemed insane to India to dismiss works of art simply because some images had become ubiquitous. The wealthy 16th arrondissement would be a contrast and a little distance. There would be plenty to occupy her all day.

  Next evening, India, dressed in her newly acquired black dress and leather jacket, assessed her look in the bathroom mirror. Her Chanel lipstick (Rouge Coco Paradis) had been an excellent choice, just the right punch of red for a night out in Paris. Of course, the little tremor she was feeling had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Henry did it? Grabbing her quilted purse, she threw the chain over her shoulder, adjusted her underskirt and walked into the foyer.

  A driver escorted her to the Mercedes and held the door for her. She slid into the dark leather interior next to Henry.

  “Bonsoir, Madame Butler,” he said. “You smell good. You don’t look that bad either.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Cowan.” She smiled. “You certainly know how to flatter a girl.”

  “Touché,” he said, relaxing back into the seat as the car picked up speed and drove in the direction of Boulevard Raspail.

  Arriving at the grand hotel, India’s heart gave a flutter as the door opened into the opulent art nouveau lobby and they went through into the airy brasserie with its monochromatic décor and line of attendant waiters.

  The maître d’ led them to a corner table. From the welcoming smiles of the bartenders and nods from other diners, it was clear that Henry was no stranger to the place.

  “So,” he said once they were seated and had their menus, “I have had an idea. I think there’s a way you can help me.”

  India looked at him quizzically. “Don’t tell me. You want me to be your mule, smuggle heroin? I’d better warn you, I’m not that kind of girl.”

  Henry laughed. “Not quite what I was thinking.”

  “Okay. So? Tell me. I’m intrigued,” she said.

  “Well, as you know, we represent Luella Marchmont.”

  “Yes. But I’m not sure I understand what it is you do for her.”

  “Let me tell you about another writer we represent and you’ll see. Ever heard of Sally Grace?”

  “Who hasn’t? Of course. She’s the writer who always has recipes at the end of each chapter. Chick lit, right?”

  “Women’s commercial fiction. We represent Sally. We came up with that idea for her.”

  “The idea of including recipes?”

  “Yes. It gave us a great hook to promote her book. They’re real recipes. They’re woven into the stories, so say when a character is ill, their Aunty Joan brings her carrot soufflé to the hospital for them.”

  “Okay,” India said.

  “It means we can push her book online and through the media in the cooking blogs and programs as well as through the usual outlets. It’s a bonus. People who love baking as well as reading go crazy for her books and the book clubs love it.”

  “So you get two bites of the cherry…literally as it were?”

  “That’s funny.” He smiled. “And yes. You’ve got it.”

  “So how could this involve me?”

  “Luella always weaves in a message to her stories. Sunlight in Winter was about dealing with grief when you lose someone to cancer. We sold a ton of copies by doing joint promotions with cancer charities.”

  “That sounds rather cynical if you don’t mind me saying,” India said, pausing as Henry stopped to give his wine order to the sommelier who was standing to the side of
their table waiting for a lull in their conversation.

  “Puligny Montrachet s’il vous plait,” he told him and then turned back to India. “Not cynical at all. It’s about finding your target market. It was a win-win. We sold more copies, they got a percentage of sales and the readers got inspiration. It’s cause-related marketing.”

  “Okay. I can see it now that you’ve explained it. But how would that kind of promotion involve me?”

  “You’re a teacher. And by the way, if teachers looked like you when I was younger, I wouldn’t have dropped out of school.”

  “You should know that’s not an original line, Mr. Cowan, but I’ll take the compliment anyway.” India smiled.

  “Actually I didn’t drop out of school,” he said.

  “Very funny then. So how can I be of assistance?”

  “We have a whole new potential market in online education. It’s not a market I’m familiar with. I think you could be helpful.”

  “Go on,” India said, with a tilt of her head.

  “Merci. Pas encore,” Henry said, politely waving away the waiter and then turning back to India. “I want to take a minute with this before we order if that’s okay.”

  “Fine by me,” she said. “I’m intrigued.”

  “We hire consultants with expertise in each market – advisors, experts, muses, whatever you want to call them. I may be wildly off base, but you did say you were at the end of your contract and if we could work something out, of course we’d pay you. If you agree in principle, then we’ll sit down and work out a proper basis for it.”

  “I’m flattered,” India said, feeling an unexpected surge of adrenalin at the prospect of something new. “But isn’t this a bit sudden? I mean you haven’t even seen my resumé.”

  “I think you may be forgetting a little thing called the Internet.” Henry laughed.

  “Sorry? I don’t…”

  “I Googled you of course and your guidebook for parents is an ebook, or have you forgotten that?”

  India fiddled with her napkin. “No, but I do try to forget that I have an online profile.”

  “Yes. Well you have quite the profile, I noticed, and you aren’t exactly a stranger to promotional events.”

  “I assume you mean the Firewalk.” India laughed. “So what else do you know about me, Henry?”

  “Shall we just say that I had my people make a few gentle probes and on the basis of my research, I am more than happy to discuss offering you a consultancy contract. We’re thinking big for this promotion. We’re talking about bringing this book alive. It’s already been sold into several international markets including the states.”

  India said nothing for a moment. Play it cool, she told herself. Pretend this kind of offer comes around all the time. “Okay,” she said and took a sip of her wine. “This sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

  “We’ve commissioned a fashion show in New York with one of the leading fashion colleges in the world. It’s accredited by FIDM. The students brainstormed and came up with the idea of exchanging research and creative ideas with LIFT – The London Institute of Fashion and Technology.”

  “Oh yes. I know about LIFT. I sometimes wish I’d gone there myself. I’m a bit of a fashion junky. Tell me about the show.”

  “It will profile the work of both colleges. We’ll be linking by satellite to compères here in Paris and also to Los Angeles.”

  Henry’s voice faded into the background as India’s head teamed with possibilities – fashion, New York, Paris, international, muse. She was watching Henry’s lips move, but already she could see the runways and the flashing screens. Inès de la Fressange in the front row, pad in hand, taking notes. Georgia Jagger and Fifi Geldof cruising down the catwalk. Lady Gaga making a speech about creativity and then bringing home the finale with Born This Way, wearing a plastic bikini and a college cap and gown made from trash bags.

  “How long are you staying in Paris?”

  Henry’s face swam back into focus and India became aware that he had been waiting for an answer from her.

  “I leave next Tuesday.”

  “I have to get back to London in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday right? I lose track of the days. Tell you what. Why don’t you talk to Luella and read her book. Then call me next week when you’re back. Here’s my card,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

  “Okay. Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “So now let’s enjoy what Paris has to offer,” he said, lifting the menu. “They do wonderful scallops here and the oysters are by far the best in Paris.”

  An altogether beautiful Sunday morning, India thought, setting off down the Rue Cassette to meet Luella for lunch. She was early but planned on taking her time. As she turned off the side street her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her pocket.

  “Got your e-mail. Honestly India, I leave you on your own for a couple of days and the next thing you know you trip over one of the biggest selling authors of all time and get a job offer. I swear if you fell into a bucket of shit you’d come out smelling of roses.”

  “Sarah, did you ever consider a career penning greeting card messages? You have such a lovely turn of phrase,” India quipped.

  “That’s what hoisting old-age pensioners onto commodes all day long does for a girl. You get such a romantic perspective on life.”

  India laughed. She knew her friend loved her new job at the nursing home. She doted on her elderly patients and from all the note cards and little presents, it was clear that their families appreciated Sarah too.

  “Seriously though, it does sound like this job would be right up your alley. I’ve read quite a few of Luella Marchmont’s books. The last one was really moving, all about euthanasia. I’m looking after an old lady right now who’s begging me to give her an extra shot of morphine and put her out of her misery. We should be able to choose when we die.”

  “I’ll put you out of your misery whenever you like. Would you rather die by asphyxiation or be drowned in the bath? Both can be arranged.” India laughed.

  “I think I’d like to be found fully clothed. Leave a girl some dignity. Okay so here’s one for you. Would you rather be the richest person on the planet or immortal?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

  “Anyway,” Sarah said, “while you’re working that out, it does sound like you’re having a great time. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Yes. Going away has been the right thing to do. I mean I only think about Adam every ten minutes or so, which is progress, don’t you think?”

  “And you almost managed a whole conversation without mentioning his name. Did you talk to him yet?”

  “Yes. We’re back on track, but I’m trying to play it cool.”

  “Ha! I’ve seen your version of playing it cool.” Sarah laughed. “Anyway, great. Gotta go. I’m needed. See you next week. Enjoy the rest of the trip. Love you.”

  Sarah clicked off and as India threw her phone into her purse, she became aware of the swell of an organ recital filling the Place Saint Sulpice. Almost involuntarily, she joined the crowd walking toward the entrance to the baroque cathedral and was drawn into the cavernous interior by the sheer power and strength of the music. It had been more than twenty years since India had been inside a Catholic church. She walked slowly past the Delacroix frescoes and paused at a side altar lit by flickering votives.

  Ah! St. Jude, she thought, gazing at the statue of the monk. The patron saint of lost causes. I thought they’d abolished him, but maybe that was the patron saint of lost things, the one that used to help me find my car keys. Hard to keep up.

  The organ reached a thunderous crescendo as India left the darkness of the church and came out blinking into the sunshine. She wandered in the direction of the Café de Flore. Luella was already squashed into a red leather banquette in front of the large mahogany mirrors when she arrived.

  “Hey India,” she said, standing up bri
efly to greet her with a peck on both cheeks. “I’ve sacrificed my right to a cigarette for you, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate sitting at an outside table in the cold.”

  “Thanks,” India said, pulling out a chair opposite her. “It’s busy here.”

  “It is. It’s become a bit of a tourist trap. The toilet downstairs is in all the guidebooks for some reason I’ve never fathomed, but I still think they do the best croque madame in Paris. Deux Maggots is overrated don’t you think?”

  “I have to admit I don’t know Paris all that well,” India said taking off her coat. “But this is lovely.”

  “Let’s decide what we want quickly. They’ll be ages getting the order. Let’s have a nice glass of wine and we can talk properly.”

  India glanced at the menu, delighted to see that unlike her hotel, they served Sancerre here by the glass.

  “I hear you had a good old chat with Henry the other night,” Luella began after they had ordered their drinks. “By the way, I must apologize for my mood at dinner. I had one hell of a shock just before leaving London and between that, the weather and the fact that I have writer’s block about the new book…well…it hasn’t happened to me before. I usually spew them out, but for some reason I’m totally blocked, and the publishers are breathing down my neck for a synopsis. Anyway, it’s no excuse. I was rude to be so self-indulgent.”

  “Not at all,” India said. “You were fine.”

  “That’s kind of you to say. Either way I do want to thank you for taking an interest in my work, and I’d love for you to read it and see if it appeals to you.”

  “I would be honored.” India smiled. “Henry told me the gist of it.”

  “That’s good. This is my own copy. I won’t tell you which of the endings I used. I wrote three as you’ll see.”

  “I like the sound of that. I often make up happy endings for books and films that are miserable.”

  “Funny to think that Hemingway sat here in the Café de Flore and struggled with thirty-seven endings,” Luella mused. “Mind you, don’t get too excited. Faux Fashion is hardly the stuff of great literature, and it’s certainly not A Farewell to Arms.”