Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  Henry and India both stood up to greet Luella.

  “India, I am absolutely thrilled you liked the book,” Luella beamed.

  “I loved it,” she enthused. “Tod’s character has stayed with me. I can see him so clearly. I’m interested to know if any of it was based on your own life,” she added, hoping the question sounded spontaneous and not as prepared as it was.

  “No. My nephew. He’s been a vegetarian since he was a teenager, became a vegan after a while and then ran into all the ethical issues once he was at LIFT. He refused to use leather and in his attempt to be purist about it, he avoids even wool and silk. He’s broken new ground. He works with ethically sourced fabrics and with scientists. Of course, the actual story is fiction, but his real life experience was the inspiration.”

  “That’s so interesting. Isn’t Stella McCartney into all that too?” India asked.

  “Absolutely. Many of the new wave of designers are as well. What was your favorite ending?”

  “I picked the happy one of course.” India laughed. “I loved how everything was still possible with that one.”

  “I thought you would.” Luella smiled. “And so you know, that’s the one I picked too.”

  “Great. It really works. You feel like there’s a whole new beginning, that there may even be a sequel.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Right. So now let’s get on,” Henry said, handing them each a press pack. “This is incomplete but will get us started. The London Institute of Fashion and Technology will be partnering with the Fashion Institute in New York. We’re talking to the networks to get some televised coverage, although the revenue for the colleges will mostly come from the build-out: online subscriptions, YouTube, websites, standalones. We need to agree on percentages for the book sales. I have your agents working on that.”

  Henry rattled this off like a tobacco auctioneer. He may as well be speaking Swahili for all I understand, India thought, but she nodded sagely.

  “Who’s the main sponsor?” Luella asked over the top of her glasses.

  Henry leaned back in his chair and threw his arms behind his head. “Beauty Without Cruelty will hopefully be in by the end of the week. I’ll keep you up to speed on that as soon as we know for sure.”

  “What do you need from me at this point, Henry?” Luella asked.

  “We need to set up some prerecorded interviews, usual thing. What was the inspiration behind writing the book, what was your own education like, are you a vegan, what’s the next book? Maybe India can suggest more questions for the online magazines. Get them in the bag early and they’re off your plate.”

  “Okay. I’ll fit around your schedule. Just let Margaret know. Margaret is my assistant…” Luella said, turning to India and lifting her purse from the table. “You’ll meet her when you come over to the house. She’s worked for me for years, and she’ll be able to fill you in more. See you soon.”

  “India,” Henry said, putting back the top on his roller pen and getting to his feet. “You might want to lead on how we can maximize the link with Otis College in LA. Stay behind and let’s talk about that in a minute.”

  India froze. Lead? She was having great difficulty following.

  “Thanks for popping by Lu,” Henry said, walking her toward the door, then sitting down again and facing India across the table.

  India shifted in her chair. She was sure he knew how magnetic he was. He was enjoying the effect he was having on her, wasn’t he? She fumbled around in her purse by way of distraction.

  “Lost something?” He grinned.

  “Er, no. Just checking,” she mumbled, sitting back straight and avoiding his eyes.

  “Okay. So now,” he continued “we need a couple of hosts for the show. I had been thinking Demi and Ashton a while back, but that obviously won’t work anymore. Any suggestions? You don’t have to tell me right now. Give me a list by tomorrow. Oh! And you need to get Samantha to set up a meeting for you with the dean at LIFT, ASAP. Get a sense of the project.”

  “Okay,” India said. “I’ll get right on it.” That was the thing to say, she was sure. Very Olivia Pope.

  Henry was sliding back his chair and clearly expecting her to leave. Gathering her papers into the pink leather Smythson folio case she had bought earlier in the week, India hesitated for a moment and then left the room, unsure where she was headed. She was still hovering in the reception area when Samantha appeared again.

  “Henry just remembered you might need a desk here from time to time. We haven’t a lot of space, but I’ve cleared a corner of the room the accountant uses when he comes in. Second door on the left. Make a list of anything you need.”

  India, resisting the urge to grab her coat and run out of the building, smiled and went down the corridor.

  What on earth have I got myself into? she wondered, looking at the bleak room with its mismatched battered furniture and peeling paintwork. I don’t think I can spend more than five minutes in here.

  Glancing at her phone, she saw a text from Sarah.

  Can be at your place at 6, India typed quickly. Coming back out to reception, she thanked Samantha, then ran down the stairs onto the street and made for the tube station.

  India’s mind was racing as the train hurtled through the darkness of the underground tunnel and out into the fading sunlight of the suburbs. She leapt up quickly, almost missing her stop. She raced across the platform, onto the street teeming with commuters. Dashing up the path of Sarah’s Victorian terraced house, she stood on the step catching her breath and taking in the gentle scent of the lavender hedge. Spring has finally sprung, she thought.

  Sarah pulled open the door and gave her a hug. “So how’d it go? Perfect timing, I’ve made Spaghetti Bolognese – coming right up.”

  India threw her jacket across the back of the couch.

  “Help yourself,” Sarah shouted, waving toward a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Opener’s somewhere around. Try the drawer on the left.”

  “Voila!” she announced, setting a bowl of steaming pasta in the center of her pine kitchen table and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Thanks. That looks delicious,” India said, struggling to uncork the bottle. “Where’s your glass or have you made an early start? God Sarah, what have I got myself into with this new job? You know I was thinking on the way over that maybe Henry’s only hired me to get Annie and Joss to be hosts for the fashion show. He’s asking me to lead on that. I think he’s under the impression I can just pick up the phone to Brad Pitt or someone.”

  India stopped speaking abruptly, her train of thought interrupted by Sarah’s look of distraction. “Are you okay?”

  Sarah put down the serving spoon and leaned back. “Indie, I have news. I hope you’re going to be pleased for me.”

  “Omigod. Sarah! Sarah!” India screamed jumping up. “You’re getting married. Right? I knew it. Sarah, you can’t keep a secret from me.”

  “Not exactly, but close,” Sarah replied looking decidedly sheepish. She hesitated for a moment. “I’m pregnant,” she said.

  India sat back down in her chair with a thud. “But I don’t understand. You’re so sensible. This kind of accident happens to people like me, not you,” she said. “When did you find out? How many weeks? Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “This isn’t an accident,” Sarah said quietly, taking a sip of water.

  India’s jaw dropped. “It’s not?”

  “No.”

  “So, okay. How many weeks are you?” India asked, struggling to take in the enormity of what she was hearing.

  “Twelve,” Sarah answered.

  ‘That’s three months. Sarah, you can’t possibly be telling me you got pregnant deliberately. You were planning something as big as THIS and you didn’t share it with me and you’ve known for THREE MONTHS.” India pushed her plate away from her across the table.

  “You know India, everything isn’t always about you,”
Sarah answered quietly.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I just thought, well think, that if the roles were reversed I would’ve talked something as huge as this through with you. I mean you’re my closest friend. I share stuff with you that I don’t even talk to Annie about.”

  “Yes. Well the truth is I’ve been nervous about telling you. I know things haven’t been going well with Adam.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” India muttered.

  “And you and Damien haven’t ever gelled.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she said.

  “There. You see. Do you honestly believe that if I had told you I was planning on getting pregnant with him you wouldn’t have tried to persuade me out of it?”

  India felt cornered. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “I never really thought about it. I do like Damien well enough. It’s just we don’t have much in common. I’m just surprised that’s all. Did you plan it together?”

  “Sort of. We have an agreement. I know you’ve never really understood my broodiness, but I felt time was running out for me. I didn’t deliberately try – I just didn’t especially not try if you get what I mean.”

  “So are you planning on getting married?”

  “The subject hasn’t even come up. If things work out between us, then maybe at some point, but that’s not important right now. Whatever happens with us, I’ll be fine. I really will. I own this house, even if it is tiny. I can afford childcare. Don’t worry, Indie. Look, all I want is for you to be pleased for me.”

  India leapt up and ran around the table to give her friend a hug. “I am. Of course I’m pleased. I am just so surprised, that’s all. Of course I’m thrilled for you if it’s what you want. Congratulations. I am so very sorry I didn’t start off with that.”

  “It’s okay. I overreacted. It’s the hormones. It’s been really hard to keep this from you, but I needed to know there was no turning back before I told you.”

  “So all that stuff about too much fattening hospital food and planning on going to Weight Watchers was just camouflage?”

  “I feel bad about that, but I had to throw you off the scent a bit,” Sarah said. “Indie, I needed to hug this to myself for a while, and the last few months haven’t been as easy as I thought they would be. I wasn’t expecting all the mood swings and feeling like maybe I’d done the wrong thing after all, and I’ve been nauseous and exhausted. Oh, I don’t know. Look. You know now. Can we please move forward?”

  “Absolutely. I have no idea why I had such a strong reaction either. I do understand.”

  “Here. Get started before this goes cold.” Sarah smiled, pushing the dish of spaghetti toward India. “There’s an apple pie in the oven too. I seem to be coming over all domesticated. Bon appetit.”

  Later that evening, as she was getting ready for bed in an apartment that felt emptier than usual, India was struggling to work out why she had responded to Sarah’s news with such intensity. Was it really that Sarah had taken so long to share her news with her or did it go deeper than that? Could it possibly be that she was feeling envious? That would be the last thing she would want to feel about Sarah. She would hate herself for that.

  She poured scalding water into a hot water bottle and cradled it to herself as she dragged up the stairs. Glancing up at the moon as she closed the drapes, she heaved a deep sigh. The street below was bathed in silvery moonlight, the trees heavy with blossom.

  A night for romance, she thought wistfully before climbing under the covers and curling into a ball. Why did I have to fall in love with someone who lives on the other side of the world?

  It surprised Luella that her house didn’t feel especially empty with Peter gone. They had kept separate bedrooms for some time. Ostensibly, he had become irritated by her propensity for switching on the bedside light in the middle of the night to jot down a thought before it escaped her. It had been a gradual transition, pillows and duvets carried across the landing in the middle of the night, his increasingly regular decision to ‘sleep in the spare room if you’re going to come up late.’ Of course, now Luella understood that her erratic hours had given him the perfect excuse to avoid intimacy.

  The arrangement had suited her. She worked from her laptop nowadays, not the sturdy computer that had served her so well over the years. Gradually her bedroom had become her oasis. The tea maker she installed meant she didn’t even have to go downstairs in the morning until Peter had left for the office. They had both been burrowing into their own lairs, coming together occasionally to eat or watch television.

  Luella wandered into the spare room, anxious for clues about the husband she had never really known. A faint trace of cinnamon lingered in the air from Peter’s Aramis cologne. She swung open the double doors of the antique mirrored wardrobe. It was empty apart from a line of cedar hangers. The bed had been stripped, the shelves cleared. It was as if the room had been host to a phantom.

  10

  Thank god for whoever invented twenty-four hour room service, India thought, pressing down hard on the lid of the French press and pouring herself a large mug of coffee. Slathering a piece of toast with butter and orange marmalade, she climbed back into the crumpled sheets of her bed at The Warwick Hotel.

  India had been in New York for four days and the jetlag (possibly a hangover but she was too tired to be sure) was hitting her badly now that she was no longer running on adrenalin.

  She checked the clock. Four-fifty in the morning! A five-hour time difference between London and New York meant this was an insane hour for a conference call.

  But at least I can stay in my pajamas, she thought, punching in the numbers on the hotel phone. Exhilarating and all as it was to be an international jetsetter, a woman of the twenty-first century, an executive no less, she was pretty sure she had nothing to show for her efforts that could not have been achieved by Skyping from England.

  She was here on Henry’s instructions to ‘build relationships.’ Unsure quite what this entailed, she had thrown herself (and the company Amex card) into hyperdrive. The previous days had been one long continuum of coffees, lunches, drinks and dinners interspersed with visits to a Korean nail salon and a blow dry hair bar, emerging coiffed and polished at speeds that would challenge a prong-horned antelope. The City That Never Sleeps never seemed to slow down either.

  She had wined and dined uptown at Town, midtown at Kitty Chi and downtown in Tribeca at Mr. Chow. She had sipped champagne at the Mandarin Oriental on Columbus Circle, shared afternoon tea at The Plaza and espressos at The Mercer.

  Each appointment had been scheduled and set out in meticulously detailed itineraries prepared by Samantha. She schmoozed with potential sponsors, met the publicist from Lush and the marketing director of Jeffrey Campbell. She went with Henry to meet the vice president of Luella’s publishing house and back to her hotel in Manhattan, courtesy of cabs reeking of kebabs and stale cigar smoke. Maybe one day she would use the subway here – after all, millions of people survived it without getting mugged – but in the meantime, foul odors and a lack of air conditioning was the price she was prepared to pay for her lack of courage.

  She pressed the pound key and stated her name as instructed by the automated voice on the conference call. She listened to a few minutes of background music and then heard, “Henry has joined the call,” and finally, “Corrie has joined the call.”

  A pause before, “Hello. Is everybody here?”

  It was reminding India of a séance.

  “Is that you, Corrie?” Henry said. “I’m here and so is India. We’re waiting for Luella.”

  Another few minutes went by before Luella announced herself. “Luella. Sorry I’m late. Hello, is everyone else here?”

  A chorus of ‘hellos’ was followed by another long gap.

  “Can everyone hear me?”

  As the only male voice, Henry was easy for India to identify.

  A round
of “Yesses” was followed by an echoing silence.

  “Thanks everyone. So Corrie, I wanted you to meet India and Luella.”

  “Hello, Corrie.” India’s and Luella’s voices crashed into each other.

  “Hello,” Corrie responded.

  “Corrie, as you know, is the events coordinator,” Henry continued. “Corrie, would you like to lead on where we’re up to now?”

  There was a long silence, during which India sank back into the pillows. She was seriously in danger of dozing off. Maybe she needed more coffee.

  “I think we lost Luella,” Henry said.

  “No. I’m still here, Henry, but I can’t hear so well. I’m going to dial in again.”

  I’ve an even better idea, India thought. Why don’t I go back to sleep and you and Corrie can have an old–fashioned chat, one to one and tell us all how it went in an e-mail?

  The line crackled.

  “Okay. I’m back but it’s still a terrible line. Corrie, can you hear me better now?”

  “Not really. Can you hear ME?”

  “India. Are you still there?”

  Barely, she thought. “Yes. I’m still here.” She sighed, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was five- thirty.

  “This isn’t working, people. Sorry,” Henry said. “India, can you hear me?”

  “Yes. I’m still here.”

  “I’ll see you at The Greenwich at one o’clock to meet Rebecca. I may be running…” Henry had been cut off.

  India, forgetting Corrie was still on the line, dropped the phone and was asleep within minutes. She woke with a start to a loud knocking.

  “Housekeeping. Hello…housekeeping.”

  “Later,” she yelled. “Later. Thank you. Not NOW.” What time was this to be servicing a room? She glanced at the clock and then jumped up realizing it was twelve fifteen. Running over to the window and stubbing her toe on a jutting low-level coffee table, she cursed and hopped as she yanked back the drapes. The street below was flooded. Cars were sloshing through the water. Pedestrians were running for cover in all directions. A jagged bolt of lightening streaked the sky and the inevitable thunderclap was so loud it made her jump back into the offending coffee table, sending the early morning tray crashing to the floor.