We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  ‘Mrs Parker, this is Rosie Carter, head florist and my mother.’ Anna’s voice cuts into my reverie. She’s walking towards me with a very sleek woman, shiny blonde bob, manicured nails and white shirt and jeans. Mrs Parker is about my age, perhaps a little younger, and is as elegant and classy as Anna has described her. She also matches the room perfectly. This woman leaves nothing to chance.

  ‘Excuse me in these old things,’ she says, referring to her designer casuals that probably cost more than some brides’ wedding dresses. ‘My “grandmother of the bride” blue satin Givenchy is hanging up in my room but as we have several hours I thought I’d make myself available to assist you before I dress. I love flowers, and daresay I have a talent – which is why I offered to manage the creative side of things.’

  So, for the next few hours, accompanied by Mrs P, we cover the room in flowers and I send Isobel and Anna off outside to the rose garden to work on the flower wall. Anna is exhausted and on her last nerve – I know if she spends too long with Mrs Parker she is in danger of telling her where to put her corsage, and it won’t be pretty. As she ‘assists’, I smile my way through Herr Parker’s directions, requests and general all-round bossiness until we’re finished and she says, ‘I can’t believe what we’ve achieved.’ Despite the fact that the real donkey work has been done over the last four days and today is merely an extensive touch-up, I smile and thank her for all her help.

  ‘Oh, it was a pleasure, Rosie, please call me Pamela,’ she says, hugging me. ‘Come on, let’s go and take a breath of air and enjoy this beautiful sunshine while we can.’

  So we wander the grounds arm in arm like two dowager duchesses, oohing and aahing at the loveliness of it all. The venue does look amazing, and I’m so proud of the white flower wall. ‘It’s a wonderful backdrop for photos and the bridal entrance,’ Pamela is saying. ‘I’m absolutely ecstatic!’

  And I hear Mike’s voice whispering in my ear, ‘Well done, Rosie. I knew you could do it, love.’

  I feel myself tearing up with tiredness, relief and pride.

  ‘You okay, Mum?’ Both my girls are soon fussing round me like mother hens. Daughters are good at role reversal, becoming mothers the minute you need them.

  I smile. ‘These are happy tears, I’m absolutely fine. Just pleased with how everything looks and proud of my two girls,’ I say, putting both arms around them.

  Anna nods towards Mrs P who’s now instructing a waiter on how to set a table. ‘Is your BFF happy?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your Best Friend Forever?’

  ‘Oh . . . you’re using Emma-speak,’ I laugh, confused as always by the initialisms my granddaughter uses which render simple phrases impossible for me to comprehend.

  ‘Darling, she’s AE,’ I say in my Mrs Parker voice. The girls look puzzled.

  ‘Absolutely Ecstatic, of course, you two need to get with the programme.’

  ‘She’s making it up, there’s no such thing as AE,’ Anna, ever the pedant, points out.

  ‘Everyone will be saying it soon, just check out your Facebook pages . . . and those Google . . . thingies.’ I smile.

  They both laugh – and as it’s now about an hour to go before the wedding we decide to clear off.

  ‘Them posh folk don’t wanna see the hired help,’ Anna says in a funny accent, touching her forelock.

  ‘Well, the bridal bouquet has been delivered to the bride’s room, along with all the bridesmaids’ posies, so our work here is done,’ I sigh, getting ready to leave, happy with all we’ve done.

  Just then Pamela appears at my side. ‘Oh, Rosie, you’re not leaving, are you?’ She grabs my arm. ‘I am so delighted with everything you’ve done I would adore it if the three of you would at least stay and have a glass of champagne with me in the bar. I called my friend who works on Cheshire Love – it’s a local wedding magazine – and they are going to come and photograph the room and are absolutely ecstatic with the floral wall . . . it’s a triumph.’

  ‘AE . . . ’ I mutter to Isobel, as we all troop behind her into the bar. It would have been impolite to turn her down and we may be tired, but I’m buoyed up by the prospect of free advertising in a local magazine and ready for a glass of champagne. Anna asks for Buck’s Fizz as she’s driving, ‘which leaves the coast clear for you and me to get plastered with Pamela,’ Isobel jokes in my ear.

  The bar is fresh and modern and we all sit at a round wooden table while Pamela orders a bottle of fizz. A few minutes later the waiter brings it over in an ice bucket with optional orange juice. I love champagne and am just about to take my first, cold, sparkly sip when my world topples on its axis.

  Chapter Five

  It’s him. At least I think it’s him. Of course it is, I’d know him anywhere, even after all this time. He is standing at the bar, his hair’s greyer, his face more crinkled, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. He’s still so tall, so handsome and my heart still leaps, almost landing in the ice bucket.

  I’m momentarily distracted by Pamela fussing at my side. ‘Oh, there he is . . . Peter, Peter, come and say hello to the brilliant flower ladies,’ she calls.

  He turns away from the bar to look over at Pamela and in that moment my past crashes in like a huge wave, wiping away everything that’s happened since. Everything stops and I can feel myself falling from a great height, tumbling backwards over and over, unable to see anything but him. I’m amazed at the physical shock I’m experiencing through my body – a fizzing sensation I haven’t felt for decades. But why is he here now? What happened to him? Did he live his dream? And more worryingly, who is he to Mrs Parker? Her husband?

  He slowly walks towards us, a bemused look on his face, his arms outstretched.

  ‘Of all the bars, in all the world . . . ’ He starts with the old Casablanca line, and I smile. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Pierre?’

  We both laugh, sealing the devastating connection we once shared and the years fall away like petals blown in the wind. My heart is racing and I’m back in the art studio all those years ago looking into the bluest eyes, the warmest, sexiest smile. He’s shaking his head slowly, he looks as incredulous as I feel that we should bump into each other here, now, after all these years.

  I’ve thought about this boy, this man, for over forty years, imagined him then and now and my heart is filled with a delicious, delirious fear. In the few moments we stand facing each other all the love, the laughter and the pain run through me, like my whole life is playing on fast forward. I’m breathless and my head is spinning, my stomach churning. How? Why? What’s he doing here? I try and assimilate all the information around me to explain his sudden presence after all this time, but it isn’t making any sense.

  I stand up on wobbly legs to greet him as he approaches the table, and we hug.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I gasp.

  It’s like stepping back in time; he feels the same, his arms strong around me, his smell is sandalwood fused with musk – and like yesterday it fills me up and takes me there.

  ‘Is it really you?’ he says as we pull apart. He’s holding me by the elbows and looking into my face and as my eyes meet his I see the seventeen-year-old boy smiling back at me.

  I can’t actually speak and am instantly reminded of the phrase my granddaughter uses when she’s amazed/horrified/delighted – ‘There are no words.’ And in the absence of words, we both laugh and hug again. This time I rest my head for a brief moment on his shoulder, and greedily breathe him in again. It fills my lungs and cleaves open my heart. For over forty years I’ve kept my feelings airtight, safe in the Tupperware container of my heart and here it is, suddenly open, the contents tumbling out. I pull away, remembering where I am, and realising everyone is looking at me.

  Peter and I can’t take our eyes off each other – it’s not just about attraction, it’s like stepping into the past, all that was and all that might have been. Then I remember how old I am and feel a bit silly. I sit down and roll my eyes in self-depreca
tion, hoping to God he can’t hear the thudding of my heart. Meanwhile my daughters are looking puzzled and staring from him to me and back again like they are watching tennis.

  How could I ever begin to tell them this story and all that happened? I’ve imagined this for over forty years, the rational part of me never believing it would happen, yet for me there is an inevitability in this moment. Deep in the raggle-taggle of emotions still in my heart I’ve always known we’d meet again.

  ‘So you know my brother! What a small world,’ Pamela is saying. This, of course, is a relief, especially as we’ve been clinging to each other and hugging for the past few minutes.

  I am trying to gather myself together. I hope my face isn’t giving away too much as he sits down next to me. I turn to my daughters and say, ‘This is . . . my . . . this is Peter . . . Pamela’s brother and my . . . first boyfriend.’

  Peter says hello and my daughters respond politely while regarding me like I’m in the early stages of a meltdown. As I haven’t been back in the real world long they are currently on red alert concerning my emotional well-being, waiting to catch me if I fall. I love them so much but I wish they’d stop looking at me so warily, trying to work out what I’m thinking, and whether they need to take me away from all the excitement. I just want to be left alone with him. I have so many questions, so much to ask, so much to tell . . . and a strange urge to laugh hysterically. Now he’s here, in front of me, I have to know where he’s been, what he’s done, and who he loved after me. Like my whole life has been leading to this.

  ‘We met at art school. Your mum was the most amazing artist,’ Peter says and the girls smile. They think he’s being kind; I don’t draw now and they’ve never seen my sketches or paintings, I didn’t keep them after everything that happened. Anyway, on the plus side, the girls are calmed by this explanation and seem somewhat relieved that Peter and I do actually know each other and I haven’t just accosted a strange man in a hotel bar. Given my recent wobbles they would be forgiven for thinking this, especially as I’m a little flushed and flustered. But in truth I’m keeping it all well hidden. No one here could possibly have any idea of the colossal emotions that are swooshing under my skin right now. I take a large glug of champagne and hear Pamela telling Peter how amazing ‘Rosie and her girls’ are.

  ‘Like I say, Rosie always was a great talent,’ he says, then gestures to the girls, ‘and the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

  There’s silence now and we all take a sip at the same time. The others are waiting for me or Peter to speak again, but apart from having an audience, it’s impossible after all this time.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ Peter says, and I think he’s going to just leave the table, abandon me for another forty-odd years. But just as I brace myself for his departure, he puts his hand on top of mine and I feel a rush, both familiar and strange.

  ‘I do hope you don’t think me rude, but I wonder if I might borrow Rosie for a little while? I’m sure you young people don’t want to be bored by our dusty old reminiscences . . . ’

  The girls smile and Pamela looks at her watch while giving me a wink and reminds him, ‘Yes, you two go and catch up, but remember your great-niece’s wedding is in one hour!’

  I tell the girls I won’t be long and Peter salutes Pamela which causes Isobel to snigger – our thoughts on Pamela obviously align with his. He then guides me through the bar towards the French windows overlooking the rose gardens and as we wind through the pre-wedding crowd now gathering, someone calls his name.

  ‘Peter, where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m . . . just going to see a lady about some flowers,’ he says, and the owner of the voice, a very beautiful woman with a chic short haircut, rolls her eyes.

  Over the noisy bar I hear the words, ‘Camille’ and ‘my wife’, and my stomach flops. But what did I expect? Of course he has a wife. I imagine he’s had his choice of women over the years. As we reach the open doors leading to the gardens I manage to take a quick but thorough look behind me at the woman he married. I could have picked her out in a line-up: she’s chic with great bone structure and very expensive clothes. I pick my heart up off the floor and follow him through the open doors into the brilliant sunshine. I take a deep breath.

  Everything has suddenly changed in his presence, the air is fresher, clearer, colours are more intense – like a grey veil has been lifted and I can see again. The gardens before us are even more beautiful, fat-headed roses lie lazily around younger, perkier buds, all bathing in warmth, and exuding a delicious fragrance. I glance at him and a feeling flows through me, reaching out from the past like a ghost wafting through the gardens. I turn to him and his eyes are already on mine the way they used to be. It’s been so very long and I know nothing about him or his life, he might as well be a virtual stranger – yet walking beside him feels like we are together again.

  ‘I just had to talk to you and I didn’t want my sister poking her nose in. She loves nothing more than to meddle in my life,’ he says with some affection.

  ‘Oh, of course – I remember now. Pamela your sister.’ I recall an open door in a big, beautiful house, a glimpse of a young girl playing the cello.

  ‘So what about you? I want to know everything,’ he says, still looking at me intensely.

  I’m bewildered and delighted at his interest after all this time. We both stop walking and look at each other.

  ‘It feels like yesterday,’ he says.

  ‘I know . . . perhaps more like the day before yesterday?’ I suggest and we instinctively start walking again.

  ‘The day before yesterday when we were young,’ he sighs, casting his eyes down onto the grass, and we walk on for a few seconds in silence.

  ‘Do you still sketch?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I gave up years ago,’ I say. I never picked up a paintbrush or drawing pencil again after him.

  ‘Oh, that’s such a shame. God, you were so gifted, I always wondered if I’d ever come across your work in galleries.’

  I feel sad that I didn’t meet his expectations of me, that the future he dreamed of for Rosie Draper wasn’t the path she took. I’d almost forgotten about my ‘talent’, my ability to sketch and paint and how it singled me out from all the other teenage girls I knew – and how my life was going to be so different.

  ‘No, I’ve been too busy bringing up kids and working in the shop,’ I say, braving it out, hoping he’ll believe me even though I’m not sure I believe myself.

  ‘That’s such a shame, but understandable.’

  ‘What about you? Do you still take photographs?’ I ask, keen to move on from the subject of my talent; it reminds me of what I once had, what I’d hoped to become. It’s painful all over again.

  ‘Yeah, I’m a photographer, I do the odd show, a stint at various art colleges, teaching, lecturing. I could never imagine doing anything else really. I haven’t done any shoots for a while, but my work’s been in magazines, had a few exhibitions, I still make a living, you know . . . ’

  ‘That sounds exciting . . . ’

  ‘How are you? I mean . . . really? I’m so sorry, Rosie . . . for everything. I can still see you, that dress covered in forget-me-nots. You looked so pretty . . . ’

  We stop walking and he touches my arm. I keep my head down, my eyes away from his, and take off my sandals, feeling the grass warm under my bare feet. I slip the straps of my sandals through my fingers while I think of how to respond.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, it was a long time ago.’

  I straighten up, playing with the straps and avoiding his eyes. All the pain is flooding back and I wonder why I’m even talking to this man who came into my life and changed everything. In another life he swept by me, throwing up a fistful of dreams like gold dust, but before it even landed he was gone.

  We both walk on a little further in silence, and I can’t help but think how in tune with each other we still are. Our lives were entwined for one lovely summer and we have so much t
o say, yet neither of us seem to know where to begin.

  We’re different people now – perhaps the past should stay in the past?

  He still has the energy, that infectious enthusiasm he always had, and the lovely voice, though now it has more timbre. He’s looking at me with delight on his face, like he just found the most beautiful flower, but his eyes are tinged with something else. Sadness? Regret? I can feel myself burning up, the heat whooshing through my body. And I’m horrified to realise I still feel something for him.

  ‘I never forgot you,’ he sighs. ‘I know it may seem like I’m just saying this now, but I thought about you every single day.’

  ‘I thought about you too.’ I don’t add that sometimes those thoughts weren’t love or fondness, quite the opposite.

  ‘I made a mistake, Rosie . . . the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘Peter, it’s in the past, let’s not rake over it all now.’ I lift my head and try to brighten my voice. I don’t need this heaviness, this awful reminder of a past I’ve tried to forget. ‘You’re at a wedding, I’m at work, we haven’t seen each other for such a long time, let’s just say hi, and talk about the good times. No need to go over everything, it’s not like we need to . . . it’s just good to see you, that’s all,’ I say, hardly believing it myself.

  ‘I just feel like I need . . . to talk . . . ’

  ‘Why? What’s the point in dragging everything up now? We were very young, we’ve both lived a lifetime since, we’re different people now,’ I say. We continue to walk in silence. We are both alone in our thoughts yet there’s a pull, drawing us together from the past. Has it always been like this?

  I am overwhelmed by a need to touch him, to reach out and remind him of how much I loved him. At the same time resentment is bubbling away under the surface and I want to push him away. I don’t want to face the past, why should I?

  ‘Let’s sit down a moment, the wedding can wait a few minutes, even if my sister can’t.’ He smiles, settling down on the lawn, holding out his hand for me to join him, his eyes staring into mine. I haven’t sat on grass since the grandchildren were small and as I try to sit down gracefully, it occurs to me I may not be able to get up again. But I join him, and throw back my head, feeling the sunshine on my face – I’m once again soothed by his presence. I always was. And despite all the conflicting thoughts, all I can think is, Peter’s here, he came back.