We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  He makes dinner, a simple but delicious salad, followed by French macarons.

  ‘These are my favourite, how did you know?’ I said, biting into a pale pink disc filled with tart raspberry cream.

  ‘I didn’t know, but we used to talk about French patisserie, so I imagined you’d like them and it might remind you of Paris.’

  ‘I don’t need a reminder of Paris,’ I say, taking a second macaron and offering him a bite. He takes it and in this sharing, this closeness, I feel the shock of intimacy, and realise how much I’ve missed moments like this.

  ‘I won’t have another glass,’ I say as he is about to pour more red.

  ‘Oh, why? Would you have preferred the Pinot?’

  I smile. ‘No, it’s just that I may drive home . . . ’

  ‘Ah, but it’s quite a drive, and I’ve made up the spare room just in case.’

  I was glad to have the option, it felt less pressurised. ‘In that case I’d love another.’ I sit back and look at him in his own natural habitat. I still love looking at him, he still sets me on fire as I watch him through the soft candlelight. The easy smile, the way he gently teases me.

  I know that he’s travelled, seen some amazing sights, but I wonder if he has been truly happy. Has life been good to him, or has he lived with a sense of loss, of vague disappointment overshadowing everything wonderful?

  When the dinner is finished and the coffees and brandies have been drunk, he asks again if I would like to stay the night.

  ‘Don’t feel you have to,’ he says.

  I take a deep breath and jump off the cliff. ‘Yes, I’d like to spend the night . . . with you,’ I say. I’m nervous and as much as I want to there’s a little pull inside asking me if I’m sure I want this. Am I risking being hurt all over again? Yes I am, of course I am, but I’m beginning to realise that anything worth doing has an element of risk, and I finally feel ready to take this one. And this time I’m old enough to deal with the fallout, I have my eyes open and I know where I’m going with this. It’s about me and Peter and now, not years ago and not next week, it’s about what I want, now.

  He takes my hand and we slowly wander upstairs to his bedroom where I ask him to turn out the lights. We kiss and I’m back in the swirling summer storm. I never imagined I’d ever sleep with another man after Mike, but here I am, back where it all began with my first love. It’s another summer, another place, but we’re the same people, just older, wiser and as unsure, nervous and excited as we were the first time.

  Now, in my older body, I have other concerns too. I’m worried about how different I must be from the girl he remembers. I climb into the bed complaining of being cold, but really I want to cover up, I feel exposed and it’s not just my flesh, my heart feels like it’s opened up too. Old, forgotten feelings and sensations come flooding back into me. I welcome them, but I’m also scared of what this means. I’m as vulnerable as I was then as I lie back and he kisses me all over, gently pulling away the covers and telling me I’m just as beautiful as I was.

  ‘More, even more beautiful,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed you, Rosie.’

  To sleep with Peter again is wonderful, thrilling, it’s as though we’re reaching into the past to grab hold of what future is left for us. And this isn’t a friendship, or even a fling for me any more – this is another step towards healing the past and getting back my life.

  Despite the fact that we’re both older and wiser than the first time, it’s a warm, feckless summer just like our first and I am falling again, like the teenager I once was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The morning after our first proper night together I feel elated, and at the same time a little sad, like I’ve lost something. I suppose in some ways sleeping with Peter is like coming full circle for me – he was my first, and I can’t help but wonder if he will be my last. At the same time I feel like this has been a step further away from Mike, another door closed on my marriage, but I am positive and this other door has opened and the light has come streaming through.

  We sit in his kitchen and drink black coffee from huge blue pottery cups as croissants warm in the oven and Albert, Peter’s old tabby cat, twists in and out of our legs. The sun comes down in an arc through the window and we are bathed in a pool of light, both thinking, not talking. Peter has always been a thinker. He likes to contemplate – he used to sit looking through the car window, imagining a photo, composing it in his mind. I’ll admit I sometimes used to find it frustrating, I was impatient to get to where we were going, or just frustrated because I wanted his attention. Now I’m older I appreciate the thinking space we have together, neither of us feels the need to speak, we just enjoy being.

  ‘You probably don’t realise this,’ I say into the thick, morning silence, ‘but you’ve taught me how to let go, relax. I love the silence, I’ve come to realise how important it is.’ I’ve always revelled in the noisy chaos of busy family life, I would miss the coming and going, the dramas, the falling out and the making up. And knowing I will welcome that cacophony again soon, I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet here with him.

  ‘Yes, it’s like oxygen. The world’s so damn fast these days with computers and phones and people shouting over each other to be heard through some medium or other. I suppose that’s why I’m a photographer, and I can live with silence: the only sound I need is the click of the shutter.’

  ‘It’s funny, because when I’m at home on my own I often feel the need to put the radio on, or I talk to Lily or telephone someone. But with you I don’t feel that need, I just love this, now, me and you and silence.’

  As if on cue Albert gives a little miaow and Peter gathers him up in his arms and talks to the little cat like he is his child. As I watch him gently stroking and cajoling, offering him various tempting feline titbits, it occurs to me that Peter really should have been someone’s dad and the person he hurt the most, that day at the fair, was himself.

  Later, we stroll into Oxford, wander through the University Parks in the sunshine, ending up by the river, where the late afternoon sunshine spills on the water and punters move their boats lazily by.

  ‘Ice cream?’ Peter asks, spotting a small hut selling refreshments.

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘What flavour would you like?’ he asks, as we walk towards the hut.

  ‘Oh, any . . . I don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You hate mint choc chip and you need to discover your own flavour. Until we go to Italy and you can taste a million gelatos you’ll have to make do with the basic flavours here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Okay, vanilla,’ I say, laughing.

  He lifts his hands in the air in a despairing gesture. ‘There are at least twenty flavours on the list, from Brazilian Coffee to Black Raspberry. You can’t have vanilla . . . ’

  He starts laughing and I join in. ‘I know I’m laughing, but I am honestly so overwhelmed by the flavour choice I have to play it safe.’

  ‘Rosie, recently you told me that you liked the idea of seeing yourself in a red open-top MG wearing sunglasses, your hair flowing in the breeze.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with ice cream?’ I’m smiling, loving his attention and the sunshine, enjoying the warmth on my face as I look up at him.

  ‘It’s got everything to do with ice cream. What would that red, open-top MG-driving woman choose? It wouldn’t be vanilla . . . would it?’

  ‘No, you’re right, she’ll have a scoop of the mojito and one of the Jamoca fudge almond, please,’ I say, loving the way he constantly questions me, and pushes me out of my comfort zone. This isn’t just about ice cream, this is the magic of Peter and the unsafe, recklessness of him compared to Mike, who chose the mint choc chip or the vanilla along with me. Peter hands me a cone and I taste the sharp limey zing of mojito and the rich jaw-aching chocolate of Jamoca and I long to try them all, to go back and taste every flavour that little hut has to offer. I look at Peter walking next to me, licking his own exotic ice cream concoction
, and I wonder what else he could teach me. How much more of life can he open out to me, and lay before me – he is exciting and dangerous and always has been. Today it’s mojito ice cream, once it was sex in a storm, who knows what’s next? I feel a shudder of excitement go through me, and it isn’t the chill of the ice cream. Still eating, we walk across the little bridge over the river and lean over when we’re halfway across and watch the boats go by.

  ‘I love being here,’ I say.

  ‘Me too.’ He takes my hand. ‘Could you ever see yourself living here?’

  ‘It’s somewhere I’d love to live, but it’s not where my family are and that’s where I have to be. It’s not a rule, it’s just me. But Oxford’s just so beautiful, the architecture, the culture, the dreaming spires – you’re so lucky to live here,’ I say wistfully.

  ‘It’s the nearest I’ve ever felt to home,’ he says. ‘I just feel at peace here. You were saying this morning that I am comfortable with silence and that’s what I’ve grown to love here – the quiet. The university students keep it fresh and vibrant, so it’s never stale, but on a summer evening at home the only thing you can hear is a bird sing, and that’s all I need now. I don’t want to lead the fast-paced life I used to revel in any more. I like to dip into it every now and then, flex my photography muscle in another country, a big noisy city, and it’s still fun – but I always long to come back here. I’ve been all over the world but here just feels like home.’

  We both continue to watch the world in silence, safe in the knowledge the other one is there, but neither of us needing to speak or touch. And I envy him the freedom he’s had to search and find his place in the world. Most of us have to compromise; if things had been different I doubt I’d have stayed in Salford. Mike and I talked for a while about moving to the seaside like people do, but we both knew it wasn’t about what we wanted. There were our parents and our kids to consider, and we were rooted like trees to those terraced houses on old northern streets. I still am, and as long as the girls are there I will have to stay. But now, I wonder. Everyone has their own lives, no one’s depending on me – could I dare to think about drifting away now, just for me, just for a little while?

  Later we walk back to his house and sit again in his lovely kitchen eating pasta in his home-made sauce of tomato and ripped basil leaves and I feel like I’m in Italy. He tells me about his time spent living on the Amalfi coast working in a restaurant, lying under a hot sun in a rocky cove by day, serving tables and flirting with Italian women by night. His stories always make me want to visit the places he’s been to. I want to taste the fresh shellfish straight from the sea, drink crisp white wine under that hot sun and walk hand in hand with him along a sunset beach.

  I will miss him, after this weekend – our time together here at his home has changed us, propelled us forward into a deeper understanding. And being in his home has given me a taste of his life. I’m getting to know this older Peter so much more. He isn’t dashing around, he isn’t arrogant – and dare I say, he may just have had his fill of chasing butterflies and glitter.

  ‘Stay another night, there’s no need for you to go back,’ he’s saying as we drink a last cup of coffee. I have that Sunday night feeling, as the carefree weekend edges back into real life, and it makes my heart dip a little to see my overnight bag packed in the hall, a reminder that this isn’t my home.

  I’ve just had the best twenty-four hours. He has been great company, the sun has shone, the food he made was delicious, and for the first time in a long time I’ve felt so relaxed. I have only had to think about me while here with him. Peter indulges me, he listens, he gives me his full attention and here there’s time to sit and think and walk and talk and all the time in the world to choose ice cream.

  ‘Oh, Peter, thank you, and you know I’d love to stay longer. Being here with you this weekend I’ve just felt . . . I don’t know, free. You’ve looked after me so well and you have such a lovely home, you’ve no idea how much I’d like to open another bottle of red and sit on your lawn watching the sun go down.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  I laugh. ‘I can’t, Peter. I must go home. Anna has to go to the solicitor’s first thing about her divorce and Isobel’s in the shop, so I want to take the girls to school.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame, not that you’re taking the girls to school . . . I mean that you can’t stay. Having grandchildren seems as bad as having children.’

  ‘Or as good,’ I say, sending a gentle warning shot. I have already made it clear I want to do this, no one is forcing me to do anything, it’s my pleasure. ‘We want them to know that Mum and Dad are divorcing but everything’s still okay. I think Katie the youngest has been affected most.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He doesn’t quite know what to say, he’s not used to dealing with the fallout from divorce – all he and Camille had to worry about was their joint custody of the artworks. I know that sounds mean, and the reason I’m back with him is the way he embraces freedom and doesn’t have any baggage. But unfortunately I do and he doesn’t seem to be able to get his head round this.

  ‘Well, if I can’t convince you to stay I’d better give you your surprise now,’ he says. ‘Close your eyes, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He goes out of the room and returns almost immediately with a large, flat box wrapped with a large blue ribbon.

  ‘You opened your eyes,’ he says in mock chastisement.

  ‘I hate surprises. Well, I love them, I just can’t bear not to know what it is,’ I say, unfurling the thick, silk ribbon and opening the box. Inside is some paper, a brochure with some pictures printed off the internet, and when I put my glasses on and read what it says I see he’s made a booking for a two-night stay at a luxury French hotel just outside Oxford. I look up at him, a smile about to break on my face. ‘This is somewhere I have always wanted to go,’ I say. ‘I’ve looked at it so many times on the internet, drooling over the amazing food. Oh and look, the bedrooms are just pure luxury . . . Peter, a weekend here must cost a fortune.’

  ‘I just wanted us to do something special. I racked my brains wondering what we could do and then I remembered you’d mentioned the gardens there. And I thought where better to take a florist than a hotel with special gardens.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s so much more, there’s a herb garden . . . and a Japanese garden with a bridge,’ I say, clapping my hands together like a little girl. I am so excited. ‘What a lovely surprise.’ I am delighted. I’ve never been anywhere like this before and it will be a once in a lifetime experience – I can’t wait.

  ‘We can wander through the gardens before dinner, and the food is Michelin-starred, local produce, a modern French menu with a twist.’ He’s joined me on the sofa and is now reading from the brochure, our heads together, pointing at things like two excited schoolchildren.

  ‘We’re both such foodies I knew you’d love it but it’s difficult to get a room unless you book months – even years – in advance, but I know someone who knows someone and after much negotiation, persuasion and blood, sweat and tears we have a room for next weekend.’ He is sitting next to me, still holding the brochure, flicking through the pages, smiling. My heart goes from sky high to zero in a millisecond.

  ‘Next weekend?’ I say, my mouth now dry.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s short notice, but apparently it was a cancellation – you can’t get a room for another two years.’ He’s still smiling, then his face slowly drops. ‘It’s okay, isn’t it? You can do next weekend?’

  ‘Oh, Peter, I’m so, so sorry, I can’t. Next Saturday is Isobel’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh no. Well, we’ll only be away two nights, perhaps you could celebrate with her on the Thursday, or the following week?’ I feel frustrated at the way he assumes everyone and everything can just be moved to accommodate his plans.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t move her birthday,’ I say, trying not to show my irritation. ‘She’s forty, we’ve booked a restaurant for a family meal . . . it’
s a special birthday.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she’ll understand if you explain . . . ’

  ‘No, I don’t think you understand,’ I say, tersely. ‘It’s my daughter’s fortieth birthday, all the family are going, we’re having a meal, gifts, a birthday cake and it’s very, very special.’

  ‘But I’ve booked the meal, ordered champagne, we’re having afternoon tea on the lawn, just the two of us . . . ’

  I feel terrible – what started out as a wonderful idea, a thoughtful and beautiful gift, has now become a bone of contention between us and I honestly wish he’d never bothered. Within seconds my new, calm, Zen-like self has popped and I’m desperately scrabbling around in my brain trying to work out the Rubik’s cube of dates, the tangle of relationships that I keep in my head like a huge emotional human calendar. I’m a mother, it’s what we do, but I want a rest from all this, I’m fed up with trying to be everything to everyone. Peter and I have only just begun this new relationship and already I’m beginning to feel the weight of being pulled in all directions.

  ‘You’re supposed to be the one who calms me, the one who lifts me out of all the daughter drama and worries about the family and soothes me, but this time you’re adding to it. Of course it was a lovely, lovely gesture, Peter, but perhaps you should have checked with me first?’

  He sighs. ‘I should, yes – but I had to take it straight away or someone else would have. People book years in advance—’

  ‘Yes, yes, you said,’ I snap, now frazzled, but slowly the tangles are unfurling in my head and I know whatever happens, and however upset he is, I will be at Isobel’s birthday on Saturday. The girls are grown-ups, but in the same way we are all managing Emma and Katie’s feelings about their parents’ divorce, I’m also minding my daughters’ emotions around their deceased and very much missed father. What kind of message does it send for me to be absent from a big family birthday celebration? The girls would be so hurt, and besides, I want to be there. Yes, I also want to be sitting on a perfectly manicured lawn drinking champagne with the man I love, but in real life we don’t always get what we want.