by Lost
Sophie hesitated. It wasn’t so much that she was being swayed by Pinter’s long list of reasons for her to dash over to Paris, but at the end of the day, she was desperately worried about her mum.
Pinter snapped his fingers. ‘A-ha! Esther’s sister is getting married in Paris in a few months’ time. You could be the photographer. I was going to ask you anyway and see if I could get you back to Paris somehow.’
Sophie frowned. She couldn’t prove that either way, but it all sounded rather convenient. Plus, she certainly hoped – if she decided to go over to Paris – to find her mum within a few days, not a few months! So Esther’s sister – Savannah, if memory served her correctly – would most likely have to hire a different photographer.
‘You’re half French, aren’t you?’ Pinter asked, probably to distract her.
‘A quarter, if we’re being technical about it,’ Sophie corrected. ‘I had English grandparents but they’re dead now and I have a French grandmother who is still alive. Fifi. She’s a proper character… very flamboyant.’
‘How fabulous.’
Sophie shrugged. She loved her family dearly.
‘But anyway… just think. We could host an exhibition on your return,’ Pinter finished grandly. ‘And…’ – he paused for dramatic effect – ‘a change is as good as a rest, as they say.’
He sat back, clearly feeling that he had put forward a rather splendid case for Sophie to drop everything and decamp to Paris at a moment’s notice.
Sophie thought for a second. Not much of what Pinter had just outlined made much sense to her mostly because it was an idealised version of events, and Sophie wasn’t remotely convinced that any of the points he had made would actually help her own situation. But one part made sense and was the crux of the matter.
‘You’re right,’ she allowed finally.
Pinter looked exultant.
‘About one thing.’
Pinter’s face fell.
‘I’d feel far too guilty about not helping Eloise search for my mum. I only have one parent – and it’s been that way since Eloise and I were tiny – and she’s a bit flaky, but I love her to bits and I need to know she’s alright.’
Sophie’s phone rang again and she answered it quickly. It was Eloise again, having dealt with whatever her son had needed her for. In that moment, Sophie made a decision.
‘Yes, ok. I’ll get a flight and be with you tomorrow or the day after,’ she said. She hadn’t used the Eurostar before so flights were easier in her head. ‘Ok. Try not to worry. I’ll let you know when I’ve booked a flight.’ She ended the call, feeling a shiver of excitement. And something else. Apprehension maybe?
‘Happy now?’ she asked Pinter.
Pinter shook his head. ‘Not in the least. I’ll miss you loads.’ He gave her a sage smile. ‘But I think you’re doing the right thing.’
‘I’m glad one of us does,’ Sophie said doubtfully. Was she doing the right thing? She had no idea. But with everything that had happened with Ryan, maybe she did just need to get away? And see if she could figure out what had happened to her mum. She couldn’t have got far, surely? As for everything else from her past…
Sophie strengthened her resolve. The past was the past. There was no point in dwelling on it and it was all so long ago now. As Pinter said, it was time for a fresh start. Even if it was going to come about by tracking down her errant mum in Paris of all places.
‘Bon voyage,’ Pinter said, chinking his coffee mug to hers. ‘And looking on the bright side, because I’m sure your mother is probably just having one of her funny moments, you’re just about to go to Paris in the spring. Wait until Esther hears; she’ll want us to join you.’
‘Please do,’ Sophie said, raising her mug. ‘I’ll probably need all the help I can get.’ She bit her lip and felt another ripple of excitement. Or apprehension. Or both. Paris. She was going back to Paris. For the first time in five years. Sophie had no idea if she was doing the right thing, but she was doing it. With her mum missing, she simply had to.
Chapter Three
Two days later, Sophie had said goodbye to Jo and to Pinter and all her other friends and she had messaged Ryan to let him know she was heading to Paris. Walking out of Charles de Gaulles airport with a loaded suitcase she hoped would be sufficient for her stay, Sophie got into a taxi. It was late in the afternoon, but Sophie told the driver to go the long way round Paris so they could take in all the sights before heading towards the 10th arrondissement. She was surprised that her command of the French language came back to her so easily.
Sophie gazed out of the window. She’d forgotten how beautiful Paris was, how elegant: the Sacre Coeur, stunning in its simplicity, majestically placed upon a hill and surrounded by the artistic, bohemian flavours of Montmartre; the Arc de Triomphe, immense, solid and a central feature for the constant flow of frantically weaving traffic that coursed through and around it; the Eiffel Tower, tall, magnificent, breathtaking, Sophie remembered being taken there as a child. She had thought she might be terrified at the top because of how high it was, but instead, she had loved it. She had stood there with her sister Eloise and her mum, and she had looked across the whole city, amazed at how tiny everything seemed. Houses that looked as though dolls should live in them, miniature cars like little toys driving around narrow streets and mini people going about their business. As a child, Sophie remembered always being excited when the Eiffel Tower was lit up by different coloured lights at various times of the year, because it looked magical.
‘You’re too early for the lights,’ the driver commented in French.
Sophie nodded. It was a shame she wouldn’t see the sparkling golden lights that flashed and twinkled for five minutes at a time today, but she guessed she might get to see them at some point. Although she had no idea how long she would even be here…
‘How long are you here for?’ the driver asked her chattily.
Sophie smiled and craned her neck to get a last look of the Eiffel Tower. ‘I was just thinking… I honestly have no idea,’ she said.
The driver shrugged, clearly not sure what to say in response.
Tearing her eyes away, Sophie allowed the memories to wash over her as the taxi approached the Île de la Cité in the 4th arrondissement. She took in the awe-inspiring sight of the cathedral of Notre-Dame, impressed as ever by the stark, Gothic architecture. They sailed past the Père Lachaise, the cemetery that was resting place to, amongst others, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison, whose tombstone was covered in graffiti, and Sophie suddenly found herself entering the 10th arrondissement, where her mum’s cottage was.
Giving the driver more precise directions, Sophie sat back, feeling a flash of apprehension. Seeing Paris again was easier than she had imagined it to be, but coming back to the cottage she had once shared with her mum and sister was something else. Sophie felt the sudden need to slow things down.
‘Could you stop here, please?’ she asked the driver. There were a few streets away from her mum’s macaron shop and house, but there was somewhere Sophie wanted to stop off at first.
‘Here?’ The driver pulled over. ‘Aaah, the bistro. The food is good here.’ He jumped out to help Sophie with her suitcase and having settled her on the pavement by the bistro, he drove off.
Sophie stood outside the bistro. Chez Josephine was a typical, art-nouveau French bistro on the corner of the street – old-fashioned and traditional. It served ‘old school’ dishes such as boned pigeon with foie gras, and chicken with morel mushrooms and cream. But more than that, to Sophie, it was the restaurant her mum used to take her and Eloise to as children as a treat.
Sophie stepped inside, lugging her suitcase in with her. It was promptly taken somewhere safe and she was greeted like an old friend, much to her surprise.
‘Sophie!’ Bernard the rotund, affable owner kissed both her cheeks exuberantly. ‘We ‘ave not seen you for… three… no, five years.’ He had always loved speaking English with her.
�
��Aaah, Sophie.’ Adele, Bernard’s wife, a still-beautiful woman with grey hair in a chignon and fantastic cheekbones, pulled her into a hug. ‘You have returned.’ She didn’t favour speaking English.
‘It’s good to see you both,’ Sophie said, feeling overwhelmed. She hadn’t expected anyone to remember her after so long.
‘Your usual table?’ Bernard turned and swept an arm out with a flourish. ‘It’s free, but if it wasn’t, I’d make sure it was.’
Sophie smiled. ‘You’re too kind. Thank you.’ She took a seat, and while Adele and Bernard busied themselves with getting her a carafe of water and a basket of fresh bread, Sophie took in her surroundings. The walls were painted a pale yellow and decorated with pictures and huge mirrors. The tables were sat close to one another and were covered with pristine, white cloths. Small lights studded the ceiling, like upside down ice cream cones, throwing circles of light across the restaurant. The rest of the light came from the elegant, but somehow rustic candles on the tables, the white wax oozing and dribbling into the sparkling glass cups they were held in.
Sophie’s mum, Mariele, loved this restaurant because of its personal service and family-run vibe, but also because of the chic, art-nouveau décor. As for the food… Mariele would sometimes treat herself to the excellent white chocolate panna cotta with raspberries or the delicate citrus millefeuille they served, which she always declared a ‘triomphe de patisserie’.
‘You will have the joue de boeuf en daubes?’ Bernard asked. ‘The beef cheeks in red wine and thyme? With extra orange, as you like it. The terrine? Or maybe the escargots in provençale butter?’
‘The joue de boeuf please,’ Sophie smiled, touched by Bernard’s excellent memory and always impressive attention to detail. Eloise, always rather squeamish as a child, had been put off by the idea of eating the ‘cheeks of a cow’, as she put it, but Sophie had always found them to be tender and moreish. And far easier to stomach than snails, which Sophie found tough and gristly, much to the horror and disbelief of her French friends.
Bernard smiled. ‘And the Bordeaux, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’
Sophie watched Bernard bustle off to attend to her order and Adele arrived at the table with a glass of the very good Bordeaux wine they favoured. ‘On the house,’ she smiled, the apples of her lovely cheekbones broadening. ‘You are home to see your mother?’ she asked.
‘Sort of,’ Sophie said cautiously, slipping easily into speaking French with Adele.
‘I haven’t seen her for a while, actually,’ Adele mused, her brows knitting into a frown.
Sophie hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to say to people about her mum; Mariele might not want people to know she was missing.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing my sister,’ Sophie said by way of a distraction. ‘And my nephews.’
‘Aaah, les garçons,’ Adele said, looking sentimental. ‘They are handsome, yes?’
‘Umm… yes,’ Sophie replied vaguely. Her nephews were very handsome, if rather boisterous and also loud.
Bernard brought up a small slice of the delicious terrine de campagne the bistro was famous for, to start. ‘Just for you,’ he said expansively.
Sophie felt overwhelmed by the attention, but at the same time, she couldn’t deny it was lovely. What a great start to her return to Paris! She tucked into the mouth-watering terrine and sipped the rich, mellow Bordeaux. There was jaunty, accordion-style music playing in the background, which was rather clichéd, but it reminded Sophie of times spent here with her mum.
‘Superbe,’ she told Bernard as he removed her terrine plate. ‘Even better than I remembered.’
‘You are too kind,’ he grinned, loving the compliments. ‘And your beef cheeks.’ He placed the dish in front of her with a grand sweep. He stood over her expectantly, clearly wanting to see how she found it. Luckily, Sophie found the dish as exquisite as she remembered it. The sauce was thick, and the orange, thyme and strong seasoning burst in the mouth.
Sophie kissed her fingers and dipped the last of her bread in the sauce. ‘Formidable!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am very happy to be in Paris.’
‘And we are happy to have you back,’ Adele gushed, giving her an unexpected hug. ‘And I hope your mother is alright,’ she said close to Sophie’s ear.
Sophie nodded and said nothing. After settling what seemed to be an extraordinarily small bill for the lovely meal she had just enjoyed, she left, dragging her suitcase behind her. A few streets down, she swallowed as she caught sight of the family home: it was an unusual, but beautiful property. Pastel-pink coloured and rather huge, it was set back from the street, but had an annexe attached to it, which was the macaron shop. MARIELE’S MACARONS was written in pretty cursive above the front of the shop, which was in darkness because it stayed closed on Sundays, but memories still swam in front of Sophie’s eyes. Five years. Five years since she had last been here. She took in the sight of it. Five years was such a long time to be away from somewhere she had always seen as home, but when she had left, she had felt that she had no other choice. Her heart had been shattered into tiny pieces; what else could she have done?
Taking a deep breath, Sophie unlocked the door and went into the house. All of a sudden, standing there in the hallway, she felt overawed by all the childhood memories that were assailing her. Sophie could hear echoes of herself and Eloise, running around as young girls, screaming with laughter. In her mind, she could see them playing in the surprisingly large garden, hiding behind trees… or mostly up them, in Eloise’s case.
Sophie could see and feel her mum in every room as she started to walk through them. She felt oddly reassured that nothing much had changed inside the house. The lounge area was light and airy with mismatched colours and furniture. Cream and brown sofas with non-matching armchairs, strewn with plump, fluffy cushions in neutral tones and the odd, velvet jewel-coloured cushion scattered here and there – amethyst, ruby red and emerald green. There was an unusually shaped raw oak coffee table in the centre, and on top the copies of Vogue magazine Mariele had collected over the years and coasters from different places they had visited in France. The same photographs that had always adorned the walls were still there… photographs of Eloise and Sophie at various ages. The walls were full of them and Sophie smiled inwardly because she and Eloise used to hate the embarrassing pictures of them with gappy smiles and bizarre, bohemian clothes.
Sophie sniffed. There was a faint scent of Anais Anais in the air, the Cacherel perfume Mariele always wore, and whenever Sophie smelt it, it reminded her of her mum. She used to spray it on her pillow when she was a kid, and after moving back to London, Sophie would go into department stores and spray it on herself whenever she missed her mum. Eventually, she bought her own bottle and started to wear it because she loved it so much and because it held such wonderful memories. Anais Anais was probably considered to be a bit of a throwback now, but Sophie still adored it.
She wandered into the kitchen. It was homely and cosy even though it was of a decent size, and Sophie felt a rush of memories wash over her again. How much time had the three of them spent in here together? Cooking, experimenting, eating, talking, laughing. Like many houses, it had been the heart of the home especially since Mariele had trained to become a pastry chef after realising that art didn’t pay the bills. She would often try out recipes and get the girls to help; they had been chief tasters to Mariele’s weird and wonderful creations. Eventually their mum got into making macarons, and by the time Mariele had opened her shop, Sophie and Eloise had tasted hundreds and hundreds of the delicious, crunchy little biscuits.
Sophie ran her hand over the edge of the wooden worktop. She felt a renewed anxiety. Where was her mum? Why had she disappeared like this? What happened to make her run away, leaving a cryptic note? Sophie found the note on the work top where Eloise had left it. She read it, nonplussed.
I have to go away for a while and I am truly sorry. My heart isn’t happy and I have to work on that. Please don�
�t worry about me! I’ll be in touch soon X
What on earth did it mean? My heart isn’t happy. Sophie had no idea what her mum meant by that. Did she miss someone from her past? Was she unhappy alone? Was she sick?
Sophie tucked the note in her back pocket and headed into the macaron shop. It looked strange in the dark, so she turned all the lights on and instantly, the shop came to life. Spotlights in the ceiling and small, non-matching lamps threw light into every corner. It was a beautiful, eclectic little shop and apart from some new cream wooden chairs and tables scattered throughout, it looked the same as it had five years ago to Sophie. A sweet, familiar smell hung in the air and Sophie was instantly transported back to her childhood.
She wandered around the shop, smiling to herself. There was a glass case at the front to display plates of pretty macarons – empty at the moment – and neat piles of pink boxes sat at the side, ready to be filled. They were lined with puffs of tissue paper in jewel tones: ruby, emerald, aqua. Mariele loved bright colours and she was everywhere in the shop. Her taste flooded the space and imbued every aspect.
Sophie ran her hand along a pretty dresser; there were many in all shapes and sizes that Mariele had painted in different pastel shades. There were shelves with random ornaments on them, that were… unusual: boxes shaped like books and treasure chests, shells and driftwood and glass figures that danced and twirled. Everything should clash, but somehow it didn’t. The shop still looked slick and professional in places, but it was also inviting, warm and cosy.
The thing Sophie had always loved about the macaron shop was that it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It wasn’t in competition with the big players in Paris such as Ladurée or Pierre Hermé, companies Sophie knew her mum admired greatly. It was a family-run macaron shop with bags of charm and some pretty delicious macarons that had a solid, constantly growing following.
