Lost and Found in Paris

by Lost

  Unpacking, Sophie threw her clothes into the drawers, not sure she needed to waste too much time being neat. Eloise was the neat one out of the two of them anyway; Sophie was a little more ‘fly by the seat of her pants’. And for all she knew, she could be back in London by tomorrow evening. Her mum might just turn up out of the blue or Sophie might get lucky and just find her immediately. But either way, it was easier to work out what to wear when everything was out of the suitcase.

  God. Sophie slowed herself down. Eloise had always been the one to organise herself and well, basically control everything. Sophie wasn’t used to being in charge of anything… let alone finding their mother. She finished putting her clothes away and at the bottom of one of the drawers, she found a large, ornate box decorated with brightly coloured mermaids and octopuses and fish.

  Sophie’s heart began to thump. She recognised this box. It had been her treasure box as a child… somewhere she would hide or keep things that meant something to her. She sat down on the bed and slowly opened the lid. She caught her breath. It felt as though time had stood still for a moment. Inside the box were a collection of special things from her past. Crinkled-up, peach-coloured rose petals from her grandmother’s garden that she used to make rank perfume with. There was the bunny she used to cuddle in bed, imaginatively named ‘Bunny’, silk flowers her mum had given her to wear in her hair at a party, garish costume jewellery she used to parade around in. And a pile of shells from the beach in Trouville-sur-Mer they used to visit as a family when Sophie and Eloise were kids. Sophie held them to her nose and was immediately transported back in time…

  Nineteen Years Ago

  ‘Catch!’ Mariele threw the ball to Sophie.

  Laughing hard, an eleven-year-old Sophie leapt up but missed the ball.

  Eloise standing behind her caught it neatly. ‘Oui!’ she yelled, punching the air with her fist.

  Sophie hid a smile. Eloise was so competitive, always had been. She watched her sister tugging at her ill-fitting bikini, clearly uncomfortable with so much skin exposed. Sophie, however, loved her new canary-yellow two-piece.

  Mariele held her hand up. ‘No more,’ she implored with a smile. ‘We’ve been playing for over an hour.’ She ran her hands over her stylish black and white swimsuit and strolled to their messy row of striped, jewel-coloured beach towels – emerald-green, ruby-red and bright blue. ‘It’s tan time. I want to get brown.’ Flopping down, Mariele beckoned the twins to her. ‘Come. You need some sunscreen on.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ Sophie sighed, sitting down and moving her hair to one side to expose her shoulders.

  Mariele pulled a huge, wide-brimmed sun hat onto her long swathe of dark, wavy hair and started to rub cream into Sophie’s skin.

  ‘It’s loud,’ Eloise grumbled, straightening their towels primly before tugging her bikini out of her bottom and taking a seat.

  Sophie and Mariele exchanged a glance. Eloise didn’t really enjoy the beach. To her, it was messy and noisy and the fine dusty sand got everywhere; it just wasn’t tidy or ordered. Whereas Sophie and Mariele loved it, especially Trouville. The beautiful stretch of pale sand, the lovely boardwalk, the huddle of pretty, hundred-year-old villas at the edge of the beach. More family-friendly than its glamorous neighbour Deauville, Trouville had retained its authentic charm and it had a cultural, bohemian air that Mariele in particular adored.

  ‘We’ll go in an hour or so,’ Mariele assured Eloise as she rubbed sun cream onto her daughter’s pale shoulders. ‘Just a little cooking time.’

  ‘We’re not macarons,’ Eloise moaned, lying down and putting her cap over her face.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Mariele smiled, winking at Sophie. ‘But if you were, you’d be… a rose and vanilla one.’

  Eloise lifted her cap and frowned. ‘Really? Why?’

  Mariele laughed. ‘I don’t know! You just would be. Well, let’s see. Maybe because roses are fragrant and beautifully perfect and delicate. And vanilla, because it’s sweet and warm and everyone loves it.’

  Despite her grumpy mood, Eloise giggled.

  ‘And me?’ Sophie asked eagerly. ‘What would I be?’

  ‘You…’ Mariele took Sophie’s chin in her hands and turned her face this way and that way. ‘You would be… a pistachio with white chocolate ganache.’

  Sophie clasped her arms around her knees gleefully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Pistachio because it’s buttery and smooth and classic, even though I see it as rather quirky,’ Mariele stated. ‘Just like you. And white chocolate because it’s sweet and creamy and indulgent… an absolute treat.’

  ‘And because she’s cinglé,’ Eloise chuckled. ‘Like a nut… nutty… crazy.’

  Sophie broke into laughter. Only her mum could make her and Eloise feel this way.

  Mariele gathered them both into her arms and hugged them both. ‘Mes filles,’ she said, holding them tightly. ‘My everything.’

  Sophie and Eloise squealed as she squeezed them too hard.

  ‘Now, while I cook like a little macaron, can you find us some pretty shells?’ Mariele said, letting them go and lying back on her towel. She wiggled her toes, the red polish she always wore glinting in the sunlight. ‘The most beautiful shells you can find… for your rooms and for the shop. Go!’

  Shrieking with delight, Sophie and Eloise ran to the shore, all gangly legs and dark hair flying out behind them, hell-bent on finding the best shells on the beach…

  * * *

  Sophie came to and stared down into the box of treasures. God, she missed her mum. And she wanted her back right now. That memory… it summed her mum up completely. The fun and the laughs and how… free she always was. How glamorous.

  Feeling emotional, Sophie delved into the box again. At the bottom was a bunch of photographs. She pulled them out. There were photos of her mum looking stylish in various party dresses, and some of her as a child. She looked serious and cute. There was a black and white one of Mariele sitting on the bonnet of a Mini in a little dress with her long legs crossed and her dark hair streaming out behind her in the wind. Sophie had no idea who had taken the photograph or what it meant, but her mum used to look at it sometimes with a sad look on her face.

  Sophie inhaled. And then there were all her photographs of Raff. Photographs she had taken of him. Like a besotted idiot seemingly, as there were many, many photographs, with a crappy camera she had been given for an early birthday or with a more expensive one her mum had saved up for and bought when Sophie was older.

  Sophie pulled the photographs out. There were colour photographs, black and white and sepia. All the different mediums Sophie had been experimenting with when they were together. Sophie stared at them. The black-and-white mock-moody one of Raff pretending to stare into the distance at something fascinating, before cracking up into laughter and turning back to her, his head thrown back. The full-on colour version of him with his chocolate eyes staring into the lens, his mouth breaking into a wide smile. The clumsy half-shot of the two of them wrapped around one another, long before selfies were in fashion.

  Wow. Sophie felt overwhelmed by a rush of emotions. Raff was that guy. That guy who had come along and changed her life. Who had taught her how to feel and how to love and who she wanted to be. Raff had been everything to her. Everything. He had been passion and love and addiction and intoxication and he had been all-consuming and it had been amazing. And then it had been devastating and heart-breaking and all-consuming in the non-amazing way that a broken heart had a tendency of being.

  The thought of Raff sent her reeling – but she had to put all of that aside. There were more important things to worry about right now and she was in Paris to find her mother, not reminisce about Raff.

  Sophie leafed through the rest of the photos. She found some of her French grandmother, Fifi, looking flamboyant in a variety of bright, outrageous or downright bold outfits, including one controversial one in what was clearly a real, floor-length fur. There were a few of her
English grandparents who had passed away some years back, looking alternately serious or happy. There were lots of black and white ones of people Sophie didn’t recognise, perhaps more distant relatives of her mum. There were a few of a handsome man who was vaguely familiar to Sophie but she had no idea why. He had dark hair and rugged features and he was smartly dressed in each of them; even when he was wearing more casual clothes, he had the air of someone who was both stylish and proper.

  Sophie shrugged and put everything back in the memory box. Why had her mum kept all those photographs? She was a bit of a hoarder at the best of times, but she tended to put photographs in frames and out on display if they meant something to her. As for the ones of Raff… it was odd that her mum had kept those. Sophie had left them behind on purpose, because she knew it would make it easier to forget him; if she’d had photographs to look at, Sophie had been worried she might cave and run back to Paris… back to him and that was something she simply couldn’t do, not after everything that had happened. But Sophie hadn’t meant for her mum to keep them as mementos. But anyway. He was downstairs running the macaron shop, so for the short time she was here, she was going to have to get on with it. She had got over him once before, so coming face to face with him wasn’t going to break her.

  Sophie pulled herself together. She selected a cream, silky top and a pair of skinny jeans and got dressed. Brushing through her long hair, she felt her heart hammering in her chest at the thought of coming face to face with Raff again. She was also furious with herself for even feeling that way. It was absurd. It was just Raff. Raff had been significant in her life at one time, but that was a long time ago. Now, he was just her mum’s business partner; god alone only knew why him, out of all the people her mum could have chosen, Sophie thought, feeling a flash of exasperation, but that’s how she needed to think of Raff: as her mum’s business partner.

  Heading downstairs, Sophie took a deep breath and went into the macaron shop. Raff was serving a stream of chattering customers and appeared stressed out. He looked up and gave her an awkward head nod. Without pausing for thought, Sophie headed behind the counter, tied her long hair up with one of the bands she always kept on her wrist and washed her hands. Turning back to the line of customers, Sophie started attending to customers. She hadn’t worked in the macaron shop in a long time, but it was straightforward enough, unless it was super-busy. Like now. She felt flustered all of a sudden.

  Raff looked relieved and carried on serving. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed.

  Sophie ignored him. She wasn’t doing this to be nice to Raff; it was her mum’s shop. She ran her eyes over the perfectly round macarons; they came in the standard size and also a mini-sized version, which Sophie had always loved as a child because they were so cute. There were new flavours too. When Sophie had left Paris, her mum specialised in the classics: chocolate, raspberry, coffee, vanilla. All of those were still present, but there were so many others: lavender and honey, crème brûlée, orange blossom, caramel apple and several more. Sophie suspected Raff had something to do with the innovative new colours; he had always been fairly avant-garde when it came to his craft. Sophie also guessed it was to move with the times; most of the macaron shops in Paris sold quite out there flavours in rich, bold colours. She sensed Raff’s eyes on her as she familiarised herself with the new flavours and it was making her feel edgy, but she kept her mind focused on what she was doing.

  ‘Au Champagne et framboise?’ she said, picking up the silver tongs with a flat scoop they always used to make sure the macarons didn’t get dented. ‘Huit? Douze?’ she added, picking up the correct sized pink box when the customer answered. It was lined with a puff of ruby-coloured tissue and Sophie took care to tie the white ribbon neatly around the box.

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ she smiled as she handed the beautifully presented box across the counter. Dealing with the euros swiftly, she turned to the next customer in line and started to serve again. Raff got on with replacing macarons as they were sold and busied himself at the back, presumably baking more trays or prepping for the following day.

  The line gradually died down and Sophie leant against the counter. Only two people had come in for coffee so far, but she assumed that could change as the lunch hour progressed. Sophie wanted to ask Raff about the cafe side of the business, but that would mean talking to him and she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that. Well, she would have to eventually of course, but Sophie wasn’t sure today was the day for that. Or tomorrow, for that matter.

  Raff emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel. He looked rather more dishevelled than he had earlier that day – his hair was sticking up as if he had clutched it a few times and his top had a streak of blueberry-coloured ganache across the front – but he also looked less grumpy than he had earlier.

  ‘Thank you,’ he started to say again, but he didn’t continue as the door opened once more. A ravishing teenager wearing tight jeans, over-the-knee boots and a baggy jumper strolled in.

  Raff shot a worried glance at Sophie.

  Sophie started. Oh wow.

  Coco strode through the shop and kissed Raff’s cheek before turning to Sophie. ‘Bonjour. I’m Coco. I am Raff’s daughter.’

  Sophie nodded wordlessly. Coco was indeed Raff’s daughter. She was also the very reason Sophie and Raff had imploded and split up five years ago. The very reason, in effect that Sophie had left Paris and never returned. And here she was, standing right in front of Sophie.

  Chapter Seven

  Sophie tried to pull herself together. She had to get it together.

  ‘H-hi,’ she managed finally, feeling as though her mouth was full of cotton wool.

  ‘Hi,’ Coco returned confidently.

  Sophie stared at Coco, watching her wordlessly as she snatched a macaron from behind the glass case and started munching on it. Coco then threw herself into a chair, still eating.

  She really was beautiful, Sophie mused, feeling shocked at the sight of her. Coco had long, dark hair almost to her waist and eyes like Raff, with the same long lashes. The same small gap in her front teeth, Sophie noted, remembering it from before. Coco had petite features and an astonishingly pretty face.

  Coco was leggy and tall and exuded a confidence far beyond the fifteen years she had lived so far. Sophie wondered how much Coco resembled her mother… Estelle. Sophie distinctly remembered Coco’s mother’s name and what she looked like. Estelle was a model. Stunningly beautiful, brimming with confidence and sass. She didn’t have the ‘blank canvas’ model look that many girls had; Estelle was beautiful, even without make-up and she had a cheeky, confident look Sophie was sure had sold lingerie, shoes, clothes, gloves, jewellery and whatever else Estelle had been chosen to represent.

  Sophie felt rather sick thinking about Estelle. She remembered feeling threatened by Raff’s ex-girlfriend even before meeting her, because of the amount of time she had been in Raff’s life and of what Sophie had suspected Estelle meant to him. And when she had arrived out of the blue the way she had, with Coco in tow, Sophie’s world had imploded.

  Sophie swallowed and re-focused her attention on Coco. Coco wore a fair amount of make-up she didn’t really need, but Sophie guessed that was down to her age. Fifteen-year-olds wore lots of make-up, didn’t they? Sophie was pretty sure she had caked on the eyeliner at that age too, even if she hadn’t been a fan of the pale, powdery cheeks and red lipstick. Coco didn’t need it, but she still pulled it off; the overall effect was fairly breath-taking.

  ‘This is Sophie,’ Raff said, turning to her.

  Coco threw her a brief sunny smile before frowning. ‘Have we met before?’

  Sophie caught Raff’s eye. She and Coco had met before… just once when Coco had been ten years old. She had been gorgeous then – a perfect, leggy doll of a child with a mop of dark hair and huge eyes. – and Sophie hadn’t been able to get the image of her out of her head for many years to come.

  ‘Just once,’ Raff said haltingly, not taking his eyes off
of Sophie.

  Where was Coco’s mum, Sophie wondered, wishing Raff would stop staring at her. Was Estelle on the scene these days? Was she being a mum to Coco now? And were Estelle and Raff together? Sophie was surprised to feel a stabbing pain at the thought and she brushed it aside impatiently. How ridiculous! She wouldn’t have the first idea what was going on in Raff’s life these days. They hadn’t spoken since she had left Paris. Raff had contacted her several times – she still had all the letters he had sent her – but she hadn’t responded to them, despite her mum and Eloise berating her and telling her she was making a mistake. Sophie had conceded and read them – just once – and then she had tucked them away out of sight. She hadn’t been sure if it was because, having read Raff’s words, she doubted herself or because she didn’t believe any of it. Either way, Sophie had been so broken, it was all she could do to pull herself up and start over. It had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

  Sophie realised Coco was talking to her. ‘Pardon?’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’

  Coco turned her head on one side. ‘You have a lovely face,’ she commented. ‘You could be a model.’

  ‘Me?’ Sophie laughed. She felt momentarily flattered. Coco was beautiful; such a comment was a huge compliment. ‘No way! I was about to say the same to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a model,’ Coco said dismissively, lounging back in her chair. ‘My mum is one and I don’t want to be like her. I want to be an artist.’

  ‘No money in that.’ Raff shot Sophie a glance. ‘Actually, I could be wrong. You should speak to Sophie about that. She’s an artist. A very good one, in fact.’