Letter from Paris (10 page)

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.

India cursed and then took a deep breath. She needed to slow down. She had plenty of time to get to The Greenwich, and if she was a bit late, she could blame the weather. Right? Henry would be there ahead of her to greet Rebecca. This need to be punctual was old conditioning from years teaching school and racing for the bell. It wasn’t as if she still had thirty kids waiting outside on a playground for her or a full assembly to take. This was a whole new world where you were allowed to run as late as you liked as long as you arrived looking fabulous, your lipstick intact and your hair immaculately blown out. Clearly, the women she was meeting had absorbed too many episodes of
Sex and the City
.

The thing was, even when you got to the meetings, you didn’t have to give people your full attention. You could check your texts every five minutes, step out of rooms to take calls, leave early because you had yet another (implication, more important) meeting to go to. Imagine if you behaved like that when you were giving a lesson, she mused. You’d be fired – wouldn’t last a day.

After showering and quickly putting on her makeup, India rifled through her half-unpacked suitcase in search of a pair of black tights. A frantic race around the room failed to locate them. She was running out of time to be even fashionably ‘consultant late’ she realized. Damn it, she would have to abandon the skirt and wear those Agnes B black pants yet again. She was already experiencing suitcase fatigue – absolutely sick to death of the clothes she had packed.

How were you supposed to anticipate freak weather in June? The humidity alone was already doing terrible things to her hair. Did Inès de la Fressange ever find herself on day four of a work trip down to her last clean pair of knickers? Somehow, India doubted it. There were glaring omissions in that style guidebook and absolutely no advice on how to get out of the Warwick Hotel in the absence of a rowing boat or an ark.

Minutes later, standing under the awning at the entrance to the hotel, help came in the form of a doorman who flagged down a cab with a shrill ear-piercing whistle. India climbed into it under the protection of his supersized hotel umbrella.

Her phone rang as the cab lurched forward. Fishing it out of her pocket, she saw from the caller ID it was Adam. She let it ring a few times before picking up. It had been days since she’d heard from him; she could wait another few seconds.

“Hello.”

“Hey. Where are you?” Adam said, his gravelly voice sending shivers down her spine.

“New York,” she said.

“Really? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“It was arranged quickly. I worked out you were probably on your way to Marrakech.” (Read,
‘You never bother telling me your plans; see how you like it…’ )
“So where are you? Are you there now?”

“No. I’m in Cannes,” he said.

India went pale. He was in Cannes. He was in the south of France. He was in
le sud de la France
WITHOUT HER. How could he do this? He’d absolutely promised to take her. That had been the trade off for letting her down about the Paris trip.

“So why aren’t you in Morocco?” she managed.

“We couldn’t get the right permits so here we are. Cannes is super busy. I thought it all went quiet after the Film Festival, who knew? I’m at Eden-Roc. It’s really warm out here today. So what are you up to in New York?”

“Oh. You know,” India said, “meetings. Absolutely tons of meetings. You should see my schedule – it’s insane.”
(
Read
, Am international business-woman; meetings are in my DNA.)

“Who are you meeting with?”

“
Adam,
I’m in a cab right now. I can’t really talk.” Read,
Am international business-type person who cannot risk being overheard by a driver.

“Oh! Sorry, okay.”

“How long are you in France for?”

“Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe we could meet up in London on my way back?”

“Absolutely,” she said and then concerned she might have sounded too available. “Though best give me some notice. I may not be in town.” (Read,
Am international traveler who may well pop down to Cannes herself.)

“Will do. Miss you.”

“Okay,” she said. “Enjoy Cannes. I have to go.”

And she did have to go. She had to stop the conversation right there while she still had the strength to keep up this air of cool detachment. It was killing her. She
had
managed an air of cool detachment though, hadn’t she?

It took a while for India to find the discreet entrance to The Greenwich Hotel. For a moment she was surprised that Henry had chosen to stay at such a low-key location. This was downtown; wasn’t he an uptown kind of a guy? Once inside the doors, she remembered his fondness for boutique hotels. She gave her name to the concierge.

“Mr. Cowan is expecting you.” He smiled, nodding toward a short hallway.

Shaking off her raincoat, India made her way into the dark interior of a large sitting room. The place had the feel of a gentlemen’s club; the stout leather armchairs, worn oriental rugs and the mahogany bar leant a decidedly masculine ambience, where the Hotel de l’Abbaye in Saint Germain had been chintzy and feminine. Nevertheless, it was a similar vibe – a calm oasis in a frantically busy city. She could not help but think it would be the perfect place for a tryst.

Henry was sitting on a low camel back couch by the fireplace. The woman opposite him looked up as India walked over.

“Sorry I’m so late,” India said. “I misjudged the time it’d take me to get here in this weather.”

“No problem,” Henry said. “We’ll bring you up to speed. Rebecca, this is India Butler, our education consultant.

Do all the women Henry works with look like this? India thought, as a willowy airbrushed blonde reached out an extended hand. I wouldn’t be able to pick any one of them out in a lineup.

Henry gestured to the armchair next to him. India shook hands, then sank down in the gently worn tapestry cushions.

“We’ve ordered Crostini for starters to keep us going,” Henry said, indicating the plates of olives and fava beans, ricotta and pita bread spread out on the low table in front of them. “What would you like to drink?”

India, resisting the urge for a Bloody Mary, took her cue from Rebecca, who was nursing a Diet Coke. “Pellegrino,” she said. God it was so cozy in here; all she wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep.