Letter from Paris (2 page)

“So have you decided what you want yet?” Adam asked her.

“Yes. To get out of corporate representation and into advertising.”

“I meant to eat,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, sorry. Yes. Okay. Let me look,” she said, casting her eyes down the menu. “I’ll have the sole, please.”

“Starter?”

“Caesar salad.”

“Le Filet Mignon. S’il vous plait et le potage du jour. Merci,” Adam said, handing him back his menu.

“Merci Madame,” the waiter nodded, lifting Natalie’s menu. “Merci Monsieur.”

“So where were we?” Adam picked up. “Ah! Yes. So tell me more about your job.”

“I’m sure yours is a lot more interesting,” she said, cocking her head to one side and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me about the film? It sounds super cool.”

“It’s a challenge, that’s for sure,” he said. “Very different from the other characters I’ve played and of course there’s the accent. I’m working on that one.”

As they chatted, Natalie began to forget that Adam was one of the biggest stars in movie franchise history. He seemed so down to earth, so normal, until a couple of hours later when they were leaving the hotel and he grabbed her hand.

“Quick,” he said, pulling her toward the waiting car. “Get in fast.”

Turning around as she scrambled into the back seat, Natalie was momentarily blinded by the whirring flashbulbs of paparazzi cameras.

2

So. Here we go again, India thought, hurling a copy of
The Mail on Sunday
at the wall. She flung a copy of
Hello
magazine in the same direction, picked up her phone and speed-dialed Adam Brooks.

“Hey you…how’s it goin’?” he said sleepily. “Is everything okay?”

“
Not sure,” she said. “You tell me. I just saw your photograph in the paper. You were in front of a hotel holding hands with a half-dressed woman. A former Miss Arizona it says. I need to know. Is
she
the reason you’re not coming to Paris with me? Is that the real reason?”

“Of course not, Indie. It’s not how it looks.” He yawned. “I almost killed her on my bike the other afternoon. She came flying out in front of me. I felt bad about it. I bought her dinner. It’s not what you think. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“So why was she wearing your jacket?”

“Because she was cold, India. It’s freezing here at night. It’s the desert. Stop it already.”

India said nothing.

“You’ve got to trust me at a certain point.” He sighed.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling a bit raw that you aren’t coming to Paris. It’s been two months and I miss you…and…” Her voice trailed off.

“I don’t pick the locations, Indie. You think I like shooting my scenes around a fake Eiffel Tower when I could be going to the real Paris with you?”

“No. Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Well anyway, I’ve decided to go for a few days by myself. Just letting you know.”

“Okay. Fine. Look, I’ll call you later. It’s the middle of the night here.” He clicked off.

India lifted the booking confirmation from Hotel de l’Abbaye off her printer. How very generous of Annie, she thought, remembering the previous evening’s conversation and how sympathetic her sister had been about her ruined plans, how she’d suggested the boutique hotel in Saint Germain and insisted on treating her.

“Take a breath, darling,” Annie had told her. “It’s tough for Adam too, remember? It’s lonely and exhausting being on location. I understand that only too well. You know how the paparazzi twist everything. Remember the craziness of that last summer you were in LA? Don’t be too fast to jump to conclusions.”

Annie was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to believe the worst of Adam. He certainly sounded convincing. She was tired. She needed this getaway. Folding the receipt carefully into a wallet, India took her cup of tea over to the couch, pressed the television remote and snuggled up under a throw to continue watching her movie. An image of Owen Wilson froze on the screen as she scrambled around for the phone vibrating under a stack of French fashion magazines. She located it and sank back into the couch.

“Bonjour Sarah,” she said.

“Hey Indie. How’s it going?”

“Tres Bon. I’m watching
Midnight in Paris
to get in the mood for my trip next week.”

“Are you on a kind of
Eat, Pray, Love
mission?” Sarah responded.

“Sarah, ma petite amie. Alas, no ‘love’ as you know. I am making this trip purely for the intellectual rigor, for the galleries, the museums and to practice my French. I am committed to the life of an aesthete.”

Sarah laughed. “Well whatever that is, it doesn’t sound like you. Anyway, do you fancy joining Roger and me down the pub? I’m waiting for him now.”

“Okay,” India said, jumping up and stretching. “Give me half an hour. Order me chicken curry pie and chips please. I’m starting my juice cleanse tomorrow.”

She twisted her long dark hair into a clip and went to take a shower. An hour later, the three of them were crowded into the benches of The Cat and Lion pub. Roger raised his martini glass in India’s direction.

“To a whole new adventure. We’re going to miss you Miss Butler. Hackney Community College will not be the same without you.”

“I’ll miss working with you too, Roger. It’s been great. Be sure to let me know if you get wind of any more maternity leave I can cover,” she said, taking a sip of her Chardonnay.

“Back in a sec,” Sarah said, pushing away her plate of fries. “Need to go to the loo.”

India stood up to let her squeeze past.

“Roger, did Sarah tell you Adam’s not going to Paris with me now?” she said, bouncing back down on the leather banquette.

“She did. Dahling, I feel your pain. Long distance relationships are the worst. You’ve hardly been out at all these last few months. Frankly, it’s a waste of one hot mama. Believe me if I were straight, I’d snap you up like a shot.”

“Why thank you, Roger!” India said with a smile.

“Seriously. You’re absolutely beautiful. When you walked in just now, every man in the place looked up. You’ve legs up to your armpits, porcelain skin, cheekbones to die for…that Adam should be so lucky. You’re fabulous, darling. Fabulous.”

India blushed. “Now you’re embarrassing me, Roger,” she said. “I’m sure you must be sick to death of me talking about him all the time.”

“Not at all. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Sarah?” Roger said, leaning across and giving India’s hand a squeeze as Sarah joined them again.

“So what did I miss?” Sarah asked, sitting back down and pouring herself a glass of Pellegrino.

“Are you okay?” India said. “You look a bit pasty.”

“I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” Sarah smiled. “Now tell me all about your plans for Paris.”

3

I should have taken the Eurostar, India thought, nervous as ever about taking off and squirming in her tiny seat as the Air France plane taxied down the runway. I can handle this, I can, she told herself. It’s only a short hop.

Briefly making eye contact with the man squashed next to her, India pretended to be absorbed in her copy of
Le Monde.
She flicked over the pages, determined to look as French as possible as the flight attendant approached her.

“Bonjour Madame. Aimeriez-vous quelque chose à bois? Peut-etre voulez un verre de vin ou de certains canapés?”

“Non Merci.” India smiled sweetly, thrilled she had been addressed in French but not at all sure what she had just declined. She sighed as she opened
Parisian Chic
, the book by Inès de la Fressange that had become her bible in the last couple of weeks. India had copied all of the basic style tips and was surprised at how many of the key elements she already owned: the biker jacket, the white jeans, the navy sweater, the little black dress. It seemed somewhat formulaic, but who was she to argue with the muse to Chanel, the supermodel who had graced so many catwalks?

This is such a beautiful book – the red leather cover, the bookmark ribbon – everything she does is so special, she thought wistfully.

After a mercifully smooth flight and landing, India stood up with a wave of excitement, lifted down her carry-on case and made her way along the glass-walled terminal to join the passport control line. At baggage claim, she scoured the line of waiting drivers and finally located a sign with her name on it. The short man holding it announced himself gruffly as ‘Emanuel.’

“Bonjour Monsieur.” India beamed at him. “Merci,” she said, pointing to her cases on the carousel and smiling gratefully as he dragged them onto a cart. Thank goodness for Annie. I’d hate to be getting a shuttle right now, she thought.

Taken by surprise at the fierce wind and driving rain as they crossed the concourse to the car, India reminded herself she was not in Paris for the weather. Even if the sky were a cloudless blue, there would be no romantic walks in Les Jardins de Versailles or picnics at Pont des Arts with Adam. Pushing that depressing thought to the back of her mind, she climbed into the back of the Peugot.

The traffic was surprisingly light and as they left the auto route from Charles de Gaulle Airport way behind, India, with mounting excitement, began recognizing landmarks – the Louvre, the Place de la Concorde, the Egyptian obelisk, the Champs-Élysées. She could hardly contain herself when the car swung over the arched bridge of the Seine to the left bank and she was finally in the Sixth Arondissement.

They pulled up to the cobblestoned courtyard of the hotel, where the driver deposited India’s suitcase on the sidewalk and, without ceremony, took her euros and drove off into the night. India was negotiating the stone steps while struggling with the wheels of her carry-on suitcase when the door opened and a porter helped her inside.

This was not at all the entrance I was planning on making, she thought, running her hand through her bedraggled hair and taking in the elegance of the foyer and sitting room where a few couples were relaxing on luxurious couches in front of a roaring log fire.

“Bonsoir,” India said with a smile to the concierge.

“Good evening, Miss Butler. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us,” he responded in clipped English while reaching for a set of keys from a wooden cubbyhole.

India registered quickly, then followed the bellman down a short hallway. As the door closed behind him India looked with delight around her room, at the floral wallpaper, the exquisite drapes, the gilt mirrors, the marble bathroom. It’s like a doll’s house, she mused. Like stepping back in time.

After pulling off her boots, she threw down her raincoat and opened the window, drinking in the damp air of the leafy courtyard. She was in Paris, in Paris for four whole nights. Dismissing the nagging feeling that dinner would be a whole lot more fun if she were not alone, she began to plan out her evening. She would shower, then order a vin blanc before dinner.

4

Luella’s eyes filled with tears as she watched the closing scene of the movie. A girl wrapped in a shawl was cradling her newborn baby.

“They’ll take her from me; I know they will,” the girl cried.

“Well now, we can’t allow that to happen, can we?” the older woman replied.

God, that was intense, Luella thought as the credits rolled to the haunting strains of an Irish lament. She switched on the side–light and glanced around the walls of her study. The shelves were lined with the novels she had written, the foreign language editions displayed next to the Brassai print, the paperbacks, hardbacks, audio tapes and CDs arranged in chronological order.

There isn’t a single sentence in one of those books that comes anywhere near the power of that final line, she thought, repeating it softly to herself. “Well now, we can’t allow that to happen, can we?”

Dragging herself up from the armchair, she checked her phone. No messages. Peter won’t have landed yet I suppose, she thought, gathering up a pile of Sunday papers and a coffee mug. Going into the kitchen, she emptied the trash-can, cleared a few dishes from the countertop and glanced up at the clock. God, weekends are interminable when he’s not at home. The house feels so empty.

Going into the hallway, she pulled her coat out from the closet, wrapped a scarf around her neck, grabbed her purse and left the house. She walked a couple of blocks to the newsstand and bought a pack of cigarettes and a magazine. Maybe Peter’s right. We probably should get another dog, she thought.

Luella smiled remembering how she had argued the merits of slobbering Labradors over flatulent bulldogs. How they had agreed to disagree, both of them understanding it was too soon to fill the gaping hole left by Chester, the Pointer who had been their ‘baby’ for so many years. She unwrapped the packet, took out a cigarette and cupped the lighter against the wind.

“Hey careful,” she snapped as a girl flew past on roller skates almost knocking her into the wall.

“Kids,” she muttered, taking a drag and watching the teenager race past the bus stop and disappear around the corner. Seconds later, hearing the screech of tires, Luella’s stomach lurched. Running the few yards down the street, she took in the scene instantly. The driver was dashing toward the girl.