Letter from Paris (28 page)

“It showed.” Henry nodded.

“I love the Kora Organics line too.”

“Good thought.”

“Great. I’m pleased I’m being useful. So where are we eating tonight?” she asked, confident that her all-black ensemble would be appropriate anywhere.

“There’s a little bistro around the corner, Au bon Saint– Pourcain. I think you’ll like it,” he said. “It’s tiny, as in really tiny, the size of Melanie’s living room, and the lace curtains haven’t been washed since Napoleon’s wedding. Francois the owner is an old friend of my family, runs it with his daughter. He cooks. She waits tables. He doesn’t speak a word of English, never been out of the country. It’s time you tried out your French properly.”

“Is this your idea of entertainment, Mr. Cowan? Watching me make a complete idiot of myself?”

“Not at all. I think you may fare better than you think. Either way, I want you to get a flavor of a neighborhood place. It’ll be fun and, of course, the food is great.”

“Okay. I’m up for it,” India said, secretly delighted at the opportunity. “But you’ll have to help me out if I get stuck.”

“Bien sûr.” He grinned.

They finished their drinks and walked the short distance to the restaurant where Francois, a middle-age burly man in an oversized apron, leapt from behind a counter and held the door for them. He pumped Henry’s hand, greeting him like a long lost relative, barely pausing between breaths. India doubted she would understand him, even if he were speaking English. He turned his attention to her.

“Enchante, madame,” he said. Then turning back to Henry he continued, “Votre ami est tres belle. Ma fille sera bientot la qu’elle doit rencontrer. Asseyez vous. Seme Asseoir, votre place habituelle.”

India understood the gist and gave him her widest smile. He took their coats, ushered them over to a rickety wooden table facing the door, and pulled out an old battered chair for India. She sat down, delighted at the welcome but somewhat taken aback by the décor. As Henry said, the drapes had seen better days, the paintwork was peeling, and the tiles were chipped. Behind Henry was a rack crammed with books and newspapers. A few couples at adjoining tables glanced up, smiled, and looked away again.

Francois brought over two glasses of Saint Pourcain house wine in small glass mugs.

“This is the wine selection.” Henry laughed, thanking Francois and looking across at the chalkboard. “The menu never changes either. What do you fancy? I usually have the soup and the chicken cassolet.”

India took Henry’s lead and ordered the same meal.

“So now we speak only in French,” Henry said. “Rules of the game.”

“Okay. Well… Je m’appelle, India.” She laughed. “J’aime la France.”

“Moi aussi. Pourquoi?”

“Pasque il est tres agreeable.”

“Comment?”

They continued in this vein, India tripping over her words, Henry helping. Henry encouraging, India relaxing into it, Henry cracking up at her attempts, India floundering out of her depth. Their food arrived and more wine was drunk. The evening went by fast.

“Qui etait delicieux,” India said, pushing away her cheese plate. “C’est souffi. Merci.”

“Moi aussi…Damn. I’ve left my wallet at the hotel,” Henry said, forgetting to speak in French and fumbling around his inside pocket.

“I have mine,” India said, reaching for her purse.

“It’s cash only,” he said. “Francois would be fine with me paying next time, but I want to give him something extra for the holidays and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow. Wait here. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Sorry about this. Have another glass of wine.”

Francois looked over. India caught his eye. “Ou est la toilette s’il vous plait?” she asked him.

“A bas, madame,” he said and began escorting her toward the kitchen, through a passageway, and outside of the building. He opened the lavatory door for her with the smile of a mischievous schoolboy.

India looked aghast at the pit in the ground, a gaping hole surrounded by flat tiles. Henry promised an authentic experience, but this is taking things to a whole new level, she thought, considering the logistical implications in front of her.

Francois continued speaking in a torrent of French. “Je pense que Madame que votre jupe peut etre un peu serre.” He chuckled.

India had no clue what he was saying. He was miming now, a mime that was leaving little to the imagination, pointing at her four-inch pumps and pencil skirt. What am I doing? she thought. I’m on the street in Paris, discussing, well kind of discussing how to take a pee. Is he offering to help me? What am I supposed to hold onto? I am SO not going to hold onto him. Okay, this is not happening.

She shook her head and began speaking pidgin French. “Non. Non Monsieur. Je voudrais…il est le old-fashioned toilette. Je need,” – she mimed the action for sitting – “mais je suis desparu. Ou et la toilette Americano?” Wrong, she thought. That sounds like I’m in Starbucks. Damn I really do need to use the loo. Some loo. Any loo. Just not THIS loo.

Seeing the desperation in her eyes, Francois took pity on her and pointed up the street. “L’hotel dans le coin,” he said.

“Merci. Merci,” she answered, teetering off up the cobbled street, praying for all she was worth that this was not his idea of a joke. She raced through the foyer of the modern hotel and tore down a long hallway.

It’s like a game show; surreal, she thought as each corridor led onto another and there was no sign of an exit or restroom. Just as returning to the latrine was looking like a serious option, she saw the sign.

India walked back up the street slowly, attempting to avoid the potholes. She pushed back her hair and took a deep breath before opening the door to the bistro. It was empty now except for Francois and Henry, who were sitting together at the table drinking cognac. Neither of them made the least attempt to hide their amusement as she walked in.

“Sorry, India,” Henry said. “I completely forgot to tell you.”

India laughed. “Okay, Henry. Game on,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “You have been warned. I will find a way.”

“I have no doubt.” He grinned. “I shall be watching my back at all times.”

“Day and night I suggest. Merci, Francois,” she said, lifting her glass.

“Santé Monsieur. J’aime le restaurant. J’aime Paris, mais je n’aime pas la toilette.”

For once India was grateful not to understand his reply. She was pretty certain it was politically incorrect at the very least. Francois left the table and began settling up the till. Henry and India looked across at each other. Neither of them spoke. Henry held her gaze.

“On y va? Shall we?” he said, pushing back the chair. “Bonsoir, Francois. Bonnes Fêtes.”

“Monsieur, Madame. Revenir bientot.” Francois grinned, holding out India’s coat for her.

Out on the street, Henry turned to her. “Are you tired?”

“No,” India said. “Wide awake.”

“Shall we walk to the river? It’s a beautiful night.”

India looked up at the Van Gogh sky. “It’s absolutely perfect,” she agreed. “Starry Starry Night. It is really starting to feel like Christmas. Yes, let’s walk a little. I can’t go too far in these shoes.”

A homeless guy was washing his shirt in the park lake as Luella dropped speed from her run and broke into a walk. She carried on quickly past the spilling garbage cans and the young man asleep on a bench. A woman dragged by, pushing a shopping cart laden with empty plastic bottles and miscellaneous bags. Parks have to be the most depressing places on earth in the early morning, she thought.

If she looked in one direction the world was a beautiful place: the stark outline of trees bare of leaves, the lake partly iced over, the wide expanses of lawn dewy from melted frost, the sun breaking though thin clouds. Closer up, all you could see was a city’s hidden shame, human misery, displaced people who had fallen through society’s slats.

She stopped at Starbucks for a latte and croissant and bought her usual Sunday papers at the newsstand. Walking past the gaggle of teenage girls at the bus stop, she stopped in her tracks, recognizing the red-headed girl in the white anorak. The girl looked up and caught her eye for a second. Luella gave her a wide smile and walked on. How strange, she thought. How strange that you will never know how I’ve carried you in my heart all these months and even written a fictional life for you.

Back home after her shower, Luella watched the clock as the hours dragged by. She sorted through files, cleared the clutter from drawers, shredded papers, and rearranged the shelving in her home office. At last, as the sun went down, the phone rang dead on cue. She rested an armful of books on the coffee table and hesitated before picking up. She lowered herself into a chair.

“Jean-Luc?” she said quietly.

“Luella?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. “I am so grateful you agreed to talk to me,” he said.

“Of course.”

“I want you to know that Peter has told me how you encouraged him to come stay with me. So few people would be as understanding. I want you to know and to tell you I appreciate that very much. I am sorry you have been hurt.”

“I have been hurt,” she said calmly. “Very. But what am I to do? My husband loves you. I want him to be happy. He won’t be happy if there’s animosity between us.”

“That is true, Luella,” Jean-Luc answered. “He has been in agony. He loves you too.”

Luella’s throat tightened. There was a deafening silence. How strange that she could think of little more to say to the man who had torn her life apart.

“Look after him, Jean-Luc,” she said quietly. “He’s fragile.”

“I know. Je comprends. I understand.”

“Goodbye, Jean-Luc.”

Luella put down the phone. Fighting back tears, she lit a cigarette, took a drag, and stubbed it out. “That’s the last cigarette I’m ever having,” she vowed, grinding it into the ashtray. She put her head in her hands, leaned on her desk and cried until she had no more tears left. Sitting up and grabbing a tissue, she fell back in the chair thoroughly spent, her face a streaming mess, her eyes swollen. Standing up took every ounce of her strength. She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then walked over to the French windows. She stood watching a squirrel race up and down the side of a tree before closing the drapes.

Turning and crossing the hallway, she went back to her office, sat down at her desk, and opened her laptop. The plotline in front of her was still sketchy. She wasn’t following her usual template. She was writing differently lately, digging deeper within herself.

She began to type, her fingers flying deftly over the keys. It was several hours later before she looked up. For the first time in many months, she felt a lightness of spirit and a sense of relief. Powering down her computer, she turned off the light and went up the stairs. Tonight she knew she would be able to sleep. Tonight she might even dream.

26

Adam sat at his kitchen counter sifting through the mail that had built up in the months he had been in Europe. His Hollywood apartment felt cold and neglected after lying empty so long. He closed the window to shut out the wail of sirens in the street below. Flicking over a couple of holiday cards, he spotted a hand-addressed envelope with a line of French postage stamps. Slicing it open carefully, he pulled out the letter and began to read.

Hotel de l’Abbaye Paris

December 15th

Dear Adam,

I’m leaving Paris in the morning to go home to London. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, about ‘us’ while I’ve been here. We’ve shared so much over the last couple of years that I couldn’t bear the idea that things had ended on a bad note. I understand why you were mad at me and I’m sorry.

I want to thank you for all the lovely times we’ve had. I think back to that summer in LA, how we met, all the beach walks, the craziness with the paparazzi and then St. Petersburg; do you remember my boots? Making love in the snow? And London, you remember Browns Hotel? I could go on. I have so many great memories of our time together.

Adam, I respect that your work is important to you. You’re immensely talented and deserve all the acclaim for what you do. I really do understand the strains the lifestyle puts you under. I’ve seen Annie and Joss go through so much too and I read the press (as you know to your cost). I just don’t think I was built for it. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. You have been wonderful to me and I owed you more than reflex reactions and bad temper. I have simply found the long distance thing too much.

I’ve been on something of a journey myself recently. I love my new job and I can see a future in it even when the current projects have finished. I know I’m in the right place with my own career. I’ll even get to spend more time in France over the next few months. My French is coming on really well.

Adam, what I’m really saying is thank you. I think if we’d both been able to be in the same place for any length of time we could have made a real go of it, but it wasn’t to be.

I wish you so much happiness and I send my love.