Letter from Paris (3 page)

“Call 999,” he yelled. “Someone. NOW!”

Rummaging in her purse, Luella found her phone and called the emergency number. Then she crouched down next to the girl and held her hand. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “Help is on its way. Don’t be frightened. Keep your eyes open. Keep looking at me.”

The paramedics were on the scene quickly. Luella watched as they laid the girl onto a gurney and with a deafening wail of sirens raced off in the direction of Ealing General Hospital. She answered a few questions from the police. Yes, she had made the call. It all happened so quickly. No, she didn’t know her. Sorry she couldn’t be more helpful.

When there was nothing more to be done, Luella turned back in the direction of home. Picking up the pace, her walk turned into a run as she reached her front door. She threw down her coat in the hallway, dashed to her desk and began writing –
Fate, serendipity, fragility, frozen moment in time, hopes dashed, plans changed.

She was startled out of her thoughts an hour or so later when her phone vibrated and slid across the desk.

“Hey Lu…”

Her husband’s voice was as clear as if he were in the same room. Luella sank back in her chair.

“Hi sweetheart,” she said. “How’s Hong Kong? How’s the hotel?”

“They’ve put me up in the Residences here at the Shangri La. The room’s pretty amazing. I’ve a great view of the harbor. How are you getting on with planning the new book? Have you been working all day?”

“No. It was frustrating. I gave up in the end and watched
Albert Nobbs
. You remember the movie I wanted us to see a while ago, the one where Glenn Close plays a woman pretending to be a man? She really should have won an Oscar for it.”

“Good for you. You work too hard. You sound exhausted.”

“I’m a bit rattled. There was an accident down the street this evening.”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine, but it was awful. This kid went careening into the street on her skates. She was almost knocked unconscious by a car. I called the ambulance.”

“Will she be all right?”

“I’ll never know. I don’t know who she was. I really hope so. She was so scared, so helpless, and her leg was at a peculiar angle. I haven’t been able to get the image out of my head,” Luella said quietly. “Makes you think how life as you know it can change in a millisecond.”

“I’m sorry, Lu. You couldn’t have done anything more.”

“I suppose not, though I do wish I could find out how she’s doing.” She took a sharp intake of breath. “Okay. So…take my mind off it. Tell me how your meetings are going.”

“I’ve just had an eight-course dinner with the Shanghai client. I thought it would never end,” he said. “They’re keeping me pretty busy in the daytime too. The line’s not good. I was just checking in to say good night. I miss you.”

“Me too. Sleep well,” she said. “Love you. I’ll text when I get to Paris.”

Luella was in a deep sleep when her alarm went off the next morning. Remembering her hair appointment, she showered quickly, dressed and dashed down the street.

I wonder how that girl’s doing, she thought, passing the newsstand and turning into the salon. Please let her be okay.

“Luella?” The hairstylist jolted her out of her thoughts and spoke to her reflection. “Shall we smooth it with the flat iron?”

“Sorry. Yes please. I was miles away,” she said, forcing herself back into the moment. “It’ll last longer. It always amazes me how just an hour or so on a plane from London can wreak havoc with my hair.”

“Lucky you, off to Paris. I’m so jealous,” he said, clicking off the dryer. “It’s so romantic.”

“I wish.” Luella grinned. “I’m not going for romance, sadly. I’m going there for meetings and to work on my next book.”

Luella crossed her legs underneath her and turned back to her magazine as Joseph pulled her chestnut bob into sleek strands.

“Where are you staying? Somewhere exotic with all those little cafés and bars and cobbled streets?”

“Saint Germain.”

The woman sitting next to her with a head covered in silver foils leaned across. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re a writer?”

Luella turned her head and winced as she caught a stream of hot air. Joseph swiveled Luella’s chair around so she was facing his other client.

“I’ve written a few books.” Luella smiled. “What about you?”

“Travel journalist,” she said, scribbling on the back of her card. “I’m just back from Saint Germain. If you do need a hairdresser, look up Studio Thirty-Four and ask for Marcel.”

“That’s so kind of you,” Luella said.

“My pleasure. I’m Helen. Helen Davis. Tell them I sent you.”

“Will do, and I’m Luella Marchmont.”

“Goodness,” the woman gushed. “Are you really? I’m so thrilled to meet you. I’ve read all your books.”

“Thank you.” Luella smiled. “I’ve a new one coming out in September. I have your e-mail address now, so I’ll arrange for a copy to be sent to you if you’d like.”

“That’d be wonderful. Thank you. And if it isn’t too cheeky of me, could you sign the copy?”

“I’d be delighted,” Luella said. “My pleasure.”

Leaving the salon, Luella decided to walk home through the park. It was early March – too soon for the daffodils – but there was a signal from the budding sycamore trees that spring was on its way. She walked quickly past the children’s playground area toward the lake, narrowly avoiding some cyclists.

How could it possibly be more than twenty years since we moved here? she thought, remembering the weekends watching her husband play football or sitting with his sister Maisie and having lunch in the garden of the Kings Arms Pub. Where had the years gone? Luella could hardly remember a time when Peter had not been around – growing up a mile away from each other, walking to the village school most mornings, riding their bikes down the lanes. Nobody was surprised when they announced their engagement. It was a given.

They were still so great together even now. Sure, with his international travel for the bank and the pressure of her career, they didn’t exactly live in each other’s pockets, but that was probably why they’d lasted. Space was important to them both. He was her best friend and as he reminded her so often, she was his soul mate.

Of course if we’d had kids, the whole dynamic would be different by now, she mused, distracted by the excited shrieks of a little boy as his dad unraveled a kite. Sitting down on a wooden bench, she pulled her coat around her tightly, watching them run back and forth across the grass together, struggling to catch the breeze to get it airborne.

Luella felt a rush of adrenalin as the multicolored dragonfly swirled into the air. She watched it swoop and curve effortlessly, its tail trailing against the clouds. Tomorrow I will be flying too, she thought, and then feeling the chill in the air, she stood up and walked briskly back home. She closed the heavy double doors behind her, threw her coat on the hallstand and ran up the stairs.

Joseph’s right, she thought. I AM very lucky to be going to Paris. I should never take my wonderful life for granted.

Going into her bedroom, she made a mental list. Okay. What do I need for carry on? Nightie, underwear, tights, layers…space for my coat…she thought. Then balancing on a wicker chair, she reached up to a high cupboard and pulled out her suitcase. Remembering the broken fastener, she slung it to one side and dug around for another. Spotting Peter’s Hermès Holdall crammed at the back of the shelf, she stretched up and made a grab for the strap. The chair swayed as she tried to reach it and catching her balance just in time, she managed to fling it across the room.

If Peter were here he’d be furious with me for being so stupid, she thought, climbing down and catching her breath before picking up the bag. Then noticing the bundle that had landed at her feet, she leaned down and picked up a sheaf of envelopes. Untying the ribbon around them, she fanned them in her hands. Each one was addressed in the same cursive handwriting. There was no stamp and no address, simply a first name,
Peter.

Luella recognized the feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sense of premonition she had felt years ago, seconds before the doctor told her she had lost her baby. A wave of panic swept over her as she leaned against the edge of the bed and caught her breath.

Dropping the letters onto the quilt, she went into the bathroom and began dispensing cleansers and toners into travel-sized containers. Realizing she was pouring nail varnish remover on top of moisturizer, she stopped and splashed her face with cold water.

“Open the letters. You know you want to. You know you must,” her reflection seemed to be saying. Another louder voice was clamoring in her head. “They’re addressed to Peter; they’re none of your business. Put them back where you found them.”

She dried her face and stared in the mirror hardly recognizing her reflection, feeling strangely detached. Surely this is happening to someone else, she thought, leaning against the sink for support, her heart pounding. Returning to the bedroom, she lifted a single envelope and turned it over in her hands. She sat down, pulled out the letter and ran her finger over the embossed logo of the hotel letterhead,
Le Meurice. Paris.

I’m sorry for doubting you, Peter, but I have to know, she thought. Please, please don’t let this be what I think it is.

Moments later, unable to control the violent tremor in her hands, Luella let the pages drop to her side and stood up. Walking unsteadily downstairs, she leaned for a few seconds on the newel post before crossing the hallway. Switching on the dining room light, she headed for the drinks cabinet where she downed a double shot of brandy. It burned the back of her throat. It was good to feel something – the rest of her was numb.

5

Maybe the secret of
savoir faire
lies in body language, India thought sitting in the bistro on the corner of Rue Cassette sipping her coffee. She was having a sartorial crisis: her navy blazer was far too predictable, her Breton T-shirt a little clichéd, the square silk scarf too considered. She observed that the young woman across the table had broken all of Inès de la Fressange’s rules with her tousled hair and sheepskin jacket, although with her air of insouciance, she still looked decidedly French.

Standing up carefully, straightening her back and walking briskly in the direction of what she hoped was Rue de Rennes, India eventually found Monoprix without having to ask directions and was soon the proud owner of a long beige linen scarf.

A woman approached her as she was handing over her euros. “Excusez-moi Madam. Ou sont les produits de beauté?” she asked.

“A bas,” India answered, gesturing to the back of the store.

How wonderful, India thought. She must have assumed I was French. Her phone rang as she was leaving the store.

“Bonjour,” she said. “C’est moi, India.”

“Bonjour ma petite.” Adam laughed. “Je suis desole. Je ne pouvais pas etre a Paris.”

“Desole?” She laughed. “You feel desolate? Sorry always sounds much more extreme in French don’t you think? Do they have a word for when they are feeling REALLY bad?”

“Not sure, but I AM pretty cut up about it,” he said. “Where are you right now?”

India looked around at the crowded street, unsure of her bearings.

“Not far from the hotel. You?”

“Don’t ask. I’m by a miniature Arc de Triomphe in ninety-degree heat and it’s still early. I can only stay on for a minute. I just wanted to check in, make sure we’re okay.”

“We are. I’m sorry I lost it the other day. I was so disappointed.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Indie. We’ll do Cannes together. You’ll love it.”

“Great. Okay. Great,” she said. And this really was great, wasn’t it? She could relax and enjoy the trip now that they had cleared the air properly. She must learn not to overreact if she saw tabloid pictures of him. It was as Annie said, just par for the course when someone was famous.

“A bientot,” he said.

“A bientot,” she chirped.

I will practice my French
–
impress him with my fluency in Cannes. What a beautiful day, she thought, walking in the direction of what she guessed was Rue Bonaparte.

India spent the next several hours striding the streets at rapid Parisian speed, stopping occasionally to browse in bookshops or to step inside the doorways of the many delicatessens to savor the sugary aroma of bonbons and artisan chocolate. By the time she arrived back at the Hotel de l’Abbaye she was on a high, greeting the doorman with a cheery “Bonsoir Monsieur” and adding “D’accord” for good measure. Then sweeping through the foyer, she allowed herself the thought that if she were any more ‘almost’ French, she would be French.

“Susie, I’m completely thrown. How can I have lived with a man for all these years and not have had the slightest inkling he was gay?” Luella said with a deep sigh, pushing away the over-spilling ashtray and her coffee cup. “Tell me. How can this have happened? How?”

“Luella,” her friend said, “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve known you both since forever and I’m totally shocked too.”