Letter from Paris (6 page)

Before he could answer, Henry’s cell rang and he picked up.

“Sorry,” he mouthed to her, “I have to take this.”

India pointed toward the door to indicate she was going, slid her chair back and then left with as much dignity as her slippers would allow. Going back to her room, she checked her phone, then remembering the time difference, she sighed. Of course Adam will still be asleep, she thought.

India spent the rest of the morning practicing French online. Her course involved parrot repetition of sentences spoken by a French woman at conversational speed. By lunchtime she had mastered a series of phrases that might be useful in the unlikely event she were ever searching for eggs in a supermarket where nobody spoke English. The irony of interacting with a computer while being in Paris struck India all at once, and she realized she was ravenously hungry. Before venturing out of her room this time, she would shower and dress properly. She wasn’t getting caught out again.

Just as well, she thought, a little while later, turning the corner into the sitting room where Henry and Luella were chatting by the fire. They both looked up as she came in.

“Hey there, good to see you again,” Henry said, gesturing to the armchair across from him. “Care to join us?”

“Do they serve food in here? I’m starving,” India said, hesitating. He’s moved in on her fast even though she’s wearing a wedding ring, she thought.

“Yes. We’ve just ordered soup,” Luella said. “Do you two know each other?”

“We met earlier,” Henry said. “India. Right?”

“Yes,” she answered, sitting down in the red velour chair opposite him as an elderly waiter cleared the table in front of them and set out silverware.

“Et vous Madame?” he asked.

“Moi aussi Monsieur. Le potage du jour s’il vous plait,” India said, feeling rather delighted at her ability to order soup in French without hesitating. “It’s still snowing hard out there.”

“Yes. We’re marooned like in an Agatha Christie play,” Luella sighed. “I hope nobody gets bumped off.”

“I’ll probably be the first to go if that happens.” Henry laughed. “I’ve not made any friends around here this morning.”

“Have you resolved the accommodation issue then?” India asked.

“Yes. I won. I suspect they just wanted the drama. I bet they always have free rooms in case one of their celebrity guests calls in on a whim. I hear Diane Keaton’s very fond of the place.”

India looked around her. She could see that it would be the kind of hotel for a discreet stay – the chairs arranged in cozy groups, the family feel – well, if your family were fabulously wealthy and French she supposed.

“I love how intimate this hotel is. Do you usually stay here when you’re in Paris?” she asked Luella.

“Pretty much. They always give me the room on the ground floor with the conservatory. I can write there – well, I usually can. Oh good. Here’s our soup. So what brings you here?”

Henry appeared to have lost interest and was texting furiously on his iPhone.

“It was spur of the moment. I was supposed to be here with a friend, but his plans changed last minute. I decided to come anyway, but I wasn’t planning on snow. It’s a trick to know what to do with yourself. I suppose you’ll spend the time writing,” she said. “Is your novel set here?”

“Yes, my next one. It’s why I’m here.”

“Lulu’s written ten books,” Henry chimed in. “All bestsellers.”

“Ten books?” India gasped. “I wrote one and it nearly killed me.”

“You did? Well done, you. What was it about?” Luella asked, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“Un verre de vin blanc merci,” India said to the waiter, then turned back to her. “It was a guidebook for parents of teenagers.”

“How did you come to write that? You don’t look old enough to have teenage kids.”

“I don’t have kids, but I’ve taught that age group for years. I was staying in Los Angeles a few summers back with my sister. I worked with some of her friends who were struggling with all these issues. Anyway, I ran some workshops for them and turned the workshop materials into a book. It did quite well actually, but not well enough to give me a living. I came back to London.”

“Yes. It’s tough to make a living from writing. I’ve been really lucky. I made a name for myself before the industry changed. The market’s flooded now.”

Luella sat back in her chair and took another sip of wine.

“God, I could kill for a cigarette. Do you mind?” she said, standing up and grabbing her purse. “I’ll be back.”

“Did you get your work done?” India asked Henry, who had pushed away his bowl and was leaning back into the cushions contentedly. He rested his arms behind his head.

“Some,” he said. “Then I bumped into Luella again. We had meetings earlier in the week. My company represents her. She’s an old friend.”

“Are you a book agent?”

“No. Our agency, Lichtenstein and Cowan, does her PR and promotions. I’m the Cowan by the way. We’ve represented Lu for about seven years now.”

“I feel a bit foolish not having read any of her novels, I mean, given she’s so successful I should have I suppose.”

“You’ve probably got better taste,” Luella said, appearing behind India’s chair and then sitting back down next to her again. “Frigging freezing out there. I changed my mind.”

“You should try the patch,” India offered.

“I like to smoke,” Luella said. “Especially with a good glass of wine. God, I miss the old days when you didn’t feel like a pariah. What now then, Henry? Are we done for the day? Can I clock off and get another drink?”

“Your call, Lu. Sounds like a splendid idea to me. More white for you India?”

Why not? India thought. If what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, what happens in Paris stays in Paris, thinking of which… She checked her phone and smiled when she saw the text from Adam.

Miss you too. Stay warm, xxoo.

By seven o’clock, India and her new companions had moved into the dining room, and India was negotiating her way around a plate of steaming mussels in a white wine and garlic sauce.

“I think the idea of a link with the Paris Fashion Institute has legs, but we may not be able to pull it off given the time constraints,” Henry said, through a mouthful of bœuf bourguignon. The London Institute of Fashion and Technology is on board, and I’m getting very nice noises from a couple of potential sponsors.”

Luella forked a piece of Dover sole. “Sorry India. We’re talking shop again,” she said.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Henry agreed.

“Well I’ve got some news then,” Luella interjected, clearly buzzed. “Henry, did I tell you Peter’s having an affair…”

“No, you didn’t, but maybe we should talk about this later,” Henry said.

“Possibly, but you might not want to wait to hear the punch line. He’s having an affair with another man.” She paused and turned toward India. “Peter’s my husband of some twenty years.”

Omigod and I think I have problems, India thought.

“Hey Lu, steady on,” Henry said taking Luella’s hand. “Let’s talk about this later.”

Feeling increasingly awkward, India smiled sympathetically.

“So where do you teach, India?” Henry said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“Currently unemployed,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. “I just came to the end of a temporary teaching contract in Hackney and decided not to renew it. I’m ready for a change of direction.”

“If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading,”
Luella murmured. “I used that Lau Tzu quote in my last book. Changing direction is good I hear. I’m a coward; I don’t like change. I like things to float along the way they always have. Henry here on the other hand is an adrenalin junkie.”

India felt sure that Luella would regret these over shares in the morning. She mopped the last of her sauce with a chunk of bread, ate it and then wiped her mouth on her napkin. “That was beyond delicious.” She sighed. “Has anyone seen a weather forecast recently?”

“I found a letter from his lover,” Luella continued. “Several in fact.”

“Do people still write letters these days?” Henry asked.

“It would appear they do – all handwritten and no doubt sealed with a loving kiss.” Luella muttered, knocking back her drink.

“I miss getting letters,” India said. “I’m addicted to the papeteries here. I’ve a gorgeous Christian Lacroix notepad too. I collect notepads, mostly the Smythson ones. Currently I’m using
J’Adore,
but my favorite is
Profound Thoughts
.
I’ve a beautiful fountain pen. I’m kind of old-fashioned that way. I suppose it depends on your handwriting. People have always said mine’s lovely.”

Aware that
she was starting to babble and that Luella was looking at her strangely, India pushed back her chair.

“Well, I think I’ll turn in. I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” she said, glancing at Henry. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Luella. Thanks for adopting me today, guys. I’d have gone mad on my own.”

Henry pushed back his chair, leaned toward her and whispered, “Most wise my dear.”

India smiled. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said.

8

India was woken by the constant thuds of the elevator in the corridor outside her room. She stared at the clock, and then realizing she had slept later than planned, leapt out of bed and pulled back the heavy drapes. The sky was gray but the snow had melted, leaving a thin layer of gray slush. A light sleet was splattering the window. She glanced across the room and lifted a note from under the door. She sat on the edge of the bed to read it.

Hi India,

I have to leave for Lucerne this morning. Back tomorrow. Any chance I can take you to dinner at the Lutetia tomorrow night? I’ve a business proposition I’d like to run past you. Here’s my number. 0208-789-2571. Text me. I can pick you up from the hotel at seven.

Henry

Intriguing, India thought, as she texted her reply. Dinner it is. Maybe I’ll let Henry loan me his jacket and get my picture taken in it. Ha.

With the prospect of dinner the following evening, India was content with the thought of spending the day alone. She would visit Musée Marmottan Monet. She loved Impressionism despite the inverted snobbery around it. It seemed insane to India to dismiss works of art simply because some images had become ubiquitous. The wealthy 16th arrondissement would be a contrast and a little distance. There would be plenty to occupy her all day.

Next evening, India, dressed in her newly acquired black dress and leather jacket, assessed her look in the bathroom mirror. Her Chanel lipstick (
Rouge Coco Paradis)
had been an excellent choice, just the right punch of red for a night out in Paris. Of course, the little tremor she was feeling had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Henry did it? Grabbing her quilted purse, she threw the chain over her shoulder, adjusted her underskirt and walked into the foyer.

A driver escorted her to the Mercedes and held the door for her. She slid into the dark leather interior next to Henry.

“Bonsoir, Madame Butler,” he said. “You smell good. You don’t look that bad either.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Cowan.” She smiled. “You certainly know how to flatter a girl.”

“Touché,” he said, relaxing back into the seat as the car picked up speed and drove in the direction of Boulevard Raspail.

Arriving at the grand hotel, India’s heart gave a flutter as the door opened into the opulent art nouveau lobby and they went through into the airy brasserie with its monochromatic décor and line of attendant waiters.

The maître d’ led them to a corner table. From the welcoming smiles of the bartenders and nods from other diners, it was clear that Henry was no stranger to the place.

“So,” he said once they were seated and had their menus, “I have had an idea. I think there’s a way you can help me.”

India looked at him quizzically. “Don’t tell me. You want me to be your mule, smuggle heroin? I’d better warn you, I’m not that kind of girl.”

Henry laughed. “Not quite what I was thinking.”

“Okay. So? Tell me. I’m intrigued,” she said.

“Well, as you know, we represent Luella Marchmont.”

“Yes. But I’m not sure I understand what it is you do for her.”

“Let me tell you about another writer we represent and you’ll see. Ever heard of Sally Grace?”

“Who hasn’t? Of course. She’s the writer who always has recipes at the end of each chapter. Chick lit, right?”

“Women’s commercial fiction. We represent Sally. We came up with that idea for her.”

“The idea of including recipes?”

“Yes. It gave us a great hook to promote her book. They’re real recipes. They’re woven into the stories, so say when a character is ill, their Aunty Joan brings her carrot soufflé to the hospital for them.”

“Okay,” India said.