Love From Paris
Praise for The Love Detective and Alexandra Potter
‘Magical, fun and romantic, this feel-good read is guaranteed to lift your mood.’ Closer
‘This book is something special; it’s real, funny and magical, taking you on a whirlwind adventure through India . . . It would make the perfect holiday read at any time of the year.’ Onemorepage.co.uk
‘The type of fun fiction we can’t resist’ Stylist
‘A new Alexandra Potter book is always something to celebrate. She’s one of the only chick lit authors who puts a magical spin on her novels, and she’s always successful at it . . . a great read’ Chicklitreviewsandnews.com
‘Funny, light and a great summer read – whether you’re lying on a sunlounger or sitting on the train to work. A fab modern-day love story with a touch of magic.’ Fabulous
‘Yet again Alexandra Potter has written an upbeat, quirky piece of chick lit that can’t help but bring a smile to your face’ Novelicious.com
‘Always perceptive, often funny, never dull’ Heat
‘Feel-good fiction full of unexpected twists and turns’ OK!
‘A touching, funny love story’ Company
‘Fantastically funny’ Elle
About the author
Alexandra Potter is an award-winning author who previously worked as a features writer and sub-editor for women’s glossies in both the UK and Australia. In 2007 she won the prize for Best New Fiction at the Jane Austen Regency World Awards for her bestselling novel, Me and Mr Darcy. Her novels have been translated into seventeen languages and You’re the One That I Don’t Want is being adapted into a film. She now lives between London and Los Angeles and writes full-time.
You can find out more at www.alexandrapotter.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/Alexandra.Potter.Author or follow her on Twitter @AlexPotterBooks.
Also by Alexandra Potter
The Love Detective
Don’t You Forget About Me
You’re the One That I Don’t Want
Who’s That Girl?
Me and Mr Darcy
Be Careful What You Wish For
Do You Come Here Often?
Calling Romeo
What’s New, Pussycat?
Going La La
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Alexandra Potter 2015
The right of Alexandra Potter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 71218 6
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
Dedicated to AC
For always being my glass half-full
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
The Love Detective
1
OK, calm down, it’s got to be here somewhere.
Rushing around my bedroom, I grab hold of my make-up bag and start rifling through it. Which of course is completely futile. I mean, is it just me, or does anyone ever put a lip gloss in their make-up bag? It’s always stuffed in a coat pocket gathering fluff. Or lost in a random handbag. Or stuck down the back of the sofa, top off, smearing pink gloop everywhere . . .
Bollocks, where is it?
Having spewed the contents all over my dressing table, I sweep my eyes across my bedroom. It’s a tip. There’s stuff chucked everywhere. Normally I’m pretty tidy, but after my frantic trying-on earlier my wardrobe seems to have emptied itself all over my bed. My lovely duvet from the White Company is now hidden under a mountain of jumble. Discarded outfits are flung across the backs of chairs, hanging on doorknobs and lassoed round the ends of my curtain pole.
What the—? Glancing upwards I spy a skirt dangling mid-air and give the hem a good tug. But it’s stuck fast. Damn. I yank harder. The curtain pole creaks ominously. Oh sod it. Just leave it. I don’t have time to tidy up. I’ve got to finish getting ready.
I hastily pick my way over the carpet of coat hangers (have you ever stood on a coat hanger with bare feet? Forget standing on a plug, this is about a million times worse) and dive into the bathroom. OK, so I know a lost lip gloss doesn’t seem like much of a reason to panic. Even if it is one of those super-plumping ones that are supposed to make your lips all bee-stung and Mick Jagger-esque.
Seriously, it’s hardly going to make the national headlines, now is it? In the grand scheme of things it’s not exactly up there with global recession, political unrest or natural disasters.
MISSING LIP GLOSS FEARED THROWN AWAY:
COUNTRY ON LOCKDOWN AS VERY BERRY LUSCIOUS LIPS DISAPPEARS WITHOUT TRACE. FRANTIC OWNER RUBY MILLER SAYS SHE CAN’T REMEMBER WHERE SHE SAW IT LAST.
But today’s different. Today it’s super important.
Opening and closing bathroom cabinets like a woman possessed, I rummage through endless jars of creams and potions. There’s everything in here. I’m a total Boots junkie. I can never resist the lure of a new product or their three-for-two offers and my cupboards are bulging. I spy a tub of Vaseline and hesitate – usually I’d just slick a bit of that on and be done with it – but that’s not going to cut it today. Today I need that bloody lip gloss!
Snapping closed a cupboard, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored door. Summer is almost upon us and I’m wearing the new blouse that I just splurged on last week from one of those little boutiquey shops where you have to surreptitiously check the price tag on everything under the watchful eye of a snooty assistant.
It was a first for me. I don’t normally go in those kind of shops as I find them a bit, well, intimidating would be one word, terrifying would be another. As my little sister Amy will tell you, I don’t do fashion. Or, to put it another way, fashion doesn’t do me. Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve bought magazines, read about what’s ‘on trend’, attempted to accessorise (I end up looking like a badly decorated Christmas tree), but it’s always a disaster. Trust me, it’s saf
er for everyone if I stick to my faithful wardrobe of leggings and T-shirts.
But like I said, today’s different. I fiddle with my collar. It’s made of this lovely silk chiffon-y material and has this really pretty neckline, but I’ve undone a few of the mother-of-pearl buttons to sex it up a bit. Plus, I’ve also added my push-up bra for a bit of extra oomph. It’s sort of innocent meets guilty.
Well, that was the idea. In theory.
Feeling a flutter of nerves, I do a final make-up check. I’ve gone for the ‘natural look’. Which, of course, is completely unnatural. Because, of course, I got this flawless, rosy glow from sitting on my bum all day at my desk, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. Obviously.
And then there’s the hair. I frown. It’s like a soufflé that’s gone all flat and deflated. Fluffing it up a bit more, I grab a can of hairspray and give my roots an extra squirt. I’m aiming for that sexy, tousled just-got-out-of-bed look they always talk about in magazines.
Which of course is total rubbish. Honestly, who are they kidding? Everyone knows a real bedhead is matted and frizzed with a fringe that sticks out at right angles, don’t they?
Don’t they?
I’m suddenly hit with a flicker of doubt.
Or is that just me?
Coughing as I swallow a mouthful of hairspray, I stop squirting and glance at my watch. Oh crap, look! It’s nearly time!
I charge into the living room, tripping over Heathcliff, my sausage dog, who’s hovering around me, like my dad used to when I was expecting a date. He gives a little disgruntled yelp.
‘Oops, hey buddy, what are you doing?’ Scooping him up, I give him a little tickle under his chin.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s being all protective and jealous. Not much has changed since I was a teenager. Only now it’s not my dad standing guard, it’s my dog.
‘Go on, play outside.’ I motion to the garden. The French windows are flung open wide. It’s a beautiful day at the beginning of June. One of those late spring days in London that you can’t ever imagine when you’re stuck fast in the never-ending gloom of winter, bitching and moaning about why anyone in their right mind would choose to live in this godforsaken hellhole.
But when a warm sunny day does finally appear, all cornflower blue skies, sun-dappled parks and bustling pavement cafés, you immediately fall madly in love with the city all over again and lose all memory of ever feeling any other way.
‘Go on,’ I shoo, and as Heathcliff skulks off outside, I quickly sit down at my desk and open my laptop.
Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, this is not how I usually look when I’m at my desk. Being a writer and working from home it’s normally a case of no make-up, hair in a scrunchie, tatty old towelling dressing gown and my sheepskin slippers. I call it my scare-the-postman look. Or my care-in-the-community look.
I cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, call it my sexy, flirty, fabulous girlfriend look.
Nerves jangle in the pit of my stomach. Which is ridiculous. It’s not like this is a first date or anything, it’s just—
Oh my god, it’s there! My lip gloss! In my pen-holder! Grabbing it, I start slicking it on at exactly the same time as Skype starts ringing.
Argh, quick, quick!
A face flashes up on the screen. Dark hair, lots of stubble and the most gorgeous hazel eyes you’ve ever seen.
Jack.
‘Hey babe,’ he smiles, flashing his perfect white American grin.
My heart skips a beat. It’s been three months since we first got together, yet whenever he smiles at me like that it feels like the first time.
‘You look cute.’
I feel a flash of pleasure.
‘Do I?’ I say, trying to sound all surprised, like I haven’t just been rushing around my flat like a mad thing for the last hour.
‘Did you do something with your hair?
‘My hair?’ I raise a hand to my rock-solid fringe and pat it gingerly. ‘Oh, no, it was just like this when I woke up this morning . . .’ I say nonchalantly, crossing my fingers under my desk. ‘I’ve just been sitting here in my scruffs all day writing, I haven’t even looked in the mirror . . .’
I know, I’m a terrible, terrible liar, but do you blame me? It’s one thing letting your boyfriend see you in the ‘Before’ stage when you’ve been together for ages and see each other every day, but it’s quite another when you’re in a long-distance relationship and it’s all still quite new.
It feels like both yesterday and for ever since we first kissed on that snowy pavement in London. Sometimes when I think about it I almost have to pinch myself. I still can’t quite believe how we managed to find each other, and not just once but twice. Meeting each other on the train in India was a chance in a million, but bumping into each other again in London was more than just a lucky chance. It was like Fate, or destiny, or magic.
But then love is a kind of magic, isn’t it?
For a moment my memory flicks back. It’s hard to imagine that for a while there I lost my belief in love. My heart had been so badly bruised I no longer thought it existed. That it was just the stuff of fantasy and fiction. But India and Jack proved me wrong. Together they had me falling in love with love all over again.
And once we did find each other, Jack and I were determined not to lose each other again. After that kiss he spent the night at my flat and didn’t leave until two weeks later. Fortunately he could do a lot of work remotely via Skype and email, but still, there came a time when he had to fly back to the States. I went with him to the airport, trying not to cry buckets as I waved him off in Departures.
‘Seriously, you look gorgeous,’ he says approvingly now, and I snap back to attention. ‘Is that a new dress?’
My modesty tries to stifle my smile, but it’s impossible. ‘No, just a blouse,’ I grin.
‘Just a blouse?’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Hey!’ I discipline, flirtily.
‘C’mon, what else you got on there, Miller?’ he demands with mock seriousness.
‘Jack!’ I admonish him, but secretly I feel a thrill. Well, let’s be honest, ten weeks is a very long time.
‘Let’s have a look.’
Suddenly, in the middle of flirting, I feel a clunk of horror.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy.’ His eyes flash wickedly.
No, more like mortified. You see the thing is I didn’t bother with the bottom half. I didn’t think it would be on camera. A bit like newsreaders who you see all smartly dressed in a suit, but you can imagine that if the cameraman makes a faux pas and you get a flash underneath the desk, it will be revealed on national TV that they’re sitting there in their underpants.
‘Um yes . . . just a little,’ I reply, trying to continue the flirtation, but now my voice comes out a bit strangled.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he teases.
‘No, really,’ I protest.
In my case it’s worse than underpants. I’m in my pyjama bottoms. Which sounds innocent enough. Cute, almost. Except they’re not just any old pyjama bottoms.
They’re novelty pyjama bottoms.
‘I think I need to see,’ he says firmly, arching one eyebrow.
Oh fuck. Mum bought them for me one Christmas and they’re made of bright red fleece and covered in lots of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeers and Christmas puddings. Which is bad enough by itself, considering it’s six months after Christmas, but teamed with a sexy chiffon blouse and a pair of giant furry sheepskin slippers, they make me look like a crazy person.
‘Er . . . you do?’
Oh god. How embarrassing. How am I going to get out of this?
‘Totally.’ He nods.
‘Well . . . um . . . you’ll have to wait,’ I stall.
Jack pulls a face. ‘Holy moly, c’mon, don’t tease.’
‘Nope.’ I shake my head firmly, as I’m suddenly hit by an idea. Of course! Why didn’t I think of this before? I’ll pretend I’m being all treat ’em
mean, keep ’em keen.
‘Are you playing hard to get?’
‘Well, they do say the best things in life are worth waiting for,’ I reply flirtily.
God, the irony. If he could see my fleecy pyjama bottoms and slippers. There is no way anyone could describe that combo as one of ‘the best things in life’.
‘You can say that again.’ He smiles.
My heart does that thing again. And to think my drama teacher, Miss Shrimpton, wrote on my school report, ‘Ruby will never make the stage. She is unable to play any role convincingly.’
‘I’ve really missed you, you know.’ Jack’s face falls serious and as his eyes meet mine, he fixes me with his gaze.
‘Me too,’ I say quietly. I feel that familiar tug in the bottom of my stomach. It’s true what they say. Love bloody hurts. Ever since Jack disappeared behind that sliding glass door at Security, I’ve been missing him like crazy, but until now it’s been impossible to meet up because of his work commitments. One thing I’ve learned about Jack is that he’s completely passionate about his work. In fact, to be honest, he’s a bit of a workaholic. Still, finally we’re going to get to be together again.
‘Not long now, less than forty-eight hours.’
‘Forty-three,’ I correct him quickly, then blush.
‘Are you counting?’ he teases.
‘No, sorry, when is it you’re arriving again?’ I frown, as if trying to remember. ‘Is it next week? Or the week after?’
He laughs loudly. ‘The day after tomorrow and I’m counting too. You think I’d miss your birthday?’
‘Good, glad to hear it.’ I grin.
‘And miss a chance to stay in that fancy hotel?’ he goes on.
‘Oi!’
He winks and I start laughing. It’s my birthday next weekend and we’ve arranged to go away and stay in one of those swanky country hotels. You know, the ones you always seem to read about in magazines when you’re single and feel utterly depressed at the photos of couples snuggling up in front of a cosy log fire or enjoying the luxury spa.