Love From Paris Page 5

  ‘Is that so?’ The official remains stony-faced. I have to confess, I’m not sure I’d believe us either. Heathcliff looks nothing like a golden retriever.

  ‘Absolutely,’ nods her granddad, patting Heathcliff, who’s curled up in his lap as if they’ve known each other for years. I can’t believe it. He hates being picked up by strangers. ‘I couldn’t be without him.’

  The officer shifts uncomfortably. ‘Do you have the relevant paperwork?’

  Oh shit.

  The granddaughter shoots me a look. ‘Actually, I think I might have dropped it—’

  ‘Ah yes, here it is,’ I say quickly, cottoning on. Opening Heathcliff’s passport at the page with all his vaccinations, I pass it across. Oh god, I hope he doesn’t turn to the page about the legal owner. My heart races.

  ‘Look, can we please hurry this along? We mustn’t miss the train. We have an important ceremony to attend.’ The granddaughter raises her eyebrows and motions to her grandfather and the other soldiers still waiting in the queue behind us.

  ‘The Queen is attending,’ says her grandfather, pointedly.

  At which point the official surrenders and, handing back Heathcliff’s passport, hurriedly waves us through.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I whisper, once we’re out of earshot and, after giving the granddaughter a hug, I go to shake her grandfather’s hand. ‘You’re my hero, in more ways than one.’

  ‘Well, if you can’t break a few rules at my age, then when can you?’ He chuckles. ‘And anyway, I owed it to Sizzle. Lovely fellow he was, brave as they come.’ He tickles Heathcliff, who’s still lying curled up in his lap. Trust him to snooze his way through it all.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you both.’ I smile, scooping him up.

  ‘You too my dear.’

  ‘And don’t forget, if you’re in Paris you should try to catch the parade, it’ll be quite something,’ says his granddaughter, and giving both Heathcliff and me a wave, she wheels her grandfather away to join the rest of his friends and comrades.

  Five minutes later, we board the train and I find my seat. The last time I was on a train other than the tube, I was in India. On that fateful train journey from Goa to Delhi where I met Jack. My mind leaps back to him. He should be awake by now. I wonder what he’s doing, if he’s packing for Colombia, or maybe he’s already left for the airport—

  Putting down my half-finished latte, I dig out the phone in my pocket. I’ve checked it countless times already, reading the emails he wrote earlier, which don’t say much other than for me to call him, and hoping for a new text or an email from him.

  But nothing. We’re having a timeout, I remind myself; what did I expect?

  Yet, disappointment still crushes. It’s made worse by the texts I do have, from Amy and my parents. I’ve been so excited about Jack’s visit it’s all I’ve talked about for weeks now. So on top of feeling upset and angry, I feel like an idiot. I know it’s not my fault he hasn’t come, but even so I know what people will think. After all, I don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to romance, do I?

  Give Jack a big hug from me & have a fab time in the country! You lucky thing! Amy xxxx

  I trust Jack landed safely. Hope we meet him soon! Btw be careful travelling home on the tube, it says on the news it’s rife with a new wave of pickpockets. Love Mum (and Dad) xxx

  And one from my friend Rachel.

  Have fun with Jack! I want a FULL report after the weekend!!! R x

  I turn off my phone.

  On the seat next to me, Heathcliff is curled up fast asleep. I envy him. I wish I could do the same, but I’m wide awake. We’re already whizzing out of London and as I watch the high-rises and warehouse buildings give way to garden suburbs, my mind flicks back to its default setting: Jack.

  We were supposed to be together right now, making up for lost time at my flat, and instead I’m hurtling towards Paris without him. This wasn’t what I thought was going to happen when I woke up this morning. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  But then life has a funny way of going off-plan, doesn’t it?

  I stare out of the window, lost in my own thoughts. Everyone always says long-distance relationships never work, but I thought we were different. I thought we were special. So what if we’re from two completely different sides of the world, with different backgrounds and cultures and lives? It didn’t matter – we loved each other and that was enough.

  But maybe I was wrong. Maybe everyone else is right and I’ve just been completely naive. The last three months have been like a honeymoon period, but now I feel like I’ve just come down to earth with a bloody great bump and I’m worried about our future.

  Do we even have one?

  Leaning my forehead against the coolness of the glass, I gaze out of the window, wishing I could see the answers. But all I can see is my reflection staring back at me, and before I know it we’re plunged into the darkness of the tunnel.

  I always thought falling in love was hard, but now I realise that was the easy bit.

  It’s staying in love that’s the hard part.

  5

  I must have fallen asleep; the next time I look out of the window we’re on the outskirts of Paris. My gaze passes over the ugly scrawl of graffiti plastered all over the buildings and the jumble of concrete and power lines. It’s not the prettiest of places, but it’s the same in nature. Like a rose surrounded by thorns, or a pearl encased by an oyster shell, the rough casing is there to protect and emphasise the jewel that lies inside:

  Paris.

  Disembarking at the Gare du Nord, I follow the swell of people making their way towards the exit. Heathcliff trots dutifully alongside me, sniffing the air around him curiously. Wafts of café au lait and freshly baked croissants, cigarette smoke and perfume swirl around us. You don’t have to be able to read the signs or understand the foreign accents to know we’re no longer in London. It just smells French.

  Pulling my wheelie case behind me and holding tightly on to Heathcliff’s lead, I scan the crowds for a tall, and what people often unkindly call ‘well-built’, brunette in baggy cords and a T-shirt. In all the time I’ve known Harriet, I’ve never seen her wear anything remotely figure-hugging, much to the horror of her French-born mother, who’s not only the epitome of elegance but also the size of a sparrow. As are Harriet’s five younger sisters.

  Harriet, however, inherited her father’s sturdy aristocratic genes. Brigadier Fortescue-Blake is a giant of a man, with big bushy eyebrows that look as if they’re about to take flight and hands the size of dinner plates. Harriet is his much-adored eldest daughter. But while she often jokes that to inherit the family silver, you have to inherit the huge feet that go with it, I know how much she hates being about a foot taller than the rest of her siblings and twice the size.

  While her mum and her sisters swap size zero designer outfits, Harriet insists on hiding her figure underneath baggy clothes that she always teams with a waxed jacket and old brogues that have seen better days. She looks like she should be living in a farmhouse in the country, with an Aga and several border collies; not a city girl living in a two-bedroom flat in central London and commuting on the tube to her job at Sotheby’s in the heart of Mayfair.

  Well, she was, until she got headhunted by a private auction house in Paris and moved across the Channel for a promotion and a better salary. Fortunately for Harriet, not only is her mother French, she also had an expensive private education and can speak the language fluently, along with several others. Unlike my own Comprehensive one where French lessons, by contrast, consisted of making fun of yet another supply teacher and learning swear words.

  Nope, can’t see her. Merde!

  See, I still remember them.

  ‘Ruby!’

  Suddenly, above the noise and chatter of the station, I hear someone calling my name. I twirl round, glancing back and forth. That can’t be Harriet; she would never have spotted me – she’s a bit vague and short-sighted even with th
e super-strong prescription glasses she wears.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, over here!’

  Then again, it has to be – who else would be calling me? And who else, quite frankly, says ‘yoo-hoo’ unless they’re about ninety and your maiden aunt? The only thing is, I can hear her voice, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  And then I spot her. At least, it must be her, as it’s a girl waving madly at me. Except she’s unrecognisable as the Harriet I said goodbye to in London. Gone is the brown-haired girl in shapeless cords, ancient brogues and wire-framed spectacles. Instead I see a statuesque blonde in a classic black dress and heels, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses.

  I stare in astonishment as she makes her way towards me.

  ‘Harriet?’ I gasp. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me, darling!’ she enthuses, flinging her arms round me and engulfing me in a cloud of unmistakably expensive perfume. ‘Golly, it’s so good to see you!’

  After a few moments she releases me and, slightly dazed, I stand back to take another look. The transformation is incredible. Not only is she wearing a dress (!) and heels (!) that show off her figure but she just looks so put together. Her unruly brown hair, which could never be tamed, despite copious amounts of Frizz Ease and an ever-present scrunchie, is now a perfectly blow-dried bob with warm honey highlights. She’s also wearing nail polish. And scarlet lipstick.

  I stare at her in disbelief. In the whole time I have known Harriet I have never seen her wear a scrap of make-up. She’s always bare-faced and rosy-cheeked as if she’s been marching over the countryside in the fresh air. In fact the only thing I’ve ever seen her apply is lip salve.

  But now here she is sporting classic red lips and – I almost do a double-take as she pushes her sunglasses on to her head – is that liquid eyeliner?

  ‘Wow, I would never have recognised you! Look at your hair!’

  ‘I discovered blow-drys,’ she says, smiling, ‘all the Parisian women have them, it’s practically mandatory.’

  ‘And what happened to your glasses?’

  ‘Contact lenses. Bit fiddly at first, but I’ve got the hang of them now.’

  ‘You just look . . .’ I search around for the right word.

  ‘Thinner?’ she prompts.

  Every time I see Harriet she demands to know if she’s lost weight. Personally I don’t think she’s got any weight to lose; she’s the right size for her height – but for as long as I’ve known her, she’s been on a diet in her quest to drop a dress size.

  ‘Yes, much.’ I nod dutifully.

  ‘Liar!’ She grins.

  ‘OK, then different,’ I say, smiling, ‘stylish.’

  ‘Paris does that to you,’ she replies, ‘watch out, you’ll be next.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I say ruefully. I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror on the train earlier and tried to do something with my hair, which had gone all flat and floppy, and my blotchy face. Then gave up. It was hopeless.

  ‘Well you do look rather terrible,’ she concedes, ‘but it’s only to be expected under the circumstances. Which you’re going to have to tell me all about—’ She breaks off as she suddenly notices Heathcliff, and lets out a delighted whoop.

  ‘Oooh, fabulous, you’ve brought the pooch! The perfect Parisian accessory!’

  Bending down, she begins fussing over Heathcliff, but rather uncharacteristically he doesn’t make a fuss back. I don’t think he likes being described as an accessory.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you a cutie. We’ll have to get you a little diamanté collar,’ she coos.

  He gives a little growl. There’s nothing I can think of that Heathcliff would hate more than wearing a diamanté collar. Other than being carried in a handbag.

  No sooner has the thought struck me than I spy Harriet’s oversized one. Quickly I change the subject.

  ‘It’s so great to see you, and thanks so much for inviting me to come and stay—’

  She cuts me off immediately. ‘Nonsense darling, the pleasure’s all mine. Jack’s loss is my gain,’ she says firmly and, reaching for the handle of my wheelie case, she sets off briskly. ‘Now come along, let’s get you home.’

  I watch her for a moment, marvelling at how quickly she’s walking in those heels, and with barely a wobble. Well OK, maybe a slight wobble. I wince as one of her ankles goes over rather dangerously, but she quickly grabs a railing to regain her balance.

  ‘Shall we take a taxi?’ I suggest, gesturing to the cab rank outside. ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says dismissively.

  ‘No, seriously,’ I protest, ‘it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘We’re not getting a cab.’ She wobbles on ahead past the line of passengers.

  ‘Oh OK, well I suppose the Métro is probably quicker . . .’ Though I have no idea how she’s going to navigate all the steps in those heels, I worry, following her dutifully.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Abruptly she stops dead and there’s the sound of two loud beeps and the flash of a car’s lights. ‘I have wheels.’

  ‘Wheels?’ The surprises are coming thick and fast. I watch in disbelief as Harriet reaches for the door of a shiny red Citroën. ‘You’ve got a car?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I tell you? It was a Christmas pressie from Daddy.’

  This is just one of the many differences between mine and Harriet’s families. In our house we exchange jumpers and DVDs as gifts at Christmas, and maybe some cashmere gloves if you’re lucky. Last year, Harriet’s mum got a Rembrandt. OK, so it was ‘only’ an etching, but still.

  ‘Hop in,’ she says cheerfully, chucking my wheelie case in the boot.

  Scooping up Heathcliff, I climb into the passenger seat and almost before I’ve had time to close the door, the sunroof is down and her foot’s on the accelerator.

  ‘So you don’t have a problem driving on the wrong side of the road?’ I ask, clutching on to the sides of my seat as we swerve out into the traffic. Before my trip to India I was a bit of a nervous backseat driver, but getting behind the wheel and navigating the craziness that is the roads in India cured all that.

  At least I’d thought so.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she says, beaming, clipping the wing mirror of a parked car as we shoot round a corner. ‘It’s quite easy, once you get the hang of it.’

  Her confidence is admirable; alas it would appear she has absolutely no reason to be so sure of herself. It’s only taken me two minutes in this car to realise she is a terrible driver. Harriet’s about the least coordinated person I know, which, together with her tendency to get distracted easily, makes for a lethal combination behind the wheel.

  Grabbing the gearstick, she shoves it into gear, which makes a horrible crunching sound that sets my teeth on edge. How on earth did she ever pass her driving test?’

  ‘I didn’t know you could drive,’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Oh god, yes, I’ve been driving for years,’ she replies gaily.

  I feel reassured. Honestly, I’m such a worrier.

  ‘Unofficially.’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  ‘Yes, on the estate.’ She nods cheerfully.

  That’s another thing about Harriet’s family. They live on an estate. And I don’t mean a housing estate. I mean an estate. Like in Downton Abbey.

  ‘But I finally got my licence last year after taking that silly test god knows how many times – I mean, honestly, there’s nothing to driving, I don’t know why they kept failing me—’

  The back tyres go up on to the pavement and there’s an ominous clunking.

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s nothing important,’ she says, shooting me a look, ‘just the exhaust.’

  ‘Isn’t the exhaust pipe quite important?’ I say nervously.

  She hoots loudly. ‘Oh I do love you, Ruby, you always make me laugh with your jokes!’

  I’m not actually joking but despite everything that’s happened today, I find myself smiling.
Plus quite frankly, if I can survive a road trip in India, I can survive a car journey from the Gare du Nord. Even with Harriet driving.

  ‘Shall I put on some music?’ she trills. ‘I have this great new salsa CD somewhere . . .’? Taking her eyes off the road, she leans over and starts rummaging around in the glove compartment.

  ‘No – no!’ I cry hastily as I see us veering towards the oncoming traffic. ‘I’d much rather talk, it’s been ages.’

  ‘Oh right, yes of course darling,’ she says quickly, straightening up again and focusing back on the road.

  ‘So how are you?’ I ask, ‘how’s life in Paris?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you all about that later,’ she says, sweeping away my concerns with a hand gesture, ‘let’s talk about you first, that’s far more important.’

  It’s not, but I know there’s no point in trying to get Harriet to talk when she’s in stiff-upper-lip mode. I’ll have to try later.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I admit truthfully.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not since the airport when I found out he wasn’t on the flight.’

  Harriet gives a sharp intake of breath. ‘He stood you up at the airport?’ She looks aghast.

  ‘Well, he left me voicemails and lots of emails, but I didn’t get them until it was too late.’

  ‘Unforgiveable,’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, unless there’s a bloody good reason.’

  ‘He said it was work, some crisis—’

  ‘If he’s not a brain surgeon or the President of the United States, no crisis is good enough for leaving your girlfriend waiting at the airport. On her birthday.’ She shoots me a thunderous look.

  ‘Well it’s not my actual birthday until Sunday.’

  I realise I’m defending Jack, but I can’t help it. I love him. At the thought I can feel my eyes water again and I blink rapidly before Harriet notices.

  Which she does immediately. ‘Oh I’m sorry darling, I don’t mean to upset you, ignore me,’ she backtracks hastily, ‘after all, what on earth do I know about relationships?’