Love From Paris Read online

  ‘Haven’t you met any nice men in Paris?’

  ‘Yes, lots, but none that are interested in me, plus they’re all so tiny.’ She pulls a face, ‘I feel like a giant next to them.’

  ‘I thought you were seeing that guy – Pierre, wasn’t it?’

  I feel bad that I can’t remember his name, but I can never keep track of Harriet’s love life. She seems to be always going on dates, yet is permanently single.

  ‘Pascal,’ she corrects me, ‘but we never went on an actual date.’

  I look at her in confusion. ‘Call me stupid, but how can you be seeing someone and not actually see them?’

  Pulling up to some lights, she slams on the brakes and turns to me. ‘You’ve never done online dating, have you?’ she asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow that I notice has been newly plucked into a perfect arch.

  It’s true. Call me a philistine but I’ve always dated the old-fashioned way.

  ‘Trust me, finding someone is not like it used to be.’

  I look at her curiously. I’m not sure I like the sound of it.

  ‘You don’t go to a bar and get chatted up,’ she continues. ‘No one buys you a drink or asks you out for dinner. You have to try to write something witty about yourself, post photos of yourself that you hope don’t make you look crazy, or fat, or old – oh and don’t get me started on the dating apps that are just about whether someone in the immediate vicinity wants to shag you . . .’

  Listening to Harriet, I feel as if I’ve just stumbled out from under a couples rock. The only apps I have on my phone are the ones for Goodreads and eBay.

  ‘And then if someone likes the look of you, they often just wink at you.’

  ‘Wink?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a real wink, they just click a button. Or they might add you to their favourites.’

  ‘Then what do you do?’

  ‘If they look OK, I’ll wink back and see if they email me.’

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘I’ll email them back. Often you just email back and forth for a few weeks,’ she explains, seeing my slightly bewildered expression. ‘You can also friend them on Facebook and follow them on Instagram or Twitter.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very romantic,’ I say uncertainly.

  ‘It’s not,’ she says, matter-of-factly, ‘but everything’s online these days. Even love.’

  If I felt sad earlier, now I feel even more so. But not about Jack – about love. Is that how you’re supposed to find your soulmate and fall in love these days? By flirting in 140-character tweets and stalking each other’s social media pages?

  ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you Rubes,’ says Harriet, breaking off and heaving a sigh. Reaching out, she squeezes my hand and I can’t help feeling that it’s more to reassure herself than me. ‘I’m so pleased you came.’

  ‘Me too.’ I smile, squeezing it back.

  The lights change and we accelerate away. It’s hot in the car, even with the sunroof open, and I wind down my window. A warm gust of wind blasts through my hair and, resting my head on my hand, I watch Paris fly by as we whizz along wide, tree-lined boulevards, past crowded pavement cafés and striped shop-awnings.

  Until after a while I stop thinking about London, about Jack, about our row at the airport. Instead my thoughts are taken up by the gorgeous architecture and beautiful parks, the faded shutters and wrought-iron balconies out of which peek bright geraniums in terracotta plant pots, the flashes of hidden courtyards and cascading fountains . . . I feel my spirits rise higher and higher until finally we reach the banks of the Seine and I see Notre Dame rising in front of me.

  Gazing up at the gothic spires reaching into a perfect, spotless blue sky, I feel a burst of exhilaration. Incredible really, considering how I felt this morning. Then I notice them. Strolling hand in hand along the Seine, taking photographs, laughing . . .

  Couples.

  And as we drive over one of the bridges that cross the river, I look down at them from my vantage point and my eye is caught by one particular man and woman. Arms wrapped round each other, holding out a phone, they’re laughing as they kiss each other for their selfie. And as quickly as my spirits had risen they fall again, like a kite swooping and plummeting to the ground.

  My heart aches. I’m here in Paris. The most romantic city in the world.

  Without Jack.

  It’s not going to be that easy.

  6

  After crossing the river, we spend the next few minutes navigating a labyrinth of streets, their unfamiliar names written on little blue and white plaques on the sides of the buildings that go by so fast I can barely get to read them, let alone try to pronounce them.

  I have no idea where we are, or what direction we’re heading in, I’m so turned around; but soon we leave behind the wider streets with the bustling pavement cafés and fashionable shop windows and enter a quieter, more residential neighbourhood. Here the streets are so narrow they’re plunged entirely into shade by the six or seven-storey nineteenth-century buildings that line either side.

  Though they could be even older, I muse, gazing up at their old stone facades and floor-length windows and wondering what their history is. Maybe I should buy a guidebook tomorrow. Despite living just across the Channel I’ve only been to Paris twice; once on a school trip when I was ten and once when Dad bought the whole family Eurostar tickets so we could ‘experience this amazing piece of engineering’, which he insisted was down to the British, of course.

  Neither trip holds great memories. The first time I was sick on the ferry going across and on the second, I was twenty-one and Paris was the last place I wanted to spend a weekend with my parents and little sister. Even worse, Amy was only eleven and all she wanted to do was go to Disneyland Paris. A trip to the Louvre instead resulted in a full-blown tantrum. Despite being arguably the most famous painting in the world, the Mona Lisa could never hope to compete with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

  That was ten years ago and I remember promising myself that the next time I came to this city it would be with the man I loved . . .

  Right, that’s it, I’m definitely buying a guidebook. While Harriet is at work I’m going to be a tourist and throw myself into sightseeing; it will help take my mind off things.

  We pass a couple of small two-star hotels, an épicerie with the grille pulled down and a dusty-looking bookshop, before finally turning in to a small cobbled side street where cars are squeezed bumper-to-bumper along one side.

  We slow down.

  Uh-oh. Realising Harriet is looking for a space, I feel a beat of concern.

  ‘Maybe there’s more room on the next street—’ I suggest, but she shushes me.

  ‘Nonsense, there’s plenty of room here,’ she says, and gestures to the tiniest of spaces.

  Now usually I hate that stereotype of women not being able to park a car. Of course we can park cars! Except – this isn’t just any old woman; it’s Harriet. And it seems I’ve every reason to be concerned. Her parallel parking is even worse than her driving and I have to cover my eyes as she rocks back and forth, hitting the bumpers both in front and behind, until finally she manages to wedge the car into the space, rather like forcing a cork back into a wine bottle.

  ‘Home sweet home!’ Clambering out of the car, she walks over to a large, somewhat shabby metal door covered in peeling billposters and punches a security code into a metal box on the wall. The door releases. Taking Heathcliff’s lead and dragging my wheelie case with the other hand, I follow her into a small, quiet courtyard. Shaded by the high walls of the surrounding buildings, it’s much cooler than outside and the trees cast a dappled sunlight across the worn cobbles.

  We walk across the courtyard and into a small passageway that leads to another door and a flight of stairs with peeling paintwork and exposed pipework.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no lift,’ she says apologetically, ‘do you want me to help you with your bag?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I packed light
,’ I fib, regretting my chuck-it-all-in approach earlier as I lug it behind me up the narrow, twisting staircase. Heathcliff follows, struggling slightly with his little legs. Still, hopefully there aren’t too many flights to climb.

  As it turns out Harriet’s apartment is six storeys up and I’m seriously out of breath by the time we reach the top floor of the building and shuffle on to a dingy, narrow landing that has a distinct smell of damp. It’s illuminated by a single bare light bulb that can hardly be more than about forty watts and I can only dimly make out two doors facing each other. As she puts her key in the door on the left, I try not to think about my five-star hotel room and spa that I’d booked and paid for. I’m here for Harriet, remember?

  ‘I tidied up specially,’ she grins ruefully, unlocking the door.

  Harriet is very messy. Her flat in London was in a constant state of chaos; sometimes I would walk in and have to actually hunt for her sofa. She blamed it on growing up with a housekeeper and maids. Apparently it wasn’t until she left home that she discovered if you dropped something on the floor it didn’t magically hang itself up, but actually stayed there.

  Something that she is very embarrassed about now, of course.

  But this apartment is as unrecognisable as she is. ‘Wow, it is tidy,’ I pant, as I’m unexpectedly greeted by a charming little attic room flooded with natural light. Tucked underneath the eaves, it has sloping beamed ceilings and a row of arched windows along one side. Painted all white, apart from the wooden beams, it has an open-plan kitchen and living area, with just enough room for a small table and two chairs, a TV and, ‘Look, I can see the sofa!’ I gasp, gesturing to it.

  ‘It’s actually a sofa bed,’ she grins, then wrinkles her nose. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one bedroom, are you all right sleeping on there? You could share with me, but I don’t think you’d want to after the black eye . . .’

  She’s referring to the last time we shared a bed. It was last summer and I’d invited Harriet over for dinner to cheer her up after yet another ill-fated fling, this time with Heinrich, a banker who’d pursued her like crazy then vanished after the second date. I’d made an attempt at spaghetti bolognese and she’d brought the wine and we’d sat up into the early hours looking for clues to his disappearance in his text messages.

  It’s amazing how long you can actually spend analysing just a couple of lines and it soon passed midnight. Realising it was too late for the tube and too pricey for a taxi, she’d stayed over, but in the middle of the night I was woken by a sharp kick in the shins. Which was bad enough, but it was followed by a walloping right hook that gave me a shiner for days. Apparently she’d been fast asleep and dreaming I was Heinrich. She was mortified and terribly apologetic.

  That said, until she’s happily married and therefore not dreaming about whacking hopeless boyfriends, I don’t think I’m going to risk sharing a bed with her again.

  ‘The sofa bed’s great,’ I smile, trying not to think about the four-poster bed I’d booked for me and Jack. What’s the big deal about four-poster beds, anyway? A sofa bed is probably much comfier, I tell myself firmly.

  Heathcliff is already busy exploring the place, his tail wagging excitedly. Putting down my bag, I walk over to the window and, without warning, have my breath taken away. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. The view is incredible. It’s like being on top of the world. ‘Oh wow,’ I gasp as I gaze across the rooftops and beyond, the whole city of Paris stretching out beneath us, as far as the eye can see. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Harriet nods. ‘I know this apartment is as tiny as anything but that’s what sold it for me,’ she says, flinging open a window and taking a deep lungful of city air. ‘It comes with a view of la tour Eiffel – the Eiffel Tower,’ she adds for my benefit. Unnecessarily. I know my French is bad, but it’s not that bad.

  ‘Really?’ I stand on my tiptoes, scanning the skyline.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ she admits. ‘If you lean out far enough and sort of crick your neck . . .’

  Opening a window, I do as she says, but no, it’s no good, I can’t . . . I crane my neck even further, tracing the river, the bridges, the roads that criss-cross the city like a spider’s web, and then – oh, there it is!

  ‘Gosh, yes,’ I gasp as I finally catch a glimpse of the famous landmark. I stare at it for a few minutes, drinking it in. I’ve seen it in so many photographs, in so many paintings, in so many films, but there’s something very special about seeing the Eiffel Tower in real life.

  ‘Did you know that when it was first built locals hated it and demanded it was demolished?’

  ‘Really?’ I frown, trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower, and not being able to.

  ‘It’s incredible isn’t it?’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Later on tonight when it gets dark you’ll be able to see the light show. It’s amazing.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I enthuse, trying not to think about how I’d like to see it with Jack. God, this is harder than I thought. I came to Paris to spend time with Harriet, but it doesn’t help that the city oozes romance. ‘Maybe we can drink this while we watch it,’ I suggest, going over to my wheelie and pulling out the bottle of champagne I’ve been lugging around with me. ‘It needs chilling first though.’

  Harriet’s eyes light up. ‘Ooh, yes please,’ she grins, taking it from me and putting it in the fridge. ‘Like I said, Jack’s loss is definitely my gain.’

  ‘Well, it seemed a shame to let it go to waste,’ I smile ruefully, ‘unless of course you’ve got plans for tonight.’

  ‘You mean all the handsome, eligible men lining up to take me out for dinner?’ Grinning, she flops down onto the sofa beside me and is just kicking off her heels when we’re interrupted by the burbling of her mobile phone. She glances at the screen. ‘Hang on, it’s the office,’ she says, making that little signal with her finger that she won’t be a minute. She picks up and starts speaking in a torrent of fluent French. I’m impressed. I mean, I knew she was fluent, but still, hearing her makes me wish I’d paid more attention to our supply teachers with their imperfect verbs.

  I see her frown and even though I don’t understand what she’s saying, she seems to be unhappy about something. She looks at her watch, then at me, then sighs.

  ‘D’accord, I’ll be right there.’ She puts down the phone.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Not really. I was booked to do a valuation at an apartment tomorrow morning, but the avocat, sorry, I mean the lawyer, who has the keys is now saying his diary is full for tomorrow. He wants to meet now instead. I tried to explain I’m busy and asked if he’d reschedule, but he’s insisting it’s his only free slot and his clients can’t wait—’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ I say quickly, ‘you go ahead.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t like leaving you on your own.’ She looks doubtful.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll be fine,’ I reassure her.

  Appeased, she slips her heels back on and gets up from the sofa. ‘I’ll try to be as quick as I can but I might be a couple of hours, it’s over in the third arrondissement—’

  ‘Seriously, there’s no need to rush. I’ll take a shower, maybe watch some TV—’

  And see if Jack’s called, pipes up a voice in my head.

  As she starts collecting her things, I dig my phone out of my pocket. I know he said we needed some time out, but maybe he’s emailed or left a message. Earlier, we were both pretty angry; tempers were frayed and emotions were running high, but now we’ve both had time to calm down and think about things.

  I switch it back on and as it comes alive it buzzes with text and email alerts. I feel a beat of anticipation. One must be from Jack . . . I quickly hit the little text message icon, but it’s only a text from Vodafone welcoming me to France. But that’s OK, Jack probably wanted to explain properly, you can’t do that in a text . . .

  I open my email inbox. The past few months since we’ve been apart he’s been c
onstantly emailing and calling. There’ve been no games with Jack. No playing it cool. On the contrary, he’s forever sending me songs on iTunes that he thinks I might like, or links to articles that he knows I’ll find funny or silly selfies he’s taken. Never a day goes by without something from him appearing in my inbox.

  My heart leaps. Look! I have three new emails. I quickly glance through them. One is about an item I’m watching on eBay. One is from my bank saying my credit card payment is due. And the last one is from the hotel in the Cotswolds, confirming the double room I booked and reminding me of the strict non-refundable cancellation policy.

  Disappointment stabs. No email from Jack. No apology. No ‘let’s talk about this’.

  No nothing.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to come with me?’

  I look up to see Harriet watching me.

  ‘It’ll stop you sitting here checking your phone all evening . . .’

  A look of understanding passes between us. After all, what girl hasn’t stayed in with her phone waiting for some man to call? Or text. Or email. Or send a message through the dozens of apps installed on your smartphone. In fact, there are so many ways to get in touch these days, it’s even more crushing now when they don’t.

  ‘I could tell the lawyer you’re my assistant,’ Harriet continues, but she can’t persuade me.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll probably only get in the way.’ I once went along on a job with her and she got really excited about a chest of drawers that smelled of mothballs and looked like something my granny used to have. Apparently it was worth an absolute fortune and attracted a bidding frenzy at auction from all these buyers in Japan.

  Call me a philistine, but I’d much rather have something in a nice oak veneer from Ikea. Which unfortunately I blurted out to the owner of the aforementioned mouldy chest of drawers. Suffice to say, it didn’t go down too well.

  ‘Plus I don’t really want to leave Heathcliff.’

  ‘Oh that’s not a problem, you can bring him. The French bring their dogs everywhere.’