Love From Paris Read online

‘It is valuable?’ asks Xavier, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Golly yes, absolutely.’ She nods, turning it over and peering at it closely. ‘Just look at the beautifully hand-painted pink roses and gold highlights, the wonderful scallop-shaped rims . . .’

  Leaving them both examining the china, I turn away and walk over to the marble fireplace, still holding Heathcliff. I notice there are still ashes in the grate. I stare at them, my mind turning. Someone lit that fire and watched it burn. But they didn’t have time to clean out the grate. It’s as if they left suddenly, or unexpectedly . . .

  In the background I can hear Harriet, ‘. . . no cracks, or hairline fractures, it’s in flawless condition . . .’

  I glance over to the armchair next to the fire. I notice a brandy glass on the side table next to it, and an ashtray, empty but for a trace of ash. Someone has been here drinking brandy and smoking cigarettes, but it doesn’t seem like something a woman would do. Did Madame Dumont entertain a man in here? Was it her future husband, Monsieur Dumont?

  Or was it someone else?

  Questions are bubbling up in my mind. Questions, but no answers. Like Xavier said, it’s a mystery for a detective to solve. A love detective, whispers a voice inside my head and I feel a flutter of excitement. I think of all the fascinating stories I’ve read about love, all the legends and superstitions, all the great acts and amazing lengths that people will go to in the name of a great love.

  Glancing across at the newspaper and the brandy glass, the cushion still crumpled from where someone has leant against it, I feel more certain about that than about anything in a long time. Love has to be the key that will unlock this mystery. But with love comes a million questions—

  ‘I’ll start logging everything now, but there is so much here to go through I’m going to need more than a few hours, Monsieur Moreau.’

  I turn to see Harriet, notepad and pen in her hand.

  ‘I will provide you with a set of keys so that you can come and go as you please, Mademoiselle Fortescue-Blake,’ replies Xavier.

  I’d been half hoping there might have been some flirting going on over the china, but listening to them calling each other by their surnames, that hope deflates.

  ‘If you could, that would be very helpful. I can finish up some of the smaller pieces this evening, but there’s so much, it’s incredible!’

  ‘It is like unlocking a hidden vault, no?’ He raises an eyebrow as he surveys the room.

  And someone’s home, I can’t help thinking silently to myself, someone’s life. I know Harriet and Xavier are here to do their jobs – his to represent his clients; hers to catalogue and value so they can auction everything off to the highest bidder – but I can’t help feeling emotional. This was Madame Dumont’s home, somewhere she lived, loved, laughed and left – and perhaps one day hoped to return. This is more than just a few rooms filled with antiques and price tags; it holds emotions and memories, passions and hopes, youth and energy—

  And a secret, whispers a voice in my head.

  I look around me. If only these walls could talk. Gazing at the faded blue wallpaper, I gently brush my fingertips against it, my imagination taking flight as I wonder about everything they’ve witnessed, all the moments and memories they’ve absorbed.

  ‘Would you ladies excuse me for a moment?’

  I snap back and turn to see Xavier looking at us both, an eyebrow raised in question.

  ‘I am going to smoke a cigarette outside . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Harriet, ‘we don’t want any smoke near the paintings, though I’ve had a quick look and don’t think we have any hidden masterpieces.’ She pulls a face.

  ‘That would have been too much to hope for.’ Xavier shrugs and gives a small smile, before turning on his heel and leaving the apartment.

  As Harriet goes back to cataloguing I glance toward the other rooms.

  ‘Can I have a look around?’

  She nods. ‘But just don’t touch anything,’ she warns, not looking up.

  With Heathcliff in my arms, I leave Harriet photographing various objects and wander through the apartment. It’s grand by any standards, and made up of what appears to be three rooms. I pass into another drawing room, lined with more bookcases and an old gramophone player that sits in the corner, and into what must have been Madame Dumont’s bedroom.

  The shutters are closed, allowing the room to slumber in shadow, but even in the dimness I can see a wrought-iron bed in the corner, its covers thrown back almost as if someone had just climbed out of it. Next to it stands a wardrobe, its door slightly ajar. I glimpse a woman’s clothes: sleeves with delicate lace edging, skirts of pale silks and lush velvets.

  I resist the urge to look inside and instead I turn my gaze to a floor-length mirror, over which hangs a dress made of pale yellow silk and covered in white polka dots. With its short puff sleeves, nipped-in waist and full skirt it looks like the style I’ve seen girls wearing in old photographs from the 1930s and 40s. I gaze at it, trying to imagine the owner wearing it. A young girl in a polka dot dress. She must have looked beautiful.

  By the window stands an ornate dressing table with a triple mirror edged in gilt. A silver candelabra sits on one side, the candles with their melted wax still in place, while on the dust-covered surface of the table lies a collection of silver combs and hairbrushes, a small mother-of-pearl jewellery box out of which hangs a string of pearls, and several old glass perfume bottles. It’s as if she’d been getting ready to go somewhere . . .

  Unexpectedly, I feel a connection. In a way it reminds me of my own messy dressing table back at my flat in London. My own brushes might be cheap plastic instead of silver and my jewellery’s mostly from Accessorize, but it’s still the same. Nearly three-quarters of a century and a world war later and in a way nothing has changed. I even have the candles, although mine are scented and cost an absolute fortune, I muse, suddenly reminded of the one I bought for Jack’s arrival and then wishing I hadn’t thought of it.

  In my arms Heathcliff distracts me by wriggling impatiently.

  ‘Come on buddy,’ I cajole. ‘I’m the one having to carry you and even though you’re little you’re heavy,’ I reason, but he shoots me a mournful look. I feel a stab of guilt. So far this Paris trip hasn’t been much fun for Heathcliff. Apart from a brief spot of sightseeing on my lap, he’s been stuck in the footwell of the car, on the Eurostar and now he’s stuck inside an apartment. Even worse, he hasn’t been able to stretch his little legs at all today. He usually gets taken on at least one walk a day so he can do his favourite thing of sniffing around.

  ‘OK, but make sure you’re good,’ I say, giving in and putting him down. I give him a little stern waggle with my finger. ‘And I mean it.’

  Thrilled to be given his freedom, he promptly busies himself by sticking his long nose on the floor like a vacuum cleaner – and explodes into a sneezing fit.

  ‘Be careful, there’s a lot of dust.’ I smile.

  I turn my attention back to the dressing table, marvelling at everything. There’s a lipstick, a jewelled compact, what looks like an ornate silver letter opener shaped like a fish—

  I’m distracted by the sound of loud rustling and look up.

  ‘Heathcliff?’

  But he’s disappeared. I glance quickly about the room. Where is he? Then I hear a scrambling sound under the bed. Oh fuck.

  Dropping to my hands and knees, I peer under the bed. It’s full of dust and steeped in shadow. My eyes take a moment to adjust, then I see that it appears to be crammed with objects: what looks like an old leather trunk, a couple of hatboxes. I peer harder; it’s difficult to make out. Then I spot Heathcliff squeezed into the space.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing under there?’ I hiss, and try to grab him, but he’s had enough of being held prisoner and is making the most of his new-found freedom. He wriggles further away.

  ‘Come here,’ I command bossily, but he just flatly ignores me. This is one of those times I wish
I’d invested in obedience classes.

  Damn.

  I hesitate to glance down at the faded rug beneath my knees, trying not to think about what a good vacuum it needs, then lie down on my stomach and try to wriggle my arm underneath. Hoping to touch warm fur, I feel blindly around, my fingertips fumbling against the hard edges of the suitcases and boxes— hang on, what’s that? My hand brushes what feels like papers. Curiously I pull them out.

  It’s a bundle of letters, tied together with a faded pink ribbon. I stare at them for a moment. There must be a dozen envelopes, all the same size and pale blue colour. I try to decipher the handwriting on the front of the first envelope. It’s in a flowing, cursive script that reminds me of the old-fashioned way my grandmother used to write, and the ink’s faded, making it difficult to read. I turn it towards the window and in the fading sunlight I make out the address – it’s the address of this apartment – before moving the ribbon with my fingers to reveal the name hidden underneath.

  Emmanuelle Renoir.

  That was Madame Dumont’s name before she was married.

  No sooner has the thought struck than a piece of notepaper drops out from between the letters. Unlike the rest it’s not in an envelope, and instead of being blue the paper is a delicate shade of coral. Curiously, I unfold it. It’s a letter.

  Darling H,

  Please forgive me if I make any mistakes in my English, but I am writing this in haste. My father has heard word that the Germans are soon to be upon us and he is demanding we leave Paris immediately and flee to the south ahead of them.

  Oh, my darling H, I hope it is not too late. I too am so sorry we argued and I pray more than anything that you have not left the city as you threatened in your letter. As soon as you read these words, please come to me at once. I don’t want to leave you or Paris, but I am so afraid.

  Finally, I have found the courage to go against my family’s wishes. I will not marry Monsieur Dumont. You must know this. My heart is yours for ever. Yet there is something else I must share with you, something that makes my heart beat even faster, something that involves our future happiness. I should have told you sooner, but I was so scared. Now, after many nights of unrest, I know that I can no longer delay what it is I have to say.

  We have our own secret world but no secrets between us, except I confess I have a secret and it is one I must tell you, share with you. I dare not write this down for fear this letter may fall into the wrong hands. You must hurry here when you get this, I shall wait for you.

  Oh, there is someone hammering at the door! It is my Papa! I must hide this but after I will try to post this letter, my final letter to you, so that we are never again

  The letter stops. The sentence unfinished. The last word smudged. What had happened? There’s no date. Who was H? What did she have to tell him? What was the secret? Has it something to do with the mystery of why she kept this apartment for so long?

  ‘Ruby?’

  As the questions swirl around me, I’m distracted by Harriet calling, then the sound of Xavier’s voice and footsteps. Oh shit, they’re coming in here!

  I pause, frozen, my eyes fixed on the door, the letters still in my hand. I need to put them back.

  And yet, more than anything I need to know what happened.

  ‘There you are!’

  The door swings open and in that split second before they enter I impulsively stuff the letters in my bag.

  ‘I was just looking for Heathcliff,’ I fluster, as Harriet appears, ‘he slipped the lead.’

  As if on cue Heathcliff appears, looking sheepish. I pick him up.

  ‘Wow, just look at this room,’ she gasps, glancing around, her eyes lighting up as they land on the dressing table. ‘What a gorgeous example of a serpentine-fronted tulipwood dressing table!’ she cries. ‘Just look at the gorgeous floral motifs and exquisite ormulu mounts . . .’

  I feel a beat of relief. Fortunately she’s been too distracted by the antiques to ask me any questions.

  ‘Valuable?’ Standing at the doorway, Xavier raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Very.’ She nods. ‘Your clients will be happy.’

  ‘Good.’ He nods back. ‘I like happy clients.’

  Hearing them talk I feel something twist up inside me.

  ‘We should leave, it’s getting late,’ he continues. ‘We can make further arrangements for you to finish the cataloguing.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Ready?’

  I zone back in to see them both looking at me expectantly.

  ‘Um, yes – ready,’ I nod, and as they turn to leave I slip my hand into my bag to check the letters are still there, then follow them out of the apartment.

  9

  Forty minutes later we’re sitting on Harriet’s sofa, drinking champagne out of mugs and surrounded by pizza boxes.

  ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ Harriet is mumbling through a mouthful of margherita with extra olives, ‘your first night in Paris, the world’s capital of fine dining, and you’re eating takeaway pizza. I’m a terrible host. I don’t even own any champagne flutes.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I refute, tipping my head back to catch the dollop of cheese stretching from my Reine d’un Jour pizza. ‘You’re a wonderful host, this is delicious.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t tell a soul,’ she begs, breaking off a piece of garlic bread.

  ‘Cross my heart with a slice of pizza,’ I say solemnly, ‘plus champagne tastes better this way.’

  She grins and mops up the trickle of garlic butter that’s dripping down her chin.

  ‘So anyway, you still haven’t told me how you’ve been,’ I remind her, making another attempt at getting her to confide in me about how she’s been feeling. ‘How’s Paris been treating you?’

  ‘It’s great, the city’s beautiful, the job’s amazing . . .’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘But?’ I prompt.

  I know how hard it is for Harriet to open up. Her family isn’t exactly known for talking about their feelings and over the years she’s learned to bury them.

  She fidgets uncomfortably. ‘Oh nothing, I’ve just been really busy, what with the move and everything.’ Turning her attentions back to the garlic bread, she avoids my gaze.

  ‘You seemed pretty down on the phone when you called me,’ I coax.

  ‘Oh, golly, did I? I’m sorry,’ she says, apologetically, ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’ve just missed you, that’s all. I’ve met some wonderful people, but it’s not the same as being with your old friends.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ I smile.

  She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘But anyway, you’re here now, so it’s all better.’

  Something tells me there’s more to it than she’s letting on, but as she reaches for her mug and drains the rest of her champagne it’s obvious she’s not going to say any more on the matter.

  Not for now, anyway.

  ‘So Xavier the lawyer seemed nice,’ I say pointedly, changing the subject and topping up her mug with what’s left of the champagne. We’ve made quick work of it. The bottle’s almost empty.

  ‘Oooh, do you want his number?’ Shoving in the last of the garlic bread, she scrambles quickly for her phone. ‘You could ask him out for a drink, take your mind off Jack—’

  ‘Not for me, silly!’ I gasp, frowning. ‘I meant for you.’

  ‘Golly no, he’s not my type.’ She shakes her head dismissively and takes a glug of champagne.

  ‘Why not? He’s very handsome.’

  ‘Exactly. Too handsome.’

  I look at her blankly. ‘Since when can a man be too handsome?’

  ‘When he’s your boyfriend,’ she says simply. ‘It would be like owning a Ferrari. Sooner or later you know someone’s going to steal it.’

  Harriet, I’ve learned, always has a new theory about dating, many of which I’m not too sure about.

  ‘Xavier’s a ten, maybe even an eleven,’ she continues, ‘whereas
I’m a seven, maybe an eight in good lighting and Spanx.’

  ‘Harriet, you’re gorgeous,’ I protest.

  ‘No woman can ever be gorgeous with these monstrosities,’ she counters, lifting up her feet and waggling them at me menacingly. ‘Just look at them!’

  I look at them. Admittedly they are rather large, but still.

  ‘Who cares about the size of your feet?’ I shrug.

  ‘Men,’ she replies matter-of-factly. ‘Mummy always told me no man wants a wife who has bigger feet then they do and she’s right.’

  I feel a stirring of protectiveness. I won’t say that I don’t like Harriet’s mum, as she’s always been very nice and polite to me, but she’s just not very nice to Harriet.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I retort, taking another swig of champagne. Personally, I think it’s because Harriet’s mum is jealous of the close bond between her husband and his oldest daughter. Either that, or she’s just a mean, skinny witch.

  ‘No, honestly, it’s true,’ continues Harriet. ‘When we were little our nanny used to take me and my sisters up to London to get our feet measured on those machines at Clarks.’

  ‘Oh, I used to love those things,’ I cry, remembering my own childhood visits to our local store with my mum. ‘They were so much fun.’

  ‘For you and my sisters maybe, but not for me. I used to dread it. Every time I went my feet had just grown bigger and bigger and instead of getting pretty shoes like my sisters, I used to have to get these big ugly things. Anyway this one time my foot wouldn’t even fit in the machine—’ Shaking her head, she takes another bite of pizza. ‘And it gets even worse. I so wanted to be like my sisters, I tried to wedge my foot inside it and ended up breaking the bloody machine.’

  Poor Harriet. I can just imagine her as a little girl, with the same determined expression and a mop of curly hair.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘An engineer had to come out and remove my foot because it was trapped. All my sisters were laughing and I was trying so very hard not to cry.’ She takes another, even bigger bite of pizza. ‘And Mummy was furious because I didn’t get any new shoes and had to wear my wellington boots to the summer ball. They were the only things that would fit.’