Page 10 of Thirty Days in Paris

Once she’d unpacked, she pulled a string bag from a hook on the kitchen wall and headed down into the twilit streets. Nearby, she found a Carrefour mini-market tucked between the boutiques. She paused to choose some fruit from the display outside: a bunch of dark red grapes and some rosy apples. She watched as a man in a dark blue coat chose some tomatoes, intrigued by the care he took over the task. She couldn’t imagine any man in England paying such close attention to the ripeness, the smell, the colour, before finding the perfect specimen. It was a ritual. A necessity. Something he was born to do.

Inside, the narrow aisles were crammed with temptation. She bought a ripe Camembert, a tub of celeriac remoulade, some jambon de Bayonne, unsalted Président butter and a baguette. Oh, and a bottle of ice-cold white Burgundy from the fridge. Finally, on impulse, she pulled a bunch of roses from a bucket, blowsy and white with just a hint of pink at the edges.

On her way back, she passed a store that was a mixture between an old apothecary and an antique shop, with everything displayed on gorgeous old tables and shelves. A scented candle was just what she needed for the apartment. She could have spent all evening trying to choose, but eventually she found one that spoke to her and seemed appropriate for her Parisian adventure. Usually, spending that kind of money was for birthdays or Christmas, but she felt as if she deserved it.

Back at the apartment, she unwrapped her purchases, setting out the cheese to come to room temperature, putting the fruit in a bowl on the table. She lit the candle and placed it on the console table, where its flame danced in the mirrors. She trimmed the stems of the roses and put them in a vase next to the candle. She found some Juliette Gréco on her phone and paired it with the mini speaker she had brought with her – the kids had given it to her for her birthday. And then she opened the window and let in the soft night air. Voices from the street below floated upwards as people made their way out to dinner, to a concert, to see friends.

She poured herself a glass of wine, letting the rich, viscous liquid roll over her tongue. She felt the tension of the last few months slide off her shoulders like a discarded fox fur, and realised that now, with her little touches, she felt at home. She would read back over what she had written on the train, perhaps write a little more if the mood took her. Music, wine, candlelight – what more could she ask for to bring out the muse?

6

The Ingénue

I had no idea where I was when I woke the next morning. I could hear the unfamiliar sound of a baby wailing, and high shrill voices. I saw a wardrobe looming at the foot of my bed, and long linen curtains, and my coat on a hook on the back of a door. Puzzled, I sat up. As yesterday’s memories filtered through into my brain, I could smell coffee – dark, smoky, delicious. It was enough to get me up.

In the kitchen, Corinne was hacking at a baguette, dressed in a black silk dressing gown. She almost looked as if she was sleepwalking, and the rings under her eyes were even darker than when I had first seen her. The baby was slumped in a bouncy chair on the floor, cawing away to himself.

‘Hugo! Charlotte!’ Corinne croaked, her voice gruff, and her eyes flicked over me. She gave a curt nod, grabbed a coffee pot off the stove that was about to boil over and swore as she burnt her hand. Suddenly, the whole room was in chaos. Corinne howled with the pain, Charlotte and Hugo ran in and Arthur began to cry.

‘You must run it under water,’ I told Corinne and she looked at me blankly. I pointed to the sink, ran over and turned on the cold tap, pointing to her hand. ‘L’eau froid.’ I nodded encouragement, wondering how a woman of her age with children didn’t know simple first aid.

She just stood there. I picked up Arthur to comfort him.

‘Eau froid,’ I repeated. Hugo and Charlotte were jumping up and down, only adding to the drama. I tapped each of them on the shoulder and pointed to the baguette. ‘Mangez,’ I told them, but they were too concerned about their mother to obey. She was staring at the red mark on her hand. I thought perhaps she was in shock.

And then Jean Louis walked in, wearing a short navy-blue dressing gown and velvet slippers, his hair rumpled, his eyes bleary, and the noise re-erupted. Corinne’s voice rose higher than the children’s and Arthur doubled his wails. Jean Louis looked at the running tap and guided his wife towards it, holding her hand under the stream of water while she protested.

‘It’s OK,’ I said to the children, hoping they understood me. I put a finger to my lips to indicate they should be quiet, then pointed again at the baguette. ‘Petit déjeuner. Mangez.’

I was rubbing Arthur’s back and eventually he slumped onto my shoulder. I found it quite comforting, having him snuggle into me like a little koala, because I was finding it all very strange, being plunged into this family drama miles away from home when I hadn’t even woken up properly yet.

Hugo and Charlotte took a plate each and some bread. Corinne was quiet now, staring at her wound as the cool water ran over it. I saw Jean Louis shut his eyes for a moment and breathe out. Then he opened them and looked at me and gave a nod of gratitude. I smiled, feeling confident that I had done my best in a situation that had been heading out of control.

‘Café?’ he asked me, heading for the culprit that was the coffee pot.

I normally had a cup of strong tea with two sugars. Something told me that I wasn’t going to get a cuppa here, though, and I’d have to change my ways. When in Paris …

I nodded. ‘Merci.’

I braced myself for something strong and heart-pounding. I watched as he heated some milk, poured a little coffee from the pot into it, then served it up into three blue bowls. The two little ones took one each, and the third was for me. We carried the bowls and plates into the dining room, me with Arthur still clinging on gamely, and I watched the children dip their bread into the milky coffee. I sat down and sipped mine, and it was delicious, not strong at all.

From the dining room, we could hear Jean Louis and Corinne having a heated discussion. The children didn’t seem worried by the raised voices, so I supposed it was normal. Anyway, Arthur was making them laugh by reaching out for bits of bread which they fed to him. Soon I was covered in crumbs, but I didn’t mind. I sat him on the table, holding him under his arms, and he burbled away happily. They were so sweet, the three of them, Charlotte and Hugo in matching chambray pyjamas with red trim and Arthur in a white Babygro dotted with pale brown rabbits.

Eventually, Jean Louis came in. He looked strained, but he smiled. He spoke to the children, then explained to me that Corinne was going back to bed.

‘We will go for lunch,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry, I will need some help. I wanted you to have the day to recover from the journey, but …’ He held up his hands in mock despair.

‘I’m fine,’ I told him. ‘It’s no problem.’

‘If you can help the children get dressed,’ he said, ‘I can manage this one, I think.’

He took Arthur from me, holding his son up in the air, and the baby chortled with laughter, paddling his legs as Jean Louis beamed up at him, his face suffused with love.

I took the children and helped them choose their clothes for the day. Their bedrooms were immaculate: Charlotte’s room was pale yellow and Hugo’s pale green, and they both had white beds and chests of drawers and gingham curtains in the same colour as their walls. I couldn’t believe the amount of clothes they had – piles and piles of crisply ironed shirts and blouses, neatly folded jumpers, snow-white underwear and rolled-up socks, all colour-coded. Winter coats were hung on a rail, and underneath were shoes for every occasion.

Afterwards, I rummaged through my suitcase trying to decide what to wear for lunch. In the end, I wore a black Lycra dress, black tights and black suede boots, thinking all one colour might be chic. But I didn’t look chic, I thought glumly as I peered into the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. I looked a little bit plump and a bit pale. Not interesting pale, like Corinne, just peaky. Even my pearls looked wrong: the big gobstopper ones I’d saved up for and been so proud of. I was hoping they would make my skin look creamy and luminous, which was what pearls were supposed to do, but they didn’t, because they were fake.

We gathered in the hall, Arthur tucked into his pushchair, Charlotte and Hugo buckling up their shoes. I had put on my tweed jacket again, conscious that it was unravelling in a way that Coco Chanel would never have allowed. Jean Louis swung on a camel overcoat that settled on him as if his tailor had just stepped away from applying the finishing touch.

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