Page 33 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Le Grand Meaulnes. Alain-Fournier. It is the best book in the world. I read it twice a year.’ He put a fist to his chest. ‘It makes me feel. It makes me hope. For love.’ He reached inside his coat and pulled it out of an inside pocket. ‘You can borrow it.’

‘Are you sure?’

I turned it over, opening the cover, seeing the inscription written to him from someone called Delphine.

‘It’s in French, I’ll never get through it.’

He frowned. ‘But you must read it. Everyone must read it.’

‘I’ll try. Thank you. I promise I’ll give it back.’

‘Don’t lose it,’ he said. ‘It was a present from my godmother.’

I tucked it into my handbag. I would guard it with my life.

‘What is your favourite book?’ he asked, and I thought my answer probably mattered a great deal.

‘Wuthering Heights. Emily Brontë.’

‘Wuthering Heights,’ he said, nodding, and I tried not to laugh at his pronunciation. Wuzzering Ites. I was impressed he had heard of it. I couldn’t have named a nineteenth-century French novelist if my life depended on it. I had some homework to do. I was wasting my life on fashion magazines when I should be delving into literature and improving my mind. So I could impress beautiful, clever Olivier, who was looking at me as if I had the answer to everything.

What did he see in me?

Maybe me being English was as exotic to him as him being French was to me?

Maybe he was taken in by my designer clothing?

Or maybe it was simple chemistry? We certainly couldn’t tear our eyes away from each other, and took every opportunity to brush fingers or touch each other on the arm. There was an undercurrent of something more to come thrumming between us. It was thrilling. Like nothing I had ever felt before.

The bar was starting to close. It was gone midnight by now. We finished our drinks reluctantly and stepped out into the oyster-grey of a Paris night. I shivered in the persistent breeze that seemed to follow us around every corner. He took the yellow scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around mine, tying it in the kind of knot I would never be able to manage. I stood stock-still under a lamp post, gazing up at him, thrilled by his chivalry, his kindness, his gentle touch. He held onto the ends of the scarf for a moment, then used them to pull me closer to him.

To be kissed for the first time in the lamplight, under a watchful moon, in the middle of Paris, is a wonderful thing.

17

Juliet looked at Nathalie as she remembered that night, that very first kiss. How much should she tell her? She wasn’t sure she was quite ready yet to disclose the past. She was still trying to make sense of it herself, and she hadn’t reached the turning point in her story yet. The moment she’d regretted every night of her life since.

Maybe telling Nathalie what she’d discovered today would put her off the scent. She got out her phone and found the link to the article. Yet again, her pulse quickened as she saw Olivier’s image on her screen. He felt so near, and yet so out of reach.

‘I found this, just before I came out. What do you think?’

Nathalie’s eyes raked through the words. ‘Oh my God. I had no idea. We lost touch, just after he got married. I don’t think his wife cared much for me. She was very buttoned up.’

‘Did you meet her?’

‘She was American too. Very Ivy League. Very conscious of status. She one hundred per cent married him because of his parents.’ She tapped Olivier’s image on the screen. ‘You need to get in touch.’

‘He’ll have met someone else by now,’ Juliet said. ‘I mean, look at him.’

‘But maybe not.’

‘He won’t want to see me.’

‘You’re kidding? I had to pick up the pieces when you disappeared. He was bereft. Night after night, I had to listen to him wondering what he’d done wrong. He was broken, Juliet.’

‘I’m sure he’s got over it by now.’

‘But maybe the magic would still be there.’

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