Page 4 of Thirty Days in Paris

Juliet swallowed, looking back down at the book, and didn’t reply.

‘That looks like an old copy.’

‘Mmm hmm.’

‘And in French. Impressive. Or are you? French, I mean.’

His eyes flickered over her and it pleased her that he might think she was.

‘God, no. But I thought it would help me improve. I haven’t spoken French for over thirty years.’

‘I must buy another copy. I lost mine years ago. Thank you for the reminder.’ He smiled. ‘I always think it’s the mark of a good bookshop, if they have it in stock.’

‘It is.’ She smiled back at him, beguiled by his remark. It wasn’t what she’d expected, to fall into idle banter about her favourite book with a stranger on a train. She sensed it would be all too easy for them to slide into flirtation. She checked out his left hand and there was no gold or silver band – not that its absence meant anything, as lots of men didn’t wear wedding rings. Stuart hadn’t.

But although she had carte blanche to embark on anything she liked with whomever she liked, she wasn’t ready yet. It would be unseemly, having closed the door gently on her marriage only that morning, to take up with the first person she met. She had written enough about rebound flings to know they had to be handled with caution.

Besides, she had a lot to do before she opened her heart again. With only thirty days to accomplish her mission, there was no time for distraction.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, bending down to pick up her laptop. ‘I have some work to do.’

He nodded and picked up his phone to scroll through his messages.

Juliet looked at her watch. She had two hours before they arrived at the Gard du Nord. She could probably write her first chapter, if she got on with it. She had trained herself not to overthink, because the more you thought about what you were about to write, the less inclined you felt to start. It was like getting into an ice-cold swimming pool. You had to take a deep breath and plunge right in.

ADVERT IN THE LADY MAGAZINE,

OCTOBER 1990

Kind, responsible au pair wanted for a French family with a new arrival in the centre of Paris to help with Charlotte 6, Hugo 4 and baby Arthur. Lovely sunny room and happy household in the 2ème – we speak a little English between us. Generous allowance and three hours’ language classes per week. Immediate start. Three months at least, please.

4

The Ingénue

‘Paris.’ My mother looked at me as if I’d said Pondicherry. Or Polynesia.

‘Yep,’ I replied, as breezy as I could manage. I could see panic, suspicion and disapproval in her eyes, combined in one, sharp look. That was Mum. Always looking for the snags. The risk. She liked to keep her world as small and as safe as possible. I could understand that. It made for an easy life. But I didn’t have to be the same. This was my first step in making sure I didn’t turn into her. Not that I didn’t love her. I just didn’t want to be her. ‘I’ve got a job as an au pair.’

‘A nanny, you mean.’ She hated it when I used foreign words. Thought I was getting above myself.

‘No. An au pair is different,’ I explained. ‘It means “equal to”. You live as a member of the family. They give you pocket money in return for helping with the children.’

‘Oh.’ She looked puzzled. ‘But why? When you’ve got a perfectly good job.’

‘You know I don’t want to work there forever. You know I want to work in fashion. If I learn some French, and get to know Paris, it would be good for my CV.’

It was all that would be on my CV, given that I’d mucked up my A levels. My first mistake was not staying on at school for sixth form, and going to the college instead, because that’s where the cool people went. (Even though I wasn’t. Cool, that is.) And the second was thinking I didn’t need to revise. (I did.) The upshot being my results were terrible and I couldn’t get a university place anywhere decent.

‘But you’re working in fashion now.’

‘No, Mum. I’m working in Ladies’ wear, in a frumpy old department store.’

She breathed in through her nose, scrabbling for an argument that would work with me.

‘You’ll be looked after for life there,’ she managed, but that was no enticement for a twenty-year-old. At that age, today was all that mattered.

I shook my head.

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