Page 5 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘But it’s not the life I want. I want to go to London eventually.’

Mum winced and I realised I was going too fast for her. Paris. London. But it can’t have come as a surprise. She knew, from the magazines I brought home and drooled over, that I was obsessed with clothes. From the fact that I spent every last penny on cheap copies of the latest outfits in Vogue. From the posters up in my bedroom of my idols: Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Debbie Harry, Jackie Kennedy. I pored over their hemlines and heel heights and scoured charity shops for clothing that imitated their style, using my trusty old Singer sewing machine to take in skirts and dresses until I looked the part.

My dream was to work on a fashion magazine, as a journalist, writing about style icons and supermodels and catwalks. I had a long way to go before I got onto the first rung of my fantasy career ladder, but I was determined. The week before, I’d read an article in Marie Claire by a girl just like me, who had no qualifications to her name but who had worked her way up and was now a junior editor. It had given me hope.

And then I’d seen the advert for an au pair in The Lady while I was wating for a filling at the dentist. There was something in the air, jogging me to do something about my life.

I patted Mum’s hand. ‘I have to do this.’

Her eyes went a bit swimmy and she looked away. I knew she didn’t understand.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she understood only too well and didn’t want to come to terms with it. Maybe she was jealous?

Paris was my escape plan. Paris was glamour and adventure and a ticket out. I knew from the article I’d read that if I was going to get out of Worcester for good and come even close to living my dream, I had to have more to offer. I needed polish and to show a bit of initiative. Paris would give me the edge I needed. I would improve my schoolgirl French, absorb some culture and hopefully some of the chic would rub off on me while I was there. I would learn how to wear a scarf just so and get a little je ne sais quoi. I would come back soignée, sophisticated and smart and would be just what some glitzy magazine editor needed to help her get through the day. She would spot my potential and I would grab every opportunity and my prospects would soar.

‘It’s only three months, Mum. I’ll be back in the new year.’

Mum nodded, resigned. She had run out of arguments.

I imagined myself walking along the banks of the Seine, chic in a beautiful coat, my hair slightly ruffled from the autumn breeze as the leaves swirled around me, on my way to meet my lover. We would drink red wine in a tiny restaurant, talk about life and love and art, smoke a cigarette or two. I would learn everything there was to know about looking elegant. Irresistible, confident, alluring. A million miles from the parochial shop girl who had screwed up her exams.

Paris was going to save me from myself, and turn me into the person I wanted to be.

Of course I was sick on the ferry over. Of course I was. I sat upright on my chair, one hand on my case to stop it rolling about, the other on my handbag, feeling my stomach churn as the boat pitched from side to side. And the more I tried not to think about it, the worse I felt. The black coffee I’d got out of the vending machine swirled around in the pit of my empty stomach, scouring the lining with its bitterness.

I was riddled with nerves, even though it was only a short trip from Dover to Calais and there wasn’t a great deal that could go wrong. But I was worried about making my train connection and kept flipping between looking at my watch and checking the time on my ticket, wishing I’d booked a much later train instead of the morning one. But then it would be dark when I arrived in Paris, and that prospect made my mouth go dry.

This was not the image I’d been aiming for when I’d got ready to leave. I knew I looked uptight and uncool and it was glaringly obvious I wasn’t used to travelling. I wished I looked like the girl opposite me, who was sitting with her feet up on the seat, Discman earphones on, chewing gum, in jeans and a big plaid shirt. I was overdressed in comparison, in my denim pencil skirt and the tweed jacket I’d sewn big gilt buttons onto thinking it would look like Chanel. It did in Worcester, but out here on the open seas it just looked naff. I saw the girl look me up and down and smirk a bit.

I felt the coffee bubbling up again and couldn’t bear the thought of being sick in front of her. I dashed as quickly as I could to the toilets, dragging my case with me, not daring to ask her if she would keep an eye on it.

The coffee came straight up as I leaned over the bowl, and I felt instant relief. That’s the one good thing about being sick.

It took me ages to open my case and dig out my toothbrush and toothpaste so I could do my teeth before making my way back to my seat.

I sat down again, feeling pale and shaky, and looked at my watch. Only another hour. Normally at this time on a Saturday, I would be in the accessories section of the shop, tidying up the packets of tights, rearranging the scarves and keeping an eye out for anyone who wanted assistance. For a moment, I wished I was back there, safe and sound, wondering what video to get from Blockbuster on my way home. The last movie I’d taken out was Thelma and Louise. I needed a bit of their adventurous spirit right now. I tried to look casual and nonchalant. I tried not to worry about whether I was going to make my connection.

By the time I got off the ferry and onto the train to Paris, I felt giddy with relief. I tried to shut my eyes and go to sleep, but then I worried about missing the stop. I was cold, too. The temperature had dropped and my tweed jacket wasn’t very substantial. I had disregarded my mother’s pleas to wrap up warm, and now I regretted it. I was still a bit tender inside from the puking, too. I should have got something to eat, to give me a bit of strength, but I was too nervous to leave my seat and my case and go to the buffet bar.

I picked up my book, hoping it would take my mind off it. It was The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy. I’d found it in the bookshop I frequented on my lunch break, and the title drew me to it, because it was a bit odd. I read the first page and fell head over heels with the heroine, who had dyed her hair pink and was wandering through Paris in an evening dress – in broad daylight. I fell in love with her effervescence.

This was who I wanted to be. A free spirit, in charge of her own future, open to everything life had to offer. It lifted my spirits a little.

Eventually, we hit the outskirts of Paris. It looked forbidding under a dirty yellow sky: a tangle of tower blocks and pylons and the occasional spire of a beautiful church peeping between the concrete. We slid into the Gare du Nord with a wheeze of brakes. I dragged my case off the train and stepped into chaos.

The station was overwhelming. It made Paddington, where I’d been a few times, look sleepy. I couldn’t understand a word I was hearing. I wasn’t even sure half of it was French. I spotted the Art Nouveau sign for the Métro quite quickly and descended underground, bumping my case on each step and trying not to mind the pushing and shoving as the other passengers charged ahead. I could hear the sound of a violin keening above the hubbub, a wild gypsy jig. I smelled sharp sweat and pungent cigarette smoke and exotic perfume on top of the occasional waft of stale wee. Beautiful women strode past me; hot eyes roamed my body, for what I wasn’t sure.

I felt a million miles from home and for a moment I longed to be back in our little terraced house. Dad would be heading to the chip shop later and I imagined the heavy, damp packages being unwrapped with reverence, steam curling.

Stop it, I told myself. This is Paris. This is your dream come true.

I battled my way to the kiosk where I needed to buy a carnet of Métro tickets. I’d been to the library to look it all up and memorised my first journey: one stop to the Gare de l’Est, then change to the pink line, then six stops to the Pyramides.

I approached the ticket kiosk, the words I had also memorised repeating themselves in my head. Un carnet, s’il vous plait. Really, there was no margin for error. I couldn’t be misunderstood. And I was pleased when the woman behind the glass nodded and picked up a bundle of tickets. I reached into my handbag for my purse.

It was gone.

With a dry mouth, I searched wildly through the contents of my bag: make-up, paperback, notebook, mints, brush, bottle of aspirin. Tears pricked at my eyes as I met the stony gaze of the woman. What was the word for purse? How could I explain?

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