Page 50 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Just wait,’ he told her, as they racked up their bicycles.

Ten minutes later, Juliet was looking down at a ball of luxurious vanilla ice cream in a porcelain mug, drowning in hot chocolate and slathered in praline cream.

‘This is the ultimate in decadence,’ she said happily.

‘Simple pleasures.’ Olivier gave her a slow smile and held her gaze just a second too long. She blushed and picked up her spoon. She felt as if there was a ball of melting ice cream deep inside her, spreading its sweetness through her veins.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For a fantastic day.’

‘It’s my pleasure. And now I can say I have seen the Eiffel Tower.’

Silence settled itself upon them as they scooped up the last of their affogatos. Juliet felt nervous. The next few minutes would dictate their future. She summoned up her courage.

‘I’m having drinks with my neighbours tonight. Would you like to come? They said I could bring a friend.’

He paused before replying, thinking it over.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and for a moment her heart leapt with expectation. ‘But I have stuff to do. There’s always a payback when you take a day off.’

‘No problem.’

She understood. She really did. He had any number of reasons not to turn back the clock. Not least that she had hurt him. And hadn’t yet explained the past to him. And the wedding ring he had been wearing spoke volumes. For him it must still represent the love he felt for his wife. Maybe he was living in hope?

But the main reason was, no doubt, that he was wary of getting hurt again. They might think they were tough at their age, but they were as soft as anything underneath their shells. They were vulnerable. Unlikely to bounce back. Just as they had more physical aches and pains, so they had more emotional ones too. Bruises lingered. Sores were there to be prodded and poked at. He was wise to be cautious.

That didn’t make her any less disappointed.

They left the bicycles on the Île Saint-Louis and walked over the Pont Marie onto the Right Bank. The sun was low in the sky, the plane trees on the banks of the river casting long dark shadows on the water.

‘I go this way,’ said Olivier, pointing to the east. ‘You will be OK? Your legs still work?’

She needed to know if she would see him again, but she couldn’t show it.

‘Oh, I’m fine. I can always get an Uber if I flake out.’

‘Have a good evening.’ He was suddenly stiff and formal.

‘And you.’

Was that it? Would they not see each other again? She couldn’t find the words to ask. Had today just been an act of chivalry on his part? Had it meant nothing? There’d been moments when she’d felt a warmth between them flicker into life, but somehow he had always backed away at the final moment.

‘You’re here for a while, right? Message me if you are at a loose end.’

He smiled, put his hand up in a farewell gesture and walked away.

She had no idea what to think. Message me if you are at a loose end? It was the kind of thing you said to a business associate who had rocked up in your city. Or a very old friend you weren’t that bothered about seeing again. He was just being polite.

The sun slipped behind the horizon, taking any vestige of warmth with it. The lamps along the Seine glowed in defiance. The river turned to pewter. Headlights gleamed, pointing the way through a rush of evening traffic. Everyone stepped up a pace, eager to get home before the rain fell, for you could smell it in the air.

It began before Juliet had walked two hundred yards. Fat drops that started slowly, then gathered pace, until they were falling so fast that everything smudged into a symphony of gold and grey. If she stopped to get a cab, she would get even wetter. She hurried on, head down, pulling her cagoule out of her rucksack, struggling into it far too late, for she was already soaked to the skin.

At last, she reached the apartment. She shivered as she headed up in the lift. The last thing she felt like was going to drinks with a room full of strangers. She felt deflated. All the shine of a wonderful day had faded to nothing, swallowed up by her insecurity. Melissa wouldn’t miss her. Her friends would all be young and vibrant and beautiful. They didn’t need her there reminding them they would reach middle age one day and have the light inside them dimmed.

Inside the apartment, she gave herself a talking-to. A shower, fresh clothes, make-up – she would feel a different person in less than half an hour if she put her mind to it. Melissa had been so kind to invite her, and she was in Paris to step out of her comfort zone, not sulk on the sofa scrolling through her phone and bemoaning her lost youth. Self-pity was probably the least attractive characteristic. She was the only person who could snap herself out of it – and she had the perfect opportunity.

At just past seven o’clock, she knocked on Melissa’s door with a bottle of champagne from the cave down the road, wrapped in white tissue.

‘Oh my God, I’m so pleased you came. There are so many people dying to meet you.’

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