Page 88 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Juliet?’

It was a woman. A woman whose voice she recognised straight away. She would never forget.

‘Corinne,’ she said.

‘Oui.’ Corinne did not sound surprised. ‘C’est moi. Jean Louis has just told me about the apartment.’

‘Oh.’ Of course he had. They were business partners.

‘I wonder if we could meet? I have … some things to say. I hope you will listen.’ Corinne sounded softer than she expected. Almost deferential. Her English was much better too.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Juliet, wary.

‘Just half an hour. Please.’

Juliet stared down the river. There were Christmas lights up on the plane trees on the pavements, she noticed. Thirty years ago, she’d been so excited about her first Christmas in Paris.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘Meet me at the Café de la Paix at three o’clock. It’s on the Place de l’Opéra.’

‘I’ll see you there.’

Juliet hung up, surprised at how calm she felt. She didn’t feel afraid. She knew there was nothing more Corinne could do to hurt her. There was just time, to slip back to her apartment and put her things away.

Afterwards, she couldn’t resist heading onto to the Rue Saint-Honoré and down to the boutique she had passed every day on her way to the mini market. In the window was a sleek black shirt dress with lace sleeves. She had eyed it up with longing every day since she had been here. It was the ideal dress for facing her nemesis. It would make her feel strong, powerful and in control.

She tried it on. It fitted perfectly.

‘I would like to wear it now, please,’ she told the assistant.

And she stepped out into the street to find a taxi, the picture of elegance, the kind of woman you turned your head to look at.

At three o’clock on the dot, Juliet glided into the Café de la Paix. This was a grander place than she was used to, with its old-school opulence, but she wasn’t intimidated. Instead, she lapped up her surroundings: the belle époque décor in cream and pale green, with fluted columns and the ceiling painted with a celestial sky. Yet again, she felt as if she was in a film. She could almost hear the soundtrack, a percussive beat building in time with her heartbeat. The confrontation of two women linked by the same man.

Corinne was there, sitting at a table by the window, half hidden by a vase of lilies. Her hair was brushed back into a loose chignon. She had gold hoop earrings, carmine nails and lips. The epitome of Parisian chic, supremely confident and bien dans sa peau.

They brushed cheeks, barely making eye contact, and Corinne signalled to the waiter to pour Juliet a glass from the bottle of pink rosé in a bucket by the table. When they each had a glass, they looked at each other.

‘I have had this conversation in my head so many times,’ said Corinne. ‘I never thought I would have the chance to speak to you. But when Jean Louis told me you were buying that apartment, I wanted to explain some things.’

‘OK.’

‘We were in a very bad place when you were with us. I was not well. Jean Louis did not know how to manage.’ She shrugged. ‘That is how it was for men at that time. Now it is better, I think.’

‘If you’re lucky, yes.’

Corinne looked at her. ‘You have been lucky?’

‘I’ve been very lucky.’

Corinne was fiddling with a diamond on her ring finger. Whether it was subconscious or demonstrating to Juliet the strength of her marriage by the substantial number of carats in it, she couldn’t be sure.

‘I want to apologise to you,’ she went on. ‘And to thank you.’

‘Thank me?’

‘As I said, I was not well. You arrived, and you brought something into our lives. I think we all fell a little in love with you. All of us. You showed us how it could be: a happy family with happy children. But it was impossible.’

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