Page 9 of Thirty Days in Paris

He smiled and gave a little shrug, as if it was nothing.

‘Bonne nuit,’ he said.

And then suddenly I found two little pairs of arms around my legs as the children hugged me. ‘Bonne nuit, Juliet,’ they chorused, and I managed to find the energy to laugh and bend down to hug them back.

‘Bonne nuit, mes petits,’ I said, not sure if that was the right thing to call them, but they seemed happy and I guessed that was how I would learn, by trial and error.

In the bedroom, I could hardly keep my eyes open as my clothes dropped to the floor. The sheets were cold and heavy and smooth – I was used to candy-striped brushed nylon, the same sheets I’d had since childhood that always felt a bit sticky and set your teeth on edge. The pillow was one long, hard cushion the whole width of the bed, tucked under the sheet. I thought I would never sleep, it all felt so unfamiliar, but as I snuggled down, the sheets began to feel warm and I sank into the mattress.

The memories of the day replayed themselves: the ferry and the train and the horror of the Métro and the endless walk and my aching arms. And then Corinne, glamorous and a touch intimidating. Gentle, kind Jean Louis, who seemed to be her opposite. And the two little ones, who I had already fallen in love with, and baby Arthur.

I was here, I was safe, I was in a soft warm bed and I was incredibly proud of myself.

5

Juliet was so absorbed in her writing that she didn’t notice the banlieues of Paris creeping up. There were more tower blocks, more graffiti than on that first journey, but it was the same grimy, unwelcoming vista that seemed nothing like anyone’s vision of arriving in the City of Light. But for true aficionados, this contradiction was part of the appeal: the rough, tough swagger and edginess, the quartiers chauds that were a melting pot of races, religions, ideals and philosophies.

She saved her document on her laptop and began to pack away her things, her mind still in the past. Her body was mirroring the fizz of anticipation she had felt all those years ago. She had the same empty stomach and the same surge of adrenaline, only this time she had knowledge and confidence. Nevertheless, she felt protective of the memory of her twenty-year-old self, and was certainly not going to let fifty-something Juliet come to any harm.

‘Are you in Paris for long?’ Her neighbour startled her with his question. She had been in her own world and had forgotten him.

‘A while,’ she said, vague but polite.

‘If you’d like a drink while you’re here, I’m staying in the 4ème?’

She had to admire his persistence after her initial rebuff. ‘I’m married.’ Her smile indicated that was the end of the conversation. It wasn’t a lie. She and Stuart had decided to leave their marital status for the time being. Neither of them could face the upheaval and the paperwork of divorce just yet, and they had always kept their finances separate. Maybe this would change, in time.

He gave a little shrug. ‘This is Paris.’

She laughed, despite herself. ‘Thank you, but no.’

He got the message this time, graciously, and stood up to take his coat from the luggage rack overhead. Before he left, he handed her a business card.

‘If you change your mind,’ he said. ‘It can be just a drink.’

She smiled at him, admiring the way he had managed to be persistent without being sleazy. Paul Masters, she read on the card, before tucking it into her bag, where it would join all the receipts and scraps of paper that lived in there.

As Juliet stepped onto the platform, she began to walk, fast and purposeful. There was no way she would be a victim this time. Her cross-body bag was under her jacket. She knew where she was going. She had years of international travel under her belt. She might never have been back to Paris, but she’d visited any number of capital cities. None of them had stolen her heart in quite the same way. Nevertheless, she was wary. She knew there were sharp eyes and light fingers wherever you were in the world.

She made her way through the throng to the taxi rank and joined the queue. She had made a promise to herself to walk everywhere she could while she was here – Paris was surprisingly small, so most places were accessible on foot and she needed the exercise – but on this first night she was going to treat herself.

The cold night air and the bright lights sharpened her senses and raised her pulse. Any city at night was exciting, but this was something she’d been looking forward to for a long time. She couldn’t wait to get under the skin of the Paris she had left behind.

In less than ten minutes, she was in a taxi and soon they were circling the Place du Marché Saint-Honoré, a little square lined with restaurants, their lights twinkling, the pavement terraces still crowded with people eating and drinking outside despite the time of year. Waiters wove in and out of the diners, bringing cocktails, coupes de champagne, grilled goat’s cheese salad, steak frites … Her mouth watered, but now was not the time to stop.

At the far end of the square, the taxi drove down a quiet street until they arrived at the building housing the apartment she had rented. She punched in the door code, pushed open the door into the hall and summoned the lift. She pulled back the latticed metal gate and stepped inside. It clanged shut. Inside, it was terrifyingly tiny, with only just enough room for her and her suitcase, but she took it up to the fourth floor, then dragged her case up the final flight of stairs to the very top. Another code, and she pushed open the door.

As she flicked on the lights, she gave a gasp of delight.

The entire apartment was only fifteen feet wide, tucked into the eaves of the east side of the top of the building, the left-hand wall a slope that went from the ceiling to the floor. The walls were covered in pale grey paper with a delicate shell motif picked out in silver, so it felt as if you were wrapped up in mother-of-pearl. At the far end was a bed piled high with square pillows and a velvet coverlet. A little dormer window with white shutters looked out over the street, and you could see straight into the houses opposite, with their sash windows and ornate wrought-iron balconies.

In the middle was a small sofa and a coffee table, as well as a console table with a pretty pair of gilt chairs fit for Marie Antoinette. There were paintings in battered frames and several mirrors, their surfaces soft and foxed, reflecting the light from a surprisingly large chandelier with millions of tiny crystal droplets that shimmered and twirled, throwing diamonds of light into the far corners.

At the near end was a miniscule kitchen with just enough work surface for a kettle and a toaster, a two-ring hob, a fridge and a sink. A round table with two chairs sat in front of another dormer window. And off that, a bathroom smaller than the downstairs loo at Persimmon Road.

Juliet sighed. It was perfect. Everything she needed for thirty days in Paris. It was a boudoir and a writer’s garret; a potential love nest; a place to rest, recharge and renew.

It was anything she wanted it to be.

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