Page 14 of Thirty Days in Paris

I held up my fingers to show them how many hours before they would be home again.

‘Huit heures,’ I tried to reassure them, but they weren’t consoled and I couldn’t blame them because, actually, eight hours was a long time.

It was difficult, managing all three of them. I rubbed the banana off Arthur’s dear little face just as Charlotte spilled milky coffee on her pinafore dress. I was dabbing at the coffee stain with one hand, getting very flustered, when Jean Louis eventually appeared, looking immaculate in a blue suit. He ruffled the older children on the head, kissed Arthur and slid out of the door without a backward glance. Houses to sell, money to make, I supposed.

By eight, Charlotte and Hugo were ready, by some miracle, with their teeth cleaned, hair brushed and coats and shoes on. I knew it was a fifteen-minute walk to their school, so I was anxious to leave, but there was still no sign of Corinne, who was in charge of taking Arthur to his nursery.

Eventually she emerged. She looked as dressed up as she had on Saturday night, in a short black skirt and tight black jacket with large diamanté buttons and very high boots. I felt drab and unkempt in comparison.

‘Wow,’ I couldn’t help saying. She gave me the ghost of a smile and took Arthur as we all headed down the stairs in a tangle of school bags, baby bags, handbags, suffocating in a cloud of Corinne’s perfume.

Chaos hit as soon as we all got out into the street. Corinne was about to head off in one direction when Hugo suddenly threw his arms around his mother’s legs and wouldn’t let go. Charlotte joined in, the two of them howling. Gone were the sweet charming moppets of the weekend. I suspected it was an act, at least in Charlotte’s case. I could see her looking for my reaction out of the corner of her eye.

Corinne froze in panic, not sure what to do, for there were too many passers-by for her to be able to remonstrate with her unruly offspring. She tried pushing them off with the arm that wasn’t holding Arthur. I was rooted to the spot. Should I drag them off her?

Then Arthur joined in the cacophony. People were starting to look. I turned to Corinne, to ask her what to do, and to my horror, I saw there were tears streaming down her face too. Although I was intimidated by her, I felt a wave of pity. The poor woman was just trying to go to work.

‘Pauvre Maman,’ I declared, and stepped forward to take Corinne in my arms to console her. ‘Pauvre Maman.’ I patted her on the back. I could feel Corinne tense, clearly not used to spontaneous embraces or sympathy.

Hugo and Charlotte both looked up, startled. The faces were free of tears, little beasts, but they looked shocked at the sight of their mother’s. I knelt down, taking a hand each.

‘Maman must go to work,’ I said firmly. ‘And we must go to school. Courage, mes enfants. Courage.’ I raised my fist in a gesture of solidarity, dredging up as much encouraging French as I could remember.

Miraculously, they peeled themselves away from Corinne, and by now Arthur had stopped crying too.

‘Au revoir, Maman. À bientôt!’ I sang, and my charges repeated my refrain.

Corinne stood rooted to the spot, still in shock. ‘Mon maquillage?’ she asked. Her make-up was her only concern, it seemed.

‘Ça va,’ I said, though it was a little bit streaky, but that was her daytime look anyway, the slightly grungy bed hair and the smudgy eyes.

‘Merci,’ she said. ‘Merci …’

She looked broken, and I wondered if perhaps she was more vulnerable than she appeared. Instinctively, I patted her on the arm. She flinched, drew in a deep breath, flashed me a glimmer of gratitude and stalked off down the pavement. I watched her go, striding along like a model on a catwalk on her spindly heels, Arthur peering over her shoulder with his owl eyes. Then I turned on my heel and began to skip.

‘Vite, vite!’ I called to the children.

The distraction technique worked. Hugo and Charlotte began to skip after me, immersed in giggles. By the end of the street, I was out of breath and had to slow to a walk, but it had done the trick. We were on our way to school.

It wasn’t even half past eight and I was already exhausted.

Somehow, I managed to get through the first two days. As a shy person, it was torture navigating my way around an unfamiliar household, a strange neighbourhood and a different language. Every encounter took all of my courage, from handing the children over at the school gate to following the shopping list provided by Corinne, scouring the shelves for mysterious ingredients and hoping I had got the right item and the right amount. Then came the task of working out what to do with it. The children ate proper grown-up food. There was no sign of chicken nuggets or oven chips. Everything was made from scratch, except the beautiful cakes and pastries I was allowed to buy for dessert. I was used to my mum cooking for me, and my kitchen skills were not advanced. For the first few days, I relied on rotisserie chicken and the grated carrot with raisins the kids seemed to snack on – there wasn’t a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch to be seen. But I was keen to learn, because my palate was adapting quickly. Eating in France was a joy.

When Wednesday arrived, I was to have the afternoon to myself, as the children only had a half-day and Corinne was picking them up. I was signed up for language classes, and my stomach lurched at the thought of walking into a classroom environment with a bunch of strangers. Another challenge. But it was going to be the quickest way to meet people of my own age, so I screwed up my courage, put on some make-up and headed for the language school. It couldn’t possibly be harder than trying to order cheese at the counter in the supermarket, when the man had looked at me blankly until I resorted to pointing and demonstrating how much I needed by making a wedge shape with my fingers.

If I was going to survive in Paris, I needed to make myself understood.

9

Juliet was woken the next morning by a bell, plaintive and plangent, striking eight o’clock. The sound was both melancholy and reassuring. Time is on your side, it seemed to tell her. Whatever happens, the hours will still pass. It’s up to you what you do with them.

Watching the sun rise over the rooftops opposite, Juliet sat in the shaft of light as it filled her with an energy she hadn’t felt for a long time. She lay there, revelling in her freedom for a moment.

How had this happened? How had she gone from reading bags and packed lunches and dentist appointments, sports days and carol concerts and prize giving, that torturous whirl of maternal responsibility, to being able to do exactly as she pleased, seemingly overnight?

Of course, it hadn’t happened overnight. It had happened gradually: the practical tasks had got fewer as the children got older and were able to look after themselves (in theory – she was still nagging Izzy and picking up after her right until the day she left), but the emotional responsibility was still huge. She had lived every moment of Izzy’s exam anxiety last summer, helping her with a complex revision timetable, making sure she got enough sleep and ate properly. Then the agony of waiting for results: she had been awake most of the night, running over Izzy’s options, depending on her grades. Of course, Izzy had aced every one, and now she was off on an adventure.

My work here is done, Juliet had thought with a wry smile, although she knew that, of course, it wasn’t, that mothering did not stop at eighteen at all. There would be periods of not being needed, like now, but she knew the kids would always turn to her in a crisis, and crises there would be. You were just on hold.

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