Page 19 of Thirty Days in Paris

Nathalie nodded. ‘My mum wasn’t interested in me. She was … is … an alcoholic. My father refuses to believe it. Which is why I’m here and I’m never going back.’

There was a bleakness in her expression that scared me. Part of me wanted to dig deeper, but I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t yet have the knack of interrogation. I couldn’t bring myself to ask deeply personal questions – not in those days. I was scared of what might come out.

‘Oh. Gosh,’ I managed instead. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Hey. Don’t be. What’s the problem? I get to spend the rest of my life in Paris with my amazing aunt. Who seems to like having me around, unlike my actual family.’ She grabbed the bottle and topped up our glasses and I sensed the difficult part of the conversation was over. ‘I’ll take you to her store. She sells second-hand designer clothes. You’ll freak when you see them.’

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as we demolished the wine, watching the ebb and flow of the clientele. Every single person who came in looked as if they had a story to tell. They looked so different from the people I was used to. Just the assertive way a man would swirl the wine in his glass, or how a woman would light her cigarette from a stranger. I feasted my eyes on them, picking up their characteristics, noting the ones I would adopt in my attempt to become more cosmopolitan.

We were three quarters of the way down our bottle when the door opened and a boy about our age sauntered in. He was wearing a pale-yellow scarf tucked into his overcoat and the sight of it made my heart thump. Sometimes it’s just the tiniest thing that starts an obsession. I could imagine it between my fingers, as soft as a feather: it was the colour of ducklings and I wondered if someone had chosen it for him, then tortured myself wondering who.

He unwound it and draped it on the back of a chair, then pulled a paperback from his coat pocket and sat down to read, pausing only to look up at the waiter with a smile and order something. I had never seen anything like him. Shaggy tousled blond hair, cheekbones to die for, and a mouth that was made for … well, the very thought made me melt. He was running his thumb over his bottom lip as he read, and I imagined its warmth. I gulped some wine and caught Nathalie’s eye. She was laughing at me.

‘Who is that?’

‘That’s Olivier. Olivier!’ She called over to him, and he looked up.

For a moment, his expression didn’t change, then his gaze fell on me. I could barely breathe. He stared at me intently for a good five seconds. I couldn’t look away.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ murmured Nathalie as he stood up to walk over. ‘There’s a massive queue.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘And he’s a total heartbreaker. I have wiped up a lot of tears.’

That didn’t matter, because I wouldn’t have a hope. But even if I wasn’t in the running, I smiled to think I was in a city where someone like Olivier could just walk in and sit at the next table. I had never seen anyone like him in Worcester. Not even close. The cafés I went to had spotty youths or fat middle-aged men wiping up their egg and bacon with fried bread. Otherwise, I went to pubs, where the men drank beer as fast as they could.

‘Hey, Nathalie.’ He pulled out the other chair at our table and sat down. ‘Hi,’ he said to me, and laid the book he’d been reading on the table. I glanced at the title. Le Grand Meaulnes. I didn’t know what that meant, but he had seemed lost in the pages.

‘Olivier, this is Juliet,’ said Nathalie. ‘She’s at my language school.’

‘Hello,’ I said, Julie Andrews-prim.

I took in his soft sweater, his long legs in black jeans, the battered baseball boots. He was still looking at me, and I blushed.

‘The brightness of those cheeks would shame those stars,’ he said. It sounded impossibly sexy in French.

‘Are you drunk?’ Nathalie asked him.

‘It’s Shakespeare,’ I said. ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

Nathalie rolled her eyes. ‘Show-off.’

‘Doesn’t everyone quote Shakespeare to you?’ Olivier asked me.

‘Not really,’ I laughed. ‘No one I know knows any. Even though I live near Stratford-upon-Avon.’

‘You do?’ This seemed to pique his interest.

Nathalie was looking backwards and forwards between us.

I felt awkward, being the centre of attention. ‘It’s about twenty miles away.’

‘Wow.’ Olivier had a dreamy look in his eye. ‘So, what’s your favourite Shakespeare?’

I floundered for a moment. I could answer this question. I’d done plenty of it at school. ‘I guess Macbeth for drama,’ I stumbled. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream for comedy. But for love – it does have to be Romeo and Juliet.’

‘Of course.’ Olivier nodded, thoughtful. ‘But King Lear. That is the greatest.’ He circled his thumb and forefinger to confirm his opinion.

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