Page 20 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘I’ve seen it,’ I said, excited. ‘At the theatre in Stratford.’

It wasn’t quite true. We’d been shown a film of the performance, in English Lit. But I was desperate to impress him, and I was fairly sure he couldn’t disprove my claim.

He shook his head in amazement. ‘You are so lucky.’

I felt as if we were in a bubble. As if everyone else in the bar had melted into the background, their voices a distant buzz.

‘I don’t want to break up the Shakespeare Appreciation Society,’ said Nathalie. ‘But this bottle’s empty. Are we going to get another?’

‘I will get it.’ Olivier stood up and sauntered over to the bar. I gazed after him.

‘Oh my God,’ breathed Nathalie. ‘I’ve never seen that before. An actual real-life coup de foudre.’

13

Juliet’s screen was filling with dozens of pictures, for Olivier Godard wasn’t that unusual a name.

She searched hungrily for his face, dismissing each one: too gaunt, too old, too young, too dark, too grizzled. She had to look closely, for a person could change a lot in thirty years. Hair loss, weight gain – there were many things that could alter someone’s appearance beyond recognition, but his features were embedded so deeply in her memory, she would recognise him.

And then, after she had nearly given up, there he was. Older, but possibly even more alluring for it, wearing his age beautifully. Shorter hair, a few laughter lines, wisdom in his eyes where once there had been the defiance of youth, which, if you knew him, was obviously to cover up his shyness. He was at a table, his right hand curled around a glass, giving a wry half-smile to the camera.

Juliet took in a sharp breath. She could almost smell him, across the years. She imagined his Ralph Lauren mingled with her Dewberry from the Body Shop. Their scents had summed them up, his so sophisticated for the time – she imagined his Parisian maman wrapping it up for him for Christmas – hers so mainstream and high street and naïve.

Nowadays, she wore exclusive boutique perfumes with ridiculous names bought from Liberty. Scent was one of her indulgences. It didn’t require you to be a particular size, but it always made you feel dressed up and she had a dressing table cluttered with bottles. Had had. Most of them had been jettisoned during the pre-move declutter. She reminded herself that was on her list, a new scent for her new incarnation.

She turned her attention back to Olivier’s photo. Her indecision hung in the air. Should she dig further, and try to track him down? Try to find out if he was on Facebook or LinkedIn? Most people her age with a child or a job were on one or the other. Or she could see if there were any articles mentioning him – perhaps some infamous lawsuit, if he’d ended up following in his father’s footsteps?

Slowly, deliberately, holding her breath, she swapped the search from Images to All.

There were links to any number of Olivier Godards. An economist. A thermal engineer. Several young ones on Facebook. One who had written a book on climate change.

And then – there it was. An article in a French magazine.

‘Olivier Godard – propriétaire de la Librairie des Rêves,’ read the headline.

The owner of The Bookshop of Dreams.

And underneath, a photo of him, her Olivier, leaning against a brick wall with a pile of books in his arms, one leg crossed in front of the other. He was in jeans and a linen jacket, a checked scarf tied in a knot around his neck, and wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. And she felt that same feeling he’d always aroused in her. That peculiar warmth that was both comforting and unsettling. The pulse in her neck was suddenly replicated somewhere else, deep down inside, and she started with pleasure. She hadn’t felt that for a long time.

She swallowed as she translated the words under the photo.

After twenty years’ as a copyright lawyer, Olivier Godard realised his dream and opened a bookshop in the 10ème, turning his back on the corporate world. ‘I was tired of court cases, and after being in court myself after my divorce – Juliet’s eyes widened – I wanted to try something new. I haven’t had a moment’s regret.

He had made his dream come true. It might have taken half a lifetime, but he had pursued the thing he wanted more than anything else. She was taken back, to the memory of a boy in a bookshop, his eyes shining. And now that boy was a man—

Suddenly, she clicked on the x in the corner of the screen and his photo disappeared. This was too much, too soon. The article was a few years old, yet already it had told her more than she could hope for. But there was still too much in the way. Her guilt and shame and regret felt like an insurmountable obstacle. She was still carrying it with her, and even though it seemed as if Olivier might be in reach, he wasn’t, not really. What she had done had made certain of that.

She shut the lid of her laptop, chiding herself for opening Pandora’s box. Why prise the lid open now, after so long? She supposed it was because she was back in Paris, indulging in reminiscence, nostalgic for a time when she’d been filled with the thrill of it all, the excitement and the exhilaration of feeling slightly out of control, swept along by new people and new experiences. But maybe this was her last chance to relive those thrills? Jump-start her heart into feeling something more? Something primal and wanton.

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling guilty that perhaps she was betraying Stuart with this urge. She would never discount him as second best. He had been a wonderful husband. She wasn’t betraying him. It had been a mutual decision to part, so whatever she craved now, she was entitled to, just as he was entitled to his heart’s desire.

She chewed on her thumbnail, pacing around the little flat. She was jumping ahead, that was certain. Before she did anything else, she needed to connect with Nathalie. In some ways, she needed friendship more than anything, to give her ballast. Friends were more important than anything in life, for they were what held you together when everything else fell apart.

Juliet left the apartment and ran down the stairs, too excited to wait for the lift, then headed out into the street. She loved Paris at this time, as everyone got ready for the evening ahead. A sense of expectation hung in the air in a way it never did in London, as people stopped by their favourite épicerie or pâtisserie or boucherie to buy something to eat, or picked up a bottle of wine wrapped in tissue paper, or called in to their local bar for an aperitif. Bicycles sped past, groups of runners pounded along the pavement, a gaggle bearing yoga mats headed for an evening class. Conversation spilled out in clouds of white breath. Even the air felt different here. It caressed your cheek, full of promise. London air chivvied and nipped at you and threatened rain.

As she crossed the wide Avenue de l’Opéra, Juliet felt quite at home. She’d regained her confidence since last night’s mishap. A lot had changed, of course, but the familiar blue street signs, the cobbles, the awnings outside the bars and cafés and restaurants, set the stage for a new performance. It would be a different cast and a few new props, that was all. It was like unearthing an old dress, or an old coat, and slipping it on, and finding it still fitted you, just so.

She crossed the Place des Victoires, the statue of Louis XIV astride his rearing horse gleaming in the lamplight, and headed up towards the Sentier, the old clothing district. There were still shopfronts crowded with bolts of fabric, but now they were jostling with interior design stores and artisanal cafés. It was gentrification at its best, where old sat alongside new and both flourished from the juxtaposition. She turned into the street she was heading for and searched for the building she had seen in the magazine.

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