Page 21 of Thirty Days in Paris

There it was. A flat, rather austere stone front with black metal windows and doors, and above them in blood-red paint were the words: She Cried Champagne. It was a slightly forbidding edifice, but inside the light was low and welcoming. Juliet peered in and could see a black-and-white-tiled floor, wooden tables in burnished oak and red enamel lights hanging from a high ceiling. There were just a few people inside, but Juliet knew that in the next hour or so there would be no chance of a table, or a seat at the bar that ran along the back. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The warm, yeasty scent of fresh bread, strong cheese and charcuterie hit her straight away. Along one wall were ranks of open-fronted wooden cubes filled with wine bottles. Behind the bar, a huge mirror had a menu painted on it in white italics: Croque monsieur au Comté et jambon de pays. Sardines. Saucisson. Brillat Savarin. In the background, a piano plinked and a girl sang of new love and long nights.

It had a rough glamour that oozed sophistication. Everything, from the thick white china to the chunky glasses and sharp wooden-handled knives, had been chosen to suit the mood: unpretentious, utilitarian, but somehow just right. Who wouldn’t want to sit here with their lover, starting with a Campari, the medicinal sweetness giving you a gentle buzz?

A girl in the same long black apron Nathalie wore in the photograph approached her.

‘Bonne soirée, madame.’

‘Bonne soirée. Je cherche Nathalie? Elle est ici?’ Juliet said, suddenly awkward.

‘What is your name, please?’ the girl asked in English.

Juliet felt a flicker of disappointment that, despite her best efforts to speak French, it was being ignored. ‘Je m’appelle Juliet,’ she replied, not giving in.

The girl nodded and walked away to a door at the back which presumably led to the kitchen. Juliet’s heart was thudding as she waited. She tucked her hair behind her ears and tried to catch her reflection in the mirror to check it. Was her makeshift bob holding up, or did it look as if she’d hacked it off with the kitchen scissors?

And then Nathalie was there, walking towards her, her arms crossed just as they were in the photograph. Just as Juliet remembered her, that gesture of semi-defiance, semi-self-protection.

‘Nathalie.’ Juliet felt a wave of something that could only be love, it was so strong and sweet. She stepped forward with a smile.

‘Avez-vous une réservation?’

Juliet stopped in her tracks. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I know the owner. I thought she might swing me a table.’

There was one more agonising moment while Nathalie stared at her, then she couldn’t maintain her act any longer. She began to laugh.

‘Juliet goddam Miller. What the fuck?’ She grabbed her and hugged her. ‘You didn’t think to warn me? You could have messaged me. There’s this thing called Facebook, for keeping in touch with old friends.’ She punched her on the arm in chastisement. ‘I hate surprises.’

‘I used to send you messages all the time,’ said Juliet. ‘You never picked them up.’

‘Oh shit.’ Nathalie looked shamefaced. ‘I’m terrible at getting back to people. I know I am.’

They stood for a moment, the two of them, hugging each other, breathing each other in, feeling the familiarity of each other’s warmth, feeling their friendship flicker into life again. Juliet could feel Nathalie’s energy, her muscles coiled, ready to spring like a tiger, always in fight-or-flight mode.

Juliet had more friends than she knew what to do with, collected over the years. Friends for different moods: friends for drinking, friends for shopping, friends for mulling over the meaning of life. Friends she adored; friends she sometimes wanted to kill but who somehow redeemed themselves in the nick of time. But none of them had opened her eyes to a new world and a new way of being like Nathalie had.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ she breathed.

Nathalie slid out of her embrace. Emotion was always on her terms. If she hadn’t initiated it, she found it claustrophobic. She went behind the bar to the wine fridge, pulling out a bottle of white wine slick with condensation, then took a piece of chalky white cheese from a cabinet to put on a plate and headed over to the nearest table.

‘You’re honoured to get this.’ Juliet watched as she opened the bottle deftly. ‘I was saving it for a special occasion.’

She poured an inch into a glass, swirled it around and inhaled deeply, then took a mouthful. She rolled it around her tongue, then nodded in approval and filled Juliet’s glass before topping up her own.

Juliet looked around the little bar. It was still early, but she could imagine it full of chatter and laughter, heated debates, whispered compliments, shared secrets, promises, farewells … It held the two of them, the dimmed light making their skin glow, the air filled with the tang of freshly lit candles.

‘This place is wonderful,’ Juliet said. ‘It’s like you, come to life.’

Nathalie shone with pride. ‘It’s the thing I’m most proud of in the world. But it’s incredibly hard work. And you can’t just walk away. It’s a bit like having a child.’

There was a momentary flicker of something in her eyes, but Juliet didn’t press her. Not yet. There was time for the hard stuff to come out. She wasn’t ready to share either.

Instead, they clinked glasses, and drank. Juliet could tell immediately she was drinking something more interesting than anything they usually had in the fridge at Persimmon Road. The wine was rich with a smoky edge, filling her mouth with a burst of flavour.

‘Try this,’ said Nathalie, picking up a knife to cut into the cheese. ‘It’s Pelarton – a goat’s cheese from the Languedoc.’

Juliet ate hungrily, realising she hadn’t had anything much to eat that day since her pastry. The cheese was fudgy and nutty and she savoured it appreciatively – it was perfectly ripe, and the wine they were drinking set it off to perfection. Somehow everything tasted better in Paris.

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