Page 24 of Thirty Days in Paris

I put up my hand to touch it and felt the sticky slither of silk. I could see the name in one corner.

‘Hermès?’

‘Every girl should have one,’ Gigi told me.

It hung there, around my neck, and transformed my outfit from obvious to subtle. I felt incredibly grown-up and sophisticated. A step closer to the person I dreamed of being.

‘I want to buy this,’ I said, knowing it would transform everything else I had. I looked at the price tag. It was still astronomical.

‘Give me a few francs a week,’ said Gigi. ‘It doesn’t matter how long it takes.’

I didn’t know how I would ever repay her generosity.

I was babysitting for the Beauboises that evening when I heard the front door bang just before ten o’clock. I rushed out into the hall and down the corridor, alarmed, but it was them.

‘You’re back early.’ I smiled at them, then realised Corinne looked tear-stained and Jean Louis a little strained. ‘The children were as good as gold. I haven’t heard a sound.’

Corinne managed a smile. Her eyes were red, and there were black circles under them. ‘Merci.’ She turned to Jean Louis. ‘Je me couche. Bonne nuit.’

He went to kiss her on the cheek, but she jerked her head away and walked off towards their bedroom. Jean Louis let out a long sigh.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She needs to sleep. We should not have gone out. But …’ He shrugged, as if to say there was no arguing with Corinne.

I could see the last thing he wanted to do was follow her to the bedroom.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ I asked him.

He looked grateful. ‘Un petit café, peut-être. Merci.’

We walked towards the kitchen together. I could feel the tension in the house since their return, and it unsettled me. I wasn’t sure if my presence added to it, or defused it. Or perhaps even caused it – it must be hard having a stranger in your home. You couldn’t really be yourself or relax properly, though I tried to be unobtrusive.

I had noticed that Corinne’s mood depended on how tired she was and how much chaos there was in the house. She had a short fuse when she was under pressure. She wasn’t one of those serene types who glided through the day. It was like living on eggshells, for you never quite knew which Corinne you were going to get. I had learned, though, to ride out her moods, that she didn’t mean to be snappy, that she apologised quickly once she realised how her mood was affecting everyone. In some ways, she was more difficult to handle than the children. I sometimes felt it was Corinne who needed looking after, not them.

As I fiddled with the coffee maker that I still hadn’t quite mastered, Jean Louis produced a bottle of brandy. I’d been meaning to head off back to my room, but when I handed him his coffee, he nodded his head towards the drawing room in invitation. I felt it would be rude to refuse, and he looked as if he needed company, and he was easy to talk to – I felt quite comfortable trying to speak French to him and was eager to get in some practice. He never made me feel an idiot if I got it wrong, just corrected me in a kind way.

He put on just a couple of lamps so the room felt cosy and poured us each a glass of brandy. I took mine from him, tentative, as I wasn’t used to slugging a nightcap so close to bedtime. He sank into one sofa with a sigh of what sounded like relief, tipped his head back and shut his eyes, as if the evening had been a terrible ordeal.

I sat on the sofa opposite him and took a sip: a mouthful of fire that tasted like burnt apples.

‘Oh!’ I spluttered in surprise. ‘Oh.’

‘C’est Calvados.’ He didn’t open his eyes, but he was smiling as he took a sip himself. ‘From my grandparents’ farm in Normandie.’

‘C’est delicieux.’ I took another sip, imagining an orchard somewhere in the depths of the French countryside, the trees swinging with rosy apples.

‘We go there, with the children, for holidays. My heart is there. I hope to live there one day …’ He drifted off.

I took another sip of the drink and curled my feet up under me, sinking back into the plump sofa cushions. My limbs were languid, and I felt a gentle thrumming in my blood. It was my heartbeat, I realised. I should say goodnight, go to bed, but I felt pinned to the sofa, almost as if I’d been drugged.

Eventually, Jean Louis opened his eyes and leaned forward. ‘Thank you, for being so kind. To the children.’

‘They’re lovely.’

‘They are. But Corinne … she finds that they can be mischievous.’

‘They’re very well-behaved,’ I defended them. ‘Mostly.’

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