Page 37 of Thirty Days in Paris

He was right. I had spent too long thinking about writing, I realised now. Words were no use to me in my head. I had to find the courage to pin them down.

‘It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me,’ I told him.

‘I don’t think so,’ he laughed. ‘But I hope it will give you courage. Writing is how we make sense of the world.’

I flicked through the blank pages, imagining them filled with my thoughts and dreams and desires; my memories. This notebook was a talisman. My turning point. ‘Thank you,’ I breathed, feeling tears pricking behind my eyelids, a little overwhelmed that someone understood me so well. Both my ambition and my fear. My yearning and my reluctance.

Olivier looked at his Swatch, his face falling. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Sunday night I eat with my parents, every week.’

Although his parents lived on the outskirts of Paris, he shared a flat near the university with fellow students, but he seemed to go home a lot.

‘OK,’ I said, swallowing my disappointment.

We left the café. It was dark now, and we huddled together as we walked back down towards the river. The lamps on the pavement sprang into light, the windows glowed golden and the air was thick with the smell of cooking as chefs began to prepare for their evening service. By the river, we sat on a bench as Olivier put his skates back on. He was going to be late for his family, so he needed the speed. He was worried about me walking back, but I felt familiar with the route now, in this city that was becoming my home.

‘I will see you soon,’ he said, his hands on my shoulders, and he leaned in to kiss me. He lips were full and soft on mine, and I could hardly bear to let him go. ‘I have lectures all week, but meet me for dinner on Friday.’

‘Of course.’ I memorised the instructions he gave me. How was I going to wait five whole days before I saw him again?

‘À bientôt,’ he said, and skated off.

I watched him glide away, to a home and a family I didn’t know, my sweet, crazy, romantic, sexy French boy. He was the first thing in my life that mattered, that was for me and me alone, and as I stood on the riverbank, the bateaux mouches gliding past on the silver water, I relived every moment of the day we’d spent together.

I would relive it every day for the rest of my life.

19

Juliet hadn’t been to the 10ème before, for it hadn’t been the fashion when she was last in Paris, but now the Canal St Martin was one of the coolest places to hang out. It forged its way through the trees, deep green, its banks lined with bars, cafés and restaurants, the nearby streets full of vintage clothes shops and record stores. It had a slightly bohemian feel, with its bursts of graffiti, and she fell under its spell straight away. The light was starting to fade, so she hurried on, crossing over a green metal bridge to the far side, searching for the frontage of the shop.

There it was. Nestled between a papeterie and a tiny delicatessen. As she approached, she slowed down. Until this moment, finding Olivier had been a fantasy. She had the power to turn it into reality, but would she have the courage?

She approached the shop cautiously from the other side of the road. The front was floor-to-ceiling glass, and on it in white lettering were the names of thousands of authors. Juliet took a deep breath and crossed the road, then stood as close as she could to the window, but she couldn’t make out anyone inside through the lettering without putting her face flat against the glass. She could either walk away or she could push open the door and walk inside.

In the end, Nathalie’s insistent voice as they left the restaurant helped her decide: ‘You guys were both convinced you were the love of each other’s lives. You have to see if that’s still true.’

Juliet didn’t see how it could be. They’d been so young. Yet no one had ever made her feel the way Olivier had. Did you only get that the first time you fell hard and fast? That magical heat, the rush in your veins, that feeling of coming home? Was she even capable of having those feelings again, at her age? Nothing much held magic anymore, she had noticed as middle age crept in. No birthday butterflies, no pre-holiday excitement, no tingle as Christmas approached.

Though Paris, she had to admit, had woken something in her. She’d felt a rush when she arrived, had been wide-eyed as she began to explore the city anew. She had felt more pleasure since she’d got here than she had done for a long time: pleasure in small things, like a tiny tarte brought back to her apartment in a cardboard box, but also the huge joy of finding she could be independent, be herself, without the eternal guilt of being a wife and mother. Life was on her terms here in a way it could never be in London, and the promise the city held thrilled her as she thought of the possibilities.

Everyone comes to Paris to become someone else; someone new.

She took a deep breath, pushed open the door and stepped inside. Everything was painted white – the brick walls, the high ceiling, the wooden floorboards – but for the shelves, which were matt black. Above them were signs in typewriter script marking out each category: la philosophie, l’architecture, les romans. There was a copper counter with half a dozen high stools, an Italian coffee machine and a glass dome containing a pile of golden madeleines.

She loved it. It was a million miles from Shakespeare and Company, with its crooked walls and books piled precariously on every surface and dust motes twirling in the sunlight. But it still gave her that overwhelming sense of wonder for what she might find among the shelves; a tingling in her fingertips as she touched each spine.

It was perfectly named, she thought, for this was a dream come true. A place for booklovers to hang out, to be inspired, to share recommendations. On a chalkboard was a list of upcoming events with authors. She imagined the room filled with buzz and chatter, a rush to have books signed, perhaps the chance to have a conversation with a writer whose work you had admired for years.

She felt a burst of pride for Olivier for having the bravery to turn his back on what was expected of him, to walk away from the family tradition and achieve his ambition. It must have taken a lot of courage.

And then she stopped in her tracks, for there he was. Perched on a stool at a wooden desk at the back of the store. He was lost in the pages of whatever he was reading, just as he had been that very first day in the café. His hair was a little duller than the blond of his youth, but it fell over his forehead in just the same way. She could see the angle of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the fullness of his mouth. As she watched, he ran his thumb over his bottom lip just as he always had when he was concentrating. She felt a pool of sweetness in her stomach and her pulse double, triple. He looked so familiar, and any doubts she’d had left her as she walked towards him, putting her hand in her bag to pull out the book she had put in there earlier that morning, intending to start to read it again.

‘Excusez moi – avez vous une copie de ce roman?’ she asked. ‘I must give this one back to the owner.’

She pushed the battered copy of Le Grand Meaulnes across the desk towards him. He looked at the book, put out his hand to touch it, almost reverently, then looked up at her.

She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. Maybe he was waiting for a reaction from her? Now she was closer, she could see the smile lines at the side of his mouth, the soft grey hairs hidden among the blonde ones, the face she had carried with her through the years.

She reached out her hand so their fingers nearly touched on the cover of the book. ‘I only borrowed it,’ she said.

---