Page 46 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Putain!’ She looked outraged on my behalf and I almost laughed. I knew that was the worst word you could call someone. She patted me on the arm. ‘There will be another one. A good one.’

I gave a half-nod, a half-shrug.

‘You want breakfast? Un petit café?’

My stomach churned at the thought. I felt sick with the subterfuge. I wanted to sleep, and wake up uncomplicated.

‘Non, merci.’ I patted my stomach again and pointed to the bed. ‘Je vais dormir.’

She nodded. It was the perfect excuse, one any woman could understand.

‘Dormez bien,’ she said. ‘We will be quiet like mice.’ She put a finger to her lips, smiling.

As soon as she left the room, I crawled under the covers. I was trapped, in a nightmare of my own making. Wherever my mind turned, I felt filled with despair. Olivier had abandoned me, and I still hadn’t had time to go over why. What had happened to make him change his mind? Was it me? Or a better offer? Or a terrible accident? My heart lurched – that hadn’t occurred to me the night before. I suddenly imagined him in a crumpled heap on his rollerblades, his earphones still in, having skated out in front of an oncoming car.

As for Jean Louis, what was I to do? I was trapped here for now, and whatever I did next, I would have to face him. What had happened last night had seemed impossible to resist at the time, in our heady haze of sweet wine and moonlight and music. We each had wounds. Today, what we’d done appalled me and I began to shiver with the shock of the memory. Thankfully, eventually, sleep came to rescue me, and I fell into a deep dark hole while my mind sifted through the evening, trying to make sense of it all.

23

The irony of going cycling with Olivier when she would have done anything to avoid cycling with Stuart was not wasted on Juliet. But after trying it out the day before, it seemed logical to use a bike to tour a beautiful city, stopping off en route to admire the landmarks and maybe get a coffee or lunch. Stuart’s idea of fun on a bike was to be head down and pedal as fast as you could, covering forty or fifty kilometres. And he wouldn’t have given the time of day to the bikes dotted around Paris for public use. They were far too utilitarian and slow. Stuart’s last bike had cost an eye-watering amount of money. Juliet hadn’t resented his purchase, for she knew how much joy it brought him. She just didn’t quite understand the thrill he got, or the endless amounts of equipment he seemed to get a kick out of buying to enhance his experience.

As she waited at the Vélib’ Métropole nearest to her apartment, where they had agreed to meet, she felt a squiggle of excitement. There were five bicycles left in the rack, and she hoped Olivier would be here before they were all taken. She tried to look cool, thanking God for her sunglasses as she raked her eyes up and down the Rue de Rivoli, searching for his tousled mop amidst the tourists who were already thundering towards the Louvre.

And then she felt two hands on her shoulders, and jumped. She turned, and there he was, holding up his Vélib’ card.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Our whistle-stop tour of Paris starts here. Ça va?’

He swiped the card over the first bicycle in the rack and pulled it out, pushing it towards her.

‘Oui. Ça va,’ she replied, holding on to the handlebars.

‘So,’ he said. ‘We’ll cycle up along the Right Bank, over Pont Alexandre and then head for the tower along the river. Does that sound good?’

‘It sounds perfect.’ She looked at him, admiring his figure in faded jeans and a waterproof blouson jacket that should have looked terrible but somehow looked the height of cool. She was in her running gear, and thanked God she’d invested in some new leggings from Sweaty Betty during lockdown. It wasn’t her ideal fantasy-date outfit, but at least her sweatshirt covered her bum.

Suddenly they were off, swooshing along the Rue de Rivoli. She rode carefully, keeping one eye on the traffic and the other on Olivier. A pale blue sky emerged as the clouds drifted away obligingly to present the perfect November day: a little sun, a little breeze, a little chill in the air. She felt a smile spread across her face. She was cycling through Paris with Olivier. How on earth had this dream come true so easily? Was it a reward for all the angst? Would she wake up suddenly and find herself in an empty bed?

Eventually, they headed over the stunningly baroque Pont Alexandre, flanked by gilded winged horses and studded with cherubs and nymphs. Juliet smiled, revelling in its exuberance, this film-star of a bridge, feeling as if she herself was being tracked by a camera. She imagined the stage directions:

Juliet flies across the bridge on her bicycle, a wide smile on her face as she tries to keep up with her lover …

At the foot of the Eiffel Tower, they returned their bikes to another rack and headed towards the tourist trap that nevertheless spelled Paris and shouted its name louder than any other landmark. They rode up in the lift inside the belly of the great iron tower, then stood side by side on the viewing platform looking out over Paris: the deep green of the Seine, the trees along it tinged with autumnal orange, the white of the buildings sparkling in the sun, cars beetling along the Champs-Élysées. It reminded Juliet why she was here, why she had embarked on this adventure, and how this time she wasn’t going to let anyone take this away from her.

As she stared up at the metal girders crisscrossing over her head, she thought how much her dad would have loved seeing this magnificent feat of engineering and felt a pang. He had passed away five years before, just two years after her mum, and for a moment she missed them both fiercely. She put a hand up to wipe away a tear.

‘Hey,’ said Olivier. ‘It’s not supposed to make you cry.’

‘I was thinking about my parents,’ she explained. ‘I miss them both so much …’

He patted her arm. She didn’t need to explain.

‘It’s weird,’ she said. ‘This time of life. It seems to be all about endings. Losing people. Making changes. Life not being what you expected. Trying to figure out how to live the rest of it.’

Olivier looked at her, concerned. ‘You are very philosophical. Perhaps you have been in Paris too long already.’

‘Don’t you feel the same?’ she asked.

He didn’t reply straight away. He looked out over the city as if Paris would give him the answer they were after then looked at Juliet.

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