Page 49 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘What?’ He looked confused. ‘But I waited too.’

I frowned. Was he pretending he hadn’t stood me up? Had he woken up this morning and decided what he’d done was a bit cruel? Had his alternative arrangement not been to his satisfaction? I wasn’t going to be second best.

‘I sat at the table for nearly an hour,’ I told him.

He shook his head. ‘But you were not there.’

‘I was! Third restaurant on the left.’

‘Yes.’

‘Rue des Petits-Champs.’

He tapped his hand against his forehead. ‘Rue Croix des-Petits-Champs. Croix. C’est la prochaine rue, après Rue des-Petits-Champs.’

‘Oh my God.’

I had taken the wrong street off the Place des Victoires. I had seen ‘Petits-Champs’ and forgotten the crucial extra word. And this meant Olivier hadn’t stood me up at all. He had been waiting for me, in another restaurant, thinking I was the one who’d bailed.

‘Olivier, je suis desolée. I’m so sorry.’

We both laughed, a little shakily, as we realised we had been sitting streets apart, both thinking the worst.

‘I would never do that to you,’ I said.

The next moment we were in each other’s arms, kissing with a fevered relief, overjoyed to have worked out the misunderstanding. I thought I would faint from happiness. I breathed him in, the trace of his cologne mixed with the scent of his anxiety. He ran his fingers through my hair, tweaking my fringe.

‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’

‘My new fringe.’

‘Fringe.’ He tasted the new word as he brushed it away from my eyes. ‘I like it.’

For a moment, I had a flashback of the last time someone had stroked my hair. I must have tensed, for Olivier asked if I was OK.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ My stomach roiled at the thought of him knowing what I’d done afterwards. He mustn’t ever find out. I pictured myself lunging for Jean Louis, dishevelled and unsteady. The father of my little charges. The husband of the woman I was supposed to be helping, the woman I could see was suffering. My confidence in our reunion drained away. He wouldn’t want to be with me if he knew.

‘When can I see you?’ he was asking.

It would be OK, I thought. Jean Louis and I had our pact. Olivier need never know. I knew I would never make a mistake like that again. I had to learn to trust him, have faith in us. We worked out we could meet for lunch the next day, near his university by the Panthéon. I had free time in between dropping off the children and picking them up, as long as I shopped for their food ready for their evening meal.

We shared one last embrace and I floated back in through the courtyard on a cocktail of emotions. Joy at having Olivier back in my life, but also horror that not trusting him had led to such insane behaviour. My chest tightened with anxiety at the memory of standing in the moonlight, swaying to the music, feeling crushed by Olivier’s rejection and bolstered by apple brandy, letting Jean Louis’ attention heal my hurt. It had been reckless. I vowed I would never speak to anyone about it. Certainly not Nathalie, and definitely not Olivier. I was ashamed of what I’d done.

Later on, my chores complete, I walked as fast as I could until I reached the river. I stood on the bank, watching the bouquinistes setting out their stalls – the books, the prints, the postcards, all the souvenirs people lugged home to remind them of what they had left behind. The city that promised so much. The city of romantic dreams. The city where to fall in love was inescapable, even if it was just with Paris herself.

I loved her so much. I had jeopardised everything with my foolishness, but I’d had a lucky escape. I began to breathe more easily.

Everything was going to be all right.

25

After they’d come down from the tower, they cycled back along the Left Bank. Juliet’s legs were starting to feel like jelly. She wasn’t used to this much exercise. She looked ahead at Olivier. He was sticking his legs out, freewheeling, playing the fool, and she remembered this side of him, the mischievous silly boy, and her heart pounded a little faster. He had always been able to make her laugh.

They crossed over to the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the Seine, and headed for Notre-Dame, looking up at the towering cranes. Juliet had watched the television in horror as the flames took hold that night: it had seemed impossible to believe it was happening, but here was the evidence, right in front of them. The site was surrounded by hoardings and on them were photographs of the fire and the damage it had caused, and the plans for renovating everything using the very best master craftsmen. It was sobering, but there was hope. Notre-Dame would rise again from the ashes.

They cycled over the tiny bridge that led from the Île de la Cité to the Île Saint-Louis and pulled up outside Berthillon.

‘Ice cream?’ said Juliet. ‘It’s the middle of winter.’

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