Page 51 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘There are?’

‘Everyone wants to meet a real live writer.’ Melissa drew her inside.

The apartment was twice the size of hers, bright white with colourful works of art and the kind of modern furniture that looked deeply uncomfortable but was designed to make you sit there forever. There were more than a dozen guests milling around, mostly in what looked like very expensive jeans; the women in silk shirts and high heels; the men in cashmere sweaters or beautifully cut jackets. For a moment, Juliet felt daunted. Not only did she know nobody but she didn’t speak the language very well.

Then a man descended upon her with a tray. ‘You must be Juliet,’ he greeted her. ‘I’m Bernard. Kir royale?’

She couldn’t think of a nicer way to give herself some Dutch courage.

‘Merci.’ She smiled, taking a glass.

‘Melissa tells me you’re a writer,’ he said. ‘Everyone is so excited to meet you.’

‘Oh, it’s not that exciting. I just sit at a desk all day.’

‘Oh, but it is,’ he said, charming her. ‘Come with me.’

Within ten minutes, she was embroiled in conversation with Eloise, who ran a cookery school nearby.

‘We have one space left in our class tomorrow,’ Eloise told her. ‘I’ll trade it for a write-up on our blog.’

‘You have a deal,’ said Juliet, delighted.

‘We’re doing hors d’oeuvres.’ Eloise beamed. ‘For apéro dînatoire. Everyone is crazy for it these days. Drinks with a table of canapés, for everyone to help themselves.’

It would make a great feature, thought Juliet. She would be able to pitch that as soon as she got home, in time for Christmas. The class started at nine, so she would have to be up early, but it was exactly what she needed. A sense of purpose to replace the slightly desolate hole inside her. She raised her glass in a little toast to herself.

She was home by nine-thirty, talked out and a little tipsy, but not so drunk she’d plummet back into gloom. She opened the window and leaned out, staring up at the stars, sifting through her day, the myriad emotions. She couldn’t help wondering what Olivier was doing. Thank God she hadn’t drunk enough to pick up her phone and send him a gushy text of thanks.

She did, however, send a text to Nathalie. She would still be at the bar, but she would be dying to know how the day went.

Amazing day with Olivier. Cycled all around Paris and went up the Eiffel Tower. But home alone. I think that ship has sailed. But good to put it to bed. Xx

She looked at her laptop, waiting patiently on her desk. Could she find the energy to plough on with her story tonight? She was getting to the most important part, and maybe once she’d written it all down she could find the courage to let him read it. She had always found written words easier to share than spoken ones.

She had a strong suspicion that it was the past that was keeping her and Olivier apart. It wasn’t surprising he was wary, after what she had done. But if she could explain why she’d left, perhaps he would find a way to trust her again? The thought spurred her on. She changed into her pyjamas, poured herself a glass of water so she wouldn’t feel dehydrated in the morning, and began to type.

At midnight, she climbed into bed. She checked her phone. There was a text from Nathalie.

As we say in NY, the show’s not over till the fat lady sings.

26

The Ingénue

Everyone should fall in love in Paris at least once in their lifetime.

We fell hard and fast in that city, Olivier and I. It was a strange combination of feeling as if we had known each other for ever, yet wanting to uncover all the little details about each other as quickly as we could. We shared everything we loved, pulling each other into our opposite worlds. I introduced him to The Cure and baked beans on toast – I’d found a source of Heinz in one of the supermarkets. In return, he gave me Les Négresses Vertes and Anne Pigalle and Carambars and Camus and I worried I was getting the better deal. But then I was in his country, so he was able to share more with me.

I couldn’t imagine him in Worcester. What would I show him there? A river and a racecourse and a cathedral. Parisian life seemed so sophisticated and exotic by comparison, and he was so insouciant about it, moving seamlessly between going busking with his mates in the Métro and attending a prestigious ballet gala with his parents: I saw the photos of them, glamorous in evening dress, his mother a tiny doll, his father suave and handsome.

And there was chemistry. We couldn’t get close enough, taking every chance we could to kiss, on street corners, on bridges, in dark alleyways and shop doorways, lost in each other. I’d had a poster on my bedroom wall at home, Le Baiser de l’Hôtel de Ville, by Robert Doisneau, of a young man kissing a young woman as the rest of Paris walked by, and it used to make my throat ache with longing, wondering what it would be like to feel that depth of passion. And now I knew that fierceness mixed with tenderness; the moment when desire takes over and nothing else matters.

It was another week before we slept together. We went to the cinema to see Les Amants du Pont-Neuf with Juliette Binoche, and although it was in version d’origine, I was swept up in the intensity of the love story, crying my eyes out at the seeming impossibility of a happy ending between the two vagabonds, then sobbing with joy at the final twist as they set off into the future together, the most unlikely lovers. It was the most raw and passionate and exciting film I’d ever seen.

Afterwards, Olivier led me by the hand back to his apartment. As we kissed in the confines of the tiny elevator, I knew what was coming next. We didn’t speak as we headed straight for his bed and it felt effortless and natural, so unlike my previous experiences, as he took me for the first time and we glided into synchronicity, riding into an explosion of fireworks that never seemed to end. Afterwards, I stared at the ceiling, dazed with wonder, laughing and crying until he kissed my tears away and we did it again to prove it was real.

The best thing of all was that he had given me the courage to start writing. I filled page after page in the notebook he had given me with my observations about life as an au pair in Paris. I was trying to find my voice, trying to hit a tone, trying to write things I could include in my portfolio that might attract the attention of a magazine editor. ‘How Not to Get Fat on French Food’. ‘How to Look Chic on a Shoestring’. ‘The Power of Red Lipstick’. Gradually, I grew in confidence and began to see stories everywhere, honing my journalistic eye. Though I didn’t want to think about that next phase of my life. That would involve decisions I wasn’t ready to make.

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