Page 58 of Thirty Days in Paris

It didn’t really matter why now. She had found the earrings and that was that. And the truth behind my supposed theft was a worse crime. I deserved my punishment.

When I’d finished packing, Corinne led me out of the flat with my suitcase. Jean Louis was reading the children a story and I hesitated on the threshold, longing to give them one last hug. But she pushed me through the door and herded me down the stairs, through the courtyard and out into the street. There was a car waiting outside, the driver smoking a slim cigar. He barely looked up as Corinne opened the back door and motioned me inside. She spoke fast to him, and handed him an envelope of money, then turned to me.

‘He has the money for your ticket. He will not leave until you are on the boat.’

I didn’t look at her, or reply. This was my last chance to tell her the truth. But even if I did, it wouldn’t let me off the hook. Even if it had, I couldn’t have done it to Hugo, Charlotte and Arthur, who adored Jean Louis. I had to sacrifice myself to save their marriage, and for the children.

So this was goodbye. To Paris, to adventure, to my dream and to the beautiful boy I had grown to love.

As the car drew away down the street that I had started to think of as home, tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I hadn’t wanted the Beauboises to see me cry, but the reality hit me as I realised I would never run down the pavement knowing that in a few minutes I would be in Olivier’s arms, my mouth on his in a lingering kiss, our fingers entwined.

The driver didn’t say a word, just fixed his eyes on the road ahead. He drove with quiet determination through the streets, and I felt everything slipping away behind me: the Eiffel Tower, the Sacré Coeur, the bridges over the Left and Right Banks I’d come to know so well. There would be no more melting croque monsieur to devour when hunger hit, no more dumpy glasses of citron pressé to make my tongue tingle, no more bottles of cheap red wine that made your teeth purple if you drank too much. I wouldn’t need all those words I’d learned that fell from my mouth so easily now: Oh la vache! Chouette! J’ai la pêche! I wasn’t fluent, but I felt much more comfortable speaking French than I had done. I didn’t need to think so hard when I spoke it.

As we hit the autoroute that led to Calais, I fell into a troubled doze. When we stopped at the aire for a break, I didn’t even have the spirit to think about doing a runner while the driver was in the toilet. I could have hidden somewhere, then hitched a lift to … where? Instead, I used the phone to call my parents. It was ten o’clock in England, nearly time for them to go to bed.

Thank goodness my dad answered. I imagined my mum on high alert, knowing that whoever was calling would be the bearer of bad news at this time of night, watching Dad’s face for his reaction to measure the extent of the calamity.

‘Dad,’ I said, my voice small. ‘I’m coming home.’

‘All right, love,’ he said, with the calm that made him good at his job.

‘I’m getting the night ferry.’

‘Do you want me to come and pick you up?’

Normally, I’d have said no. It was an awfully long way for him to drive. But my longing for the comfort of family was bigger than my conscience.

‘Yes, please.’ My voice was choked with tears.

I felt the driver’s hand on my shoulder. I turned to gesticulate I would be two minutes and he nodded. For a moment, I saw a flicker of compassion on his face. I didn’t know how much he knew, only that he’d probably been paid enough not to sympathise with my plight.

‘I’ll be there,’ said my dad. My kind, dependable, wonderful dad. I imagined him in his tracksuit trousers and corduroy slippers, flapping a hand at my mum, who would be hopping up and down in anguish, longing to put her two pence in.

Five minutes later, we were back on the road.

At Calais, the driver bought me a ticket, slipped it inside my passport and led me to the queue of foot passengers. I was shivering: the sea air was so much colder than the city air, filled with salt and an invasive damp that worked its way through my coat. He stood with me until I reached the head of the queue and handed over my ticket, gave me a nod of farewell as I reached the entrance to the gangplank, then disappeared off into the night, his mission completed.

I spent the first part of the journey on the deck in the freezing cold, gripping the handrail, staring down into the black water. I must have been crying, for at one point a woman put an arm around my shoulder, led me inside to the canteen and bought me a watery cocoa.

‘No man is worth your tears,’ she told me as we sat at a plastic table, the boat pitching and rolling. I put my head in my arms, exhausted, and she patted my back for a few moments. When I looked up, she was gone and my hot chocolate was cold, covered in a slimy skin. I threw it in the bin and huddled up on one of the passenger chairs, remembering the journey over and my excitement, my anticipation, my nerves. Now, I was filled with despair and a cold dread.

At Dover, I saw my dad on the other side of the barrier, in his grey Saturday jumper with the zipped neck. I buried myself in his arms, smelling the familiar scent of washing powder and shaving foam and him.

‘It’s all right, love,’ he told me.

It wasn’t, and it never would be. But I was going home.

29

It was two o’clock in the morning before Juliet finished writing. She felt drained with the effort, but it was done. She reread her words, trying to be objective. Even now, she could still feel the pain of her betrayal, the bewilderment, the sense of loss … Of course, in comparison to some situations it was hardly traumatic, just a series of events involving human beings who were fallible, who had made mistakes, but she had definitely been the one who had paid the highest price. At the time, she had thought she deserved it, but now, she wasn’t so sure. She felt a surge of anger at the injustice as she closed her laptop.

Olivier and Nathalie had paid for those mistakes too, and she owed them both an explanation. She was gratified at how generous they had both been, welcoming her back into their lives without judgement, and part of her was anxious that once they knew the truth, they might not be so forgiving. But at her age, she knew honesty and transparency were invaluable and crucial. She had to be courageous.

She fell into bed, and slept surprisingly soundly before waking later than usual. Outside, she could hear the bells from the church in the next street. It was Sunday morning. She could lie in until noon if she wanted. But she wasn’t in the mood for indolence. She was on a mission. She had plans.

She looked out of the window and saw Melissa coming back from a run. She jumped out of bed and stepped out of her apartment into the corridor just as Melissa came out of the lift.

‘Excuse my pyjamas,’ she said. ‘But two things. Would you guys come for a drink tomorrow night? And do you have a printer I could borrow?’

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