Page 59 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Yes, on both counts.’ Melissa smiled at her. ‘All my friends loved you, by the way. You’re like a role model. A total badass living the dream.’

Juliet laughed. ‘It won’t always be like this. I’ll be back to reality in less than a month. In the meantime, I’m making the most of it.’

Melissa high-fived her. ‘I’ll go tell Bernard he’s on printer duty. I’d only end up throwing it out of the window.’

By ten o’clock, Juliet had a neat stack of printed paper sitting on her desk. Her story so far. She ran her hands over it, wondering if what she was about to do was the right thing as she put it in a large brown envelope.

Then she picked up a postcard which had been in with her mementos. It was a little grubby, from being shoved away in a drawer for so long. On the front was a vintage picture of the Eiffel Tower covered in glitter – there were only a few specks still on it – that she remembered finding in a dusty little tourist shop. On the back, it was addressed to Olivier, and she had written a quote from Le Grand Meaulnes: ‘It is better to forget me. It would be better to forget everything.’

There was a stamp in the corner, an English stamp, but it had never been sent.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she tore a page from the notebook he had given her. She’d been using the empty pages to write notes while she was here.

This is my story, she wrote. I hope it will help you understand why I left. I took this postcard to the postbox so many times, but I never had the courage to send it to you. xx. PS I am having some people for drinks tomorrow night if you would like to come.

She wrapped the note around the postcard and tucked them both in with the manuscript, then sealed the envelope and wrote Olivier’s name on the front. Then she added PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL in the top left-hand corner.

She showered and dressed, then put the envelope in her bag, grabbed a bicycle from the rack down the street and cycled off towards the tenth. The traffic on Sundays was much quieter, so she took the scenic route, gliding through the Place Vendôme, the huge square with its golden obelisk, surrounded by shops with elegant facades and marbled walkways; shops she would never go in but could dream about. Then she headed north-east, towards the canal, wondering if he would be there, if she was doing the right thing, and what on earth she hoped to get out of it. ‘Message me if you’re at a loose end,’ he’d said. Not turn up and dump a full confession on the table. But Juliet knew in her heart that until she did get the past out there, she wasn’t going to move forward.

On the way, she cycled past a boulangerie painted in pale blue and gold with Art Nouveau panels. There was a long queue outside. She’d read about Du Pain et des Idées and its cult following, so she stopped and joined the queue. She was thinking about pitching a feature about the best bakeries in Paris and their specialities, smiling to herself as she remembered how much she loved her job – what was there not to like about this kind of painstaking research? Besides, she was starving.

It was worth the wait, the inside spectacular, with gilded mirrors and a hand-painted ceiling and dark wooden counters crammed with irresistible baked goods. She had already decided to succumb to one of their famous escargots – a pastry swirl stuffed with chocolate and bright green pistachio cream. As she devoured every last flaky crumb, she decided it had been worth the trip even if her mission came to nothing. She took a few photographs on her phone and scribbled down a few notes as an aide-memoire.

The canal was quiet and still, the last of the night mist rolling off the water. It still felt as if everyone was sleeping off the night before, just a few shops and cafés opening up with a yawn. She hesitated outside the bookshop for a few moments. Maybe the past was best left where it was? She knew she only felt that because she felt shame, and knew that she would be judged, but she had to find the courage to admit her transgression. She couldn’t hide it forever, and live in its shadow. She pushed open the door and walked in.

She sensed straight away he wasn’t there. She would have been able to feel his presence.

‘Olivier will be in later today,’ an earnest assistant behind the counter told her. ‘You are welcome to wait.’

Juliet felt a stab of disappointment, but she couldn’t face the thought of waiting. ‘Could I leave something for him?’

‘Of course.’

She handed the envelope over. ‘Please make sure he gets it. It’s very important.’

‘I’ll give it to him as soon as he gets here.’

Juliet watched as the assistant placed it behind the counter, suddenly anxious about leaving it. Then she reasoned that even if it fell into the wrong hands, it didn’t much matter. The story only had relevance to very few people. No one else would care about what had happened to a twenty-year-old girl, thirty years ago.

She left the shop, wondering what on earth she could do to take her mind off the agonising wait. She wouldn’t be able to relax until she had heard from Olivier. Monet’s Water Lilies. She reminded herself she had vowed to see them, and she loved to spend a peaceful Sunday wandering around an art gallery. She couldn’t remember the last time she had, for Stuart wasn’t really an art aficionado: old paintings bored him, and modern art made him apoplectic with fury. Juliet loved both; loved the warm tingling feeling you got when a painting really spoke to you.

She climbed back on her bike and set off towards the Tuileries, depositing her bike and walking through the bare trees until she reached the Musée de l’Orangerie and joined yet another queue.

She stood in the middle of the circular room that housed Monet’s collection, surrounded by the most beautiful artwork she had ever seen. Les Nymphéas. Water Lilies. The huge panels followed the curve of the walls, one evoking sunrise and the other dusk. The softness of the colours, the splashes of brightness, the trailing weeping willows, the total immersion into the watery world Monet had created, his passion, made calm settle upon her.

She felt overwhelmed by the presence of such genius. The scale and the certainty. The ambition. This was what she was here for. To be moved, and to feel awe, and to be inspired. You couldn’t be truly creative unless you immersed yourself in other people’s work, even if it wasn’t aligned with what you were doing yourself. And these paintings moved her deeply.

For a moment, she wished Olivier was here, so she could share the paintings with him, talk about their meaning and their purpose. Olivier had often cried when he experienced something that moved him: a film, a book, a record. She remembered him listening to the Cocteau Twins for the first time, tears streaming down his face, and her kissing them away. They’d been hot and salty on her lips.

At the thought of him, she took her phone out of her bag to see if there was a text. And there was. She stood, in the middle of the gallery, the lilies wrapped around her resplendent in green and gold, and read his words.

I would love to come for drinks. I will read your story tonight. O

She stared at the painting in front of her, her feelings reflected back in the colours of the brushstrokes. Deep dark green was the uncertainty she felt; bright yellow was the excitement at the thought of Olivier coming to her apartment. Blue as black as night was the darkness of the memories she was sharing with him. She turned slowly on the spot, following the canvasses around.

There was no beginning and no end, just a circle of eternity, and she wasn’t sure of the way out.

30

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