Page 63 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘I’m sure my andouillettes would be all the better for a pair of his testicles,’ she said.

Juliet snorted with laughter. Although they were both making light of it, she didn’t want to be in the shadow of what had happened a moment longer. Even now, it was impacting on her, as she awaited Olivier’s verdict. It was time to take control of the situation. For the first time in thirty years, she wanted the voice she had never been given.

‘I’ll bring them to you,’ she said. ‘On a silver platter.’

31

The first thought Juliet had when she woke the next morning was that she still hadn’t heard from Olivier. Maybe she never would? She certainly wasn’t going to hound him by texting him. That would be embarrassing for both of them. She still wondered if his excuse had been genuine, or if it had been the kindest way for him to step away from her. After all, she had hurt him before, so why would he want to risk being hurt again? And she thought he probably still loved his wife. There was profound sadness in his voice when he spoke of her. Juliet didn’t know why you would still be in love with someone who had been so cruel, but that was the strange thing about love. It wasn’t always logical.

The second thing she thought was that today was the day she might finally get some closure on the past. The prospect of confronting Jean Louis at last filled her belly with fire. After talking to Nathalie, she saw everything so much more clearly. If only she’d had the chance to talk to her friend at the time. Nathalie would have given her ballast and made her fight. But every escape route had been closed off, by making her feel culpable. Was it too late to stand up for herself now and make herself heard? Was there any point?

She had to do it, for young Juliet. For the foolish creature she had been. But, also, for the relationships that had been smashed up as a consequence. Her first love. Her deep friendship with Nathalie. She had lost the two people who had been so instrumental in her becoming the person she had dreamed of being.

It had taken a long time to rebuild herself and get herself back on track. She picked up the notebook that was on the bedside table, flicking through the jottings she had made that winter: the memory of that first lunch, the crispness of the chicken and the melting tarte Tatin, the visit to Père-Lachaise and the ghosts of the past, a review of Les Amants du Pont-Neuf, a description of Paris as the city prepared for Christmas. Naïve ramblings, some of it, but in the end, they had been the saving of her.

She’d written them up and used them as her portfolio to get a job as assistant to the redoubtable Maggie Lansdown, editor of Front Door, a magazine aimed at middle-class, middle-aged ladies like her. Maggie had a ferocious memory, could write a thousand-word feature in less than an hour and had her first gin and tonic at midday on the dot. Juliet had done everything Maggie didn’t want to do, from writing book reviews to recipes to answers on the problem page. The pay was dreadful, but she got digs in a sprawling house in Hammersmith full of Sloany girls her age who were much more fun and much kinder than she would have imagined, generous with their clothes and the contents of the fridge and who had an extraordinary ability to party all night and still get up for work. That had been the start of her recovery.

She put the notebook back on her desk. In some ways, she thought, her story was only just beginning.

It was easy to track down Jean Louis’ office. It was near the Palais Royal, so business was obviously good. To calm her nerves, Juliet took some time to wander through the gracious courtyard and peer in through the windows of the shops in the galeries: all out of her league, like those in the Place Vendôme, but there was never any harm in looking. She gazed at the frocks in Didier Ludot: at Balenciaga and Courrèges and Chanel, marvelling at the handiwork and attention to detail, the tiny buttonholes, the beading, the handmade lace, the luxurious fabrics and immaculate tailoring. She had always loved vintage clothing, but this store was one step beyond: a place that spoke of film stars and princesses and first ladies and a lifestyle most people would never be a part of. The love affairs, the assignations, the broken hearts. Perhaps this suit had been worn to the reading of a will that had changed lives; maybe that dress had been worn to break off an engagement; another to the funeral of a secret lover. An idea took seed in her mind. If these clothes could speak, she thought, perhaps she could be the one to tell their story?

She stopped for a moment to gather her thoughts, and listened to a cellist playing Bach’s Suite Number One. As the music floated towards her, she felt her emotions stirred with each mournful note. It was as if he was playing in memory of the girl she had once been. Perhaps, after what she was about to do, she would be able to leave that girl behind and concentrate on herself. Paris had so much to offer. She had been here a week already and had done so many things that chimed with who she was, as if the city was coaxing the real Juliet out of hiding. Not that she had been stifled, exactly, but sometimes motherhood and responsibility and work commitments smothered you, and of course lockdown and the anxiety of Covid had eaten away at everyone. She knew how lucky she was to have this chance of – what, exactly? A kind of renaissance. She had to make the most of it, and that meant shutting the door on the Beaubois household once and for all. The shadow it cast was far too long.

She made her way over to the office, his name emblazoned in gold over the door. The office was smart, on a corner, the entrance flanked with potted olive trees. The photographs of the apartments for sale made her mouth water. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the light flooding onto the gleaming parquet floors, wood-panelled walls, high ceilings, terraces and balconies, cobbled courtyards – the cream of Parisian real estate. The prices were steep, many of them well over a million. Juliet imagined the kind of people who might be able to look in this window without daydreaming, who could actually choose the one which ticked their boxes, make an appointment to view and a few weeks later have the key to their home. The kind of people who might buy a vintage dress at Didier Ludot, she supposed.

But amidst the grandeur were a few smaller apartments that she could actually afford, including the one she had stumbled across in that tiny cobbled street just between the 3ème and the 2ème. It was tiny, of course, but perfect, with its second-floor balcony and open-plan living space, with everything you might need on the doorstep. There was a boulangerie a few steps away, a little café with a burnt-orange awning and umbrellas on the pavement – Juliet could almost smell the coffee and croissants in the air – and a hip cocktail bar behind a black door with standing room only. What more did a woman of a certain age need? A table by the window for a laptop, a bed with a decent mattress, a rail for a capsule wardrobe …

She still couldn’t get used to the idea that she had money in an account that could take her life in a completely new direction. Her fair share of a house they had bought when the area was run-down and no sane person wanted to live there. A house that had been riddled with damp and rotten window frames and a kitchen that cried out for a tetanus injection. Between them, she and Stuart had poured money and time and love into the four walls. And now, they had reaped the benefits of their foresight and hard work.

As she gazed at the real estate on offer, she began to have the tingling feeling that came from seeing somewhere you could imagine living. There was no reason why she couldn’t live in Paris – thanks to her passport courtesy of an Irish grandmother. What was stopping her?

She had given herself thirty days to accomplish her mission. After that, she had planned to head back to England to find herself somewhere to live, to pitch some features in the run-up to Christmas, and perhaps find the courage to submit what she had written so far to a publisher for consideration. Although she knew that, to be taken seriously, she had to finish the book, and she still didn’t know how it was going to end.

And then there was Christmas itself – the challenge of establishing some new traditions to fit their new way of living. After years of Christmas-card lists and stocking fillers and filling the freezer, she still wasn’t sure how that was going to work.

She was so swept up in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice Jean Louis come out of the office. His coat was pale caramel with a velvet collar. His chestnut hair was streaked with grey, still thick, swept back from his brow. She was close enough to smell him: a drift of something exclusive, expensive, subtle. He turned, sooner than she expected, and she realised she was blocking his way.

‘Pardon,’ she said. His eyes flickered over her and he gave her a smile of acknowledgement, a little nod of appreciation at her good manners, but nothing more. No flicker of recognition. She could reach out an arm to touch him. Declare herself. But this wasn’t a confrontation she wanted in the street. Instead, she brushed past him and pushed open the door to his office.

‘Bonjour,’ sang a perfectly made-up assistant in a sleek grey trouser suit. ‘Je peux vous aider?’

‘You have a little apartment for sale, between the Third and the Second.’ Juliet pointed towards the picture in the window.

‘Ah, oui.’ The woman smiled. ‘It is very desirable.’

‘I’d like to see it, please.’

‘Bien sûr.’ She sat down behind a computer and began to type, bringing up the details. ‘When are you free?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘How about tomorrow morning?’

At the thought of this becoming a reality, Juliet felt her mouth go dry and her heart pound. She had got this. She was in control. She wasn’t going to be afraid.

‘Parfait.’

A door opened and a woman came out with a sheaf of papers.

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