Page 69 of Thirty Days in Paris

She didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

How nice to hear from you. I’d love that. Thank you. P

Polite. Enthusiastic. To the point.

She felt a fizz in her stomach. A smile spread across her face. She was excited, she thought. There was something beguiling about unknown territory. Meeting up with a stranger she had met on a train. How romantic, she thought. She was proud of her boldness. It was very liberating, after many years of marriage, to have the courage to act on impulse.

This meant a mercy dash to Zara, she thought. There was a big one in the Fifth. If she hurried, she could pick up a new outfit without splashing out too much. The Zadig and Voltaire dress was a bit dressy for a gig with someone she didn’t really know. She needed casual-but-sexy-but-not-too-sexy. It was quite the brief.

As she waited for Paul later that evening outside L’Olympia, Juliet felt skittish with nerves. She tried to shelter herself from the night breeze which was only adding to her anxiety. This whole evening could be awkward. What if he was awful? At least they would have the performance to distract them, and she could make her escape. She worried that her outfit was a bit mutton. She’d bought some pewter-coloured leggings and a cream off-the-shoulder sweater that had seemed just right in the changing room, but now she veered between thinking the leggings were a bit over the top and the top showed too much clavicle.

She felt a touch on her elbow and turned around. He was there, smiling, looking as urbane and cool as she’d remembered.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘This was such a nice surprise. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’

She shrugged sheepishly. ‘I didn’t want the ticket to go to waste. And I don’t know many people in Paris.’

‘Let’s go in.’ He put a hand on her elbow and guided her through the crowds. Chivalrous, she thought. Taking control, but not in a controlling way. Confident. Confident was good.

As they queued to get through the bag check, her phone beeped. It was a message from Stuart. A photo of him dressed in his new outfit, ready for his date. Her heart buckled at the sight of his sheepish smile, the blue shirt he’d chosen (on her advice) that was ever so slightly too big because he obviously wasn’t used to his new size, and the freshly trimmed designer stubble he had started to sport. She gulped. She’d better be nice to him, whoever she was, the A and E consultant. She’d better be kind to her Stuart.

Marks out of ten? he asked.

It’s a ten from me, she replied, wondering why she suddenly felt emotional. It was the same feeling you had when you sent your child off for their first overnight school trip. You knew they’d be fine, but you still worried yourself silly, because they were vulnerable.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Paul as he led her towards the bar.

‘Fine. Yes. Just … home stuff.’

‘Enough said.’ He made a face, as if he sympathised.

She didn’t know anything about him. There were a few key questions she should have asked, surely? Maybe it didn’t matter. As he had said on the train, this is Paris.

And she felt a thrill among the crowd as they edged into the auditorium and made their way to their seats, everyone speaking in the language she was becoming accustomed to, now much more able to pick out what people were saying than she had been even a week ago, her ear attuned, her confidence growing.

The concert was spellbinding. The audience were totally in thrall of the woman who held them in the palm of her hand with her performance, her voice dancing around the instruments: the thrum of the double bass, the swish of a brush on the edge of a cymbal, the plink of a piano key. There was a melancholy to the songs that spoke to Juliet: a yearning, for times past and for things that might be. Memories, regrets, lost moments. The thrill of a lover’s touch. Kisses. Tears. Farewells.

As the final song began, she felt overwhelmed with emotion. Suddenly, everything closed in on her. The end of her marriage. Her children leaving. The loss of her home. Coming back to Paris and finding Nathalie. And Olivier. And losing him again. Confronting Jean Louis and getting closure. Stuart with his silly grin in his new shirt … She felt as if she had lost everything and there was nothing left to build on. No one but herself to see the way forward. She was aware there were tears streaming down her face. The more she tried to stop them, the more fell.

Paul looked at her in concern.

‘Come on,’ he said, nodding his head towards the exit. She didn’t argue. She couldn’t stay here, sobbing her way through the finale. He took her arm as they left the building, and before she knew it, he had found them a taxi, asked for her address, and then they were gliding through the Paris night, the lights, the crowds, the traffic. She could see the Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance, sparkling, glittering, throwing its beam across the city. And she felt a sense of calm descend. Somehow, it gave her the resilience she needed. It was up to her to make the most of the time she had left in this wonderful city and not let what had happened diminish her.

Just before they turned into the street where her apartment was, they passed the bar she’d been to on her first night. She leaned forward to speak to the taxi driver.

‘Arrêtez ici, s’il vous plaît.’ Stop here. She turned to Paul. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

‘Sure,’ he said, getting out his wallet and paying the driver before she could protest.

The barman recognised her and showed them to a discreet corner. They ordered Boulevardiers.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Paul. ‘It all got a bit much, that’s all. I’ve not long separated from my husband and I think it hit me. The future. It’s scary.’ She shrugged, not sure if she was articulating how she felt very well.

‘It takes a long time, to unmesh,’ he said. ‘I still start to text my ex-wife sometimes, or see something I want to buy her. It’s never the end, when you’ve been married.’

‘So you’re divorced?’

‘Five years now.’

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