Page 68 of Thirty Days in Paris

She walked round the table to hug her friend, laughing as she felt her squirm.

‘Are we going to do some work?’ said Nathalie gruffly, wriggling out of Juliet’s embrace. She was only good with physical interaction she had instigated.

‘We are,’ said Juliet, sitting back down. She picked up a pack of index cards. ‘OK, so each of these index cards represents a different page of the book. Each recipe gets a card, and each anecdote, and each photo. And then we can shuffle them all around until the book gets a shape. Themes will emerge – maybe each section will be influenced by a particular person, or a food type, or a wine. There has to be some logic underpinning it all. An order. Even if it feels delightfully random when you dip in.’

‘Like the best meal – it looks effortless and spontaneous, but underneath is a great deal of thought and care.’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘I’m nervous,’ said Nathalie. ‘It’s all here in my head, but I’m not sure how to get it out.’

‘That’s my job. And we can do it however you want. I can record you talking, or you can write it yourself, or a mixture. We’ll soon find a rhythm.’

Nathalie nodded, chewing on a fingernail. ‘I don’t know where to start, though.’

‘Go over to the bookcase. Find the books you admire, that speak to you.’

‘I don’t want to copy anyone.’

‘Just for inspiration. We’re not going to copy. This book will be one hundred per cent yours, I promise.’

‘OK.’ Nathalie walked over to the bookcase and ran her fingers along a row of brightly coloured spines.

Juliet could see she was daunted, but this was her forte: drawing people out and making sense of their story. She felt more excited than she had done for a long time. More excited than she was about her own book. She wondered if perhaps that had been more therapy than ambition: a way of her making sense of her past. Writing it all down had certainly given her the courage to set things right: rekindling her friendships and calling out the person who had betrayed her. And maybe things hadn’t gone quite as she had secretly dreamed – for now she couldn’t deny to herself how often she had fantasised about Olivier – but things were good. Life was exciting and rewarding.

She smiled as she breathed in the scent of the strong coffee Nathalie had brewed, the spices from the candle flickering on the mirrored coffee table, the aromatic steam from the warm cake. She watched her friend pull out an armful of books and lug them over to the dining table, leafing through them, absorbed in her thoughts. Just Nathalie in her life was enough of a reward, she thought. To have Olivier as well would have been too good to be true.

‘I’m thinking Julia Child meets Anthony Bourdain with a hint of Dorothy Parker.’ Nathalie’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Smart with a really strong voice and a sense of … rebelliousness? Old-school with a rock-and-roll edge.’

‘Ambitious,’ said Juliet. ‘Strong.’

‘I don’t really do wishy-washy.’ Nathalie stood with her hands on her hips. She was in a black leather miniskirt and a Blondie T-shirt that Juliet was pretty sure she remembered from thirty years ago. Once seen, never forgotten.

‘No,’ agreed Juliet, smiling, and she vowed that every page would be soaked in her friend’s spirit.

34

Juliet had been in Paris for over a week. She had crammed in so much already, made new friends, ticked so many things off her bucket list, had more feature ideas than she could possibly write. She was living the Parisian dream. Every morning she did her run around the Tuileries and had started to nod to the other people she recognised as she ran down the wide steps and headed through the trees. Then she took her laptop to her favourite café in the Place du Marché Saint-Honoré for coffee and croissants – they knew her by name now. She could weave her way through the traffic on her bicycle without her heart leaping into her mouth. People were starting to reply to her in French, not English. She’d been to the Picasso Museum, wandered the tranquil gardens of the Grand Mosque and sipped on sweet mint tea.

So why did she feel so flat?

Juliet lay staring up at the beams above her bed. She knew why, of course. Her hope had never faded. When her messages pinged, her heart leapt. But it was never him. It was Nathalie sending her ideas. It was Sarah and Lisa asking her to meet them for a farewell drink. It was Izzy, sending her a photo of her with a bunch of new friends, tongue out and peace sign, as was the modern way.

It was never Olivier.

Tonight, she had tickets to see the jazz singer, Melody Gardot. She knew deep down she had hoped to take him. For it was Olivier she thought of when she played Melody’s music. It seemed to match the feelings he stirred in her – sleepy, dreamy, romantic. But that dream was not to be. The gig was eight hours away. Maybe she wouldn’t go. But that would be a waste. Who else could she take?

Nathalie couldn’t come because she was working. Sarah and Lisa were heading home. She could ask Melissa, but she wasn’t sure it would be up her street.

Then she remembered the man she’d met on the train. The man who’d asked her for a drink. She still had his card in her handbag. Paul Masters. Would it be crazy to ask him? He’d been very attractive, very attentive. And he’d read Le Grand Meaulnes – surely there couldn’t be a better indicator of someone’s suitability?

Maybe somebody completely new would shake her out of her torpor? Arguably, Olivier wasn’t the only man in the world who could make her happy, and maybe he had too much of his own baggage anyway? And she would only be asking him to accompany her to a gig, not walk her down the aisle.

Ignited by the prospect, she dug his card out of her handbag and quickly typed a text. She tried to keep it direct and non-flirty.

Hi Paul. It’s Juliet from Eurostar. Bit short notice, but I have tickets to see Melody Gardot tonight if you are free. J

Was she being reckless? she wondered as she pressed send. It was no worse than swiping right on Tinder and meeting someone. And although you could never tell, he had seemed nice. His clothes had been impeccable, his card was very tasteful, in a stylish font. Superficial ways to judge, perhaps, but what else could you go on, in the modern dating scene? She could google him, she thought, and then decided not to. You could overdo the research, and it was no replacement for simply spending time with someone.

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