Page 77 of Thirty Days in Paris

And if, along the way, her heroine rekindled a lost love, recaptured the one who got away, then that, she thought, would be the perfect ending.

When they weren’t working, Olivier and Juliet got under the skin of Paris. He devised funny little tours for her, with a theme. One day it was female authors, so they walked in the trail of Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, who spent her life disguised as George Sand, and Colette and Simone de Beauvoir, and more than anything, Juliet learned how lucky she was to have independence and a voice and an identity that didn’t need to be hidden, or attached to a man.

Another day was music, so, of course, they had to go to the quaintly eccentric Musée de Edith Piaf – two rooms with a cardboard cut-out of the little sparrow, surrounded by her eclectic belongings, the walls crammed with letters and photos and fan mail and awards, the faint traces of ‘La vie en rose’ in the background. Then it was a candlelit concert of Chopin at Saint-Éphrem Church, so intense that it moved Juliet to tears. They finished in a scruffy club drinking rum and dancing salsa until the early hours.

‘I can’t take any more,’ laughed Juliet, as they walked arm in arm back to Olivier’s apartment. Olivier was quiet. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘The time is going too quickly,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘We just have to make the most of it.’

He pulled her into him a little tighter. They were both aware that the thirty days would soon be over, and she would be heading back to England.

‘It’s been fun, to be a tour guide,’ he said. ‘To get to know my city a little more.’

‘I’ll never forget it.’ Juliet rested her head on his shoulder. Her throat ached when she thought about leaving him, but the pact had been to have the best time they could in the short time she was here. ‘It’s been perfect. I mean, neither of us are ready for something serious, are we? But it’s been so great to have some fun. With no strings.’

She wasn’t sure she believed the words coming out of her mouth, but all along she had sensed that Olivier was afraid of moving on and making a commitment, after what his wife had done. She certainly wasn’t going to pressurise him into anything. And she wasn’t sure she was ready either – it would be a mistake to jump in with both feet so soon after separating from Stuart. The last thing she wanted to do was jeopardise their relationship all over again by going too fast too soon. She valued their friendship too much. She felt sure Olivier would be a friend for life. Of course, the sex was mind-blowing, but she suspected that it was precisely because they were under no pressure that they were able to enjoy each other’s bodies, care-free.

Some nights, they just stayed in, and she lay stretched on Olivier’s sofa and he brought her wine and fat shiny dark olives and kissed her while they listened to the soundtrack of their youth in the candlelight. He still had the same LPs he’d had in his apartment. She remembered the exhilaration of staying up all night because there was too much to talk about and to listen to, the warm nest of his single bed, squashed up together until they only made the space of one person, his breath on her cheek, the scent of their mingled sweat.

She lay gazing up at the beamed ceiling feeling lighter of heart than she had done for a long time. She could breathe more easily. And her future felt as if it really was hers now. It was like when you went away on holiday, when you’ve recovered from the journey and got your bearings and the sun is out and you realise you have no work, nothing to do but enjoy yourself.

And this was a holiday fling, she reminded herself.

Suddenly, there was only a week left, and Juliet started to feel anxious about saying goodbye. She knew the deal. They had been clear with each other from the start. He was coming to her apartment tonight for dinner, so she headed for the Marché des Enfants Rouges, the oldest covered market in Paris. The entrance was so unassuming she almost missed it, but once she’d dived under the black metal arch in between two buildings, she found herself in a melting pot of cultures. It was scruffy and chaotic, lined with row after row of market stalls, zinc counters with high stools, refrigerated cabinets and clusters of tables and chairs where people gathered to eat the food on offer – Moroccan, Japanese, Lebanese, Italian; everything from tagines to crèpes to moules to sushi. It was loud and ebullient: friends met for lunch and families gathered as the stallholders outdid each other with their offerings. It was tempting to pick up something ready-made, but Juliet wanted to cook for Olivier in her tiny kitchen while he stood talking to her with a glass of wine – that, to her, was the ultimate in intimacy and companionship.

After a few contented minutes of browsing, she bought a selection of wild mushrooms. She’d cook them in butter and garlic and wine, maybe pile them onto a circle of puff pastry, with a little salad on the side. She was just queuing for a bunch of parsley when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag, not recognising the number.

She’d never been one to ignore a phone call. She just wasn’t cool enough. Unknown numbers were usually offers of work, and she was keenly aware that she needed to get back on the treadmill before too long. She should be lining up projects already.

She stepped out of the queue to take the call.

‘Is that Juliet Hiscox?’ The man’s voice sounded anxious. Not work, then, for that was not her working name.

‘Yes.’

‘Hi – I’m Matt. I’m a friend of Stuart’s. Don’t panic, everything’s under control, but he’s had a bit of an accident on his bike—’

‘What?’ Her stomach turned over and her throat went tight.

‘I’m at the hospital with him. I found your number on his phone. They’re … um, they’re just taking him in for a brain scan.’

‘Oh my God.’ Juliet felt the walls around her close in, the noise of the market recede. ‘What happened?’

‘We were heading back from our Sunday ride. Some bloody idiot pulled out right in front of him. His leg’s pretty mashed, I’m afraid.’

‘Which hospital?’

‘Kingston.’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

‘I’m so sorry. I know you’re in Paris—’

‘It’s fine. It’s not a problem. I’ll throw my things in a case and get a train tonight. Is this the number I can get you on?’

‘Yeah, yeah – any time.’ Whoever he was, Matt sounded shaken but in control.

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