Page 76 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘They moved the market out there when they pulled down Les Halles. You won’t believe it till you see it,’ Nathalie said. ‘The site’s bigger than Monaco.’

‘No way.’

‘It’s kind of scary and a bit weird. All very clinical and organised. A bit like something out of a Bond film.’

They were heading out of the city centre along the north bank of the Seine. It was thrilling, to be speeding along at such an early hour, with little traffic, the street lamps still alight as the dawn turned from slate to oyster then pearl as they passed bridge after bridge. Juliet saw the huge cranes looming over Notre-Dame: in an hour or so they would be hard at work on her restoration.

They crossed over the river, leaving the familiar landmarks behind and driving on a highway through suburbs that could have been anywhere: tower blocks and cemeteries and industrial parks and train lines. Eventually, they pulled into what felt almost like an airport: warehouse after warehouse, each the size of an aircraft hangar.

‘We’ll start with fish. Each warehouse is different: meat, cheese, vegetables.’ Nathalie threw a white coat at her and a white cap to cover her hair. ‘It’s cold in there.’

Juliet felt a little self-conscious that she wasn’t dressed for the occasion, but there was nothing she could do now. She shrugged on her protective clothing and followed Nathalie inside the first warehouse, where an elaborate ballet of forklift trucks, lorries and low-loaders brought in the day’s catches. Wooden crates and boxes were piled up, filled with shards of snow-white ice to keep the contents fresh. Oysters, red mullet, lobster, salmon – everything was gleaming and bright-eyed, sparkling silver under the bright lights. The sellers stood proudly by their offerings, certain theirs were the best and ready to defend that opinion to the hilt and then negotiate the price they felt they deserved. It was a game of nerve and skill and bargaining power.

‘Let’s go,’ said Nathalie, looking at the list on her phone.

For the next hour, Juliet stood by as Nathalie made her orders in each warehouse in rapid-fire French, examining the produce to make sure it was to her satisfaction, asking the seller searching questions. She bought plump magrets de canard, poulets de Bresse, shining lemons, glistening cherries, wedges of cheese in pale orange and chalk-white, glittering mackerel, tiny brown shrimp. Sometimes something wouldn’t be up to scratch and she would walk away, to much protest. She knew exactly what she wanted and was never bamboozled into buying too much or too little. This was a tough business, thought Juliet. You needed vision, and clarity, and focus, and nerves of steel. She would, she thought, be absolutely hopeless, and it made her admiration for her friend grow even higher.

By half past seven, purchases complete, they were sitting in a café with a plate of sausage and aligoté – mashed potato beaten with copious amounts of cheese and butter – along with other customers and workers. There was an air of camaraderie as men in bloodstained tunics threw back glasses of beer or Ricard to wash down their hearty food.

‘Most of these guys have been here since before midnight, so this is dinner for them,’ said Nathalie, digging her fork into her food with relish.

‘I love it,’ said Juliet, swept up in the theatre of it all, taking notes.

By ten, they were back at the restaurant, and Juliet helped Nathalie unload everything into the refrigerators.

‘You do this twice a week?’ she said, admiring of her energy.

‘Yes. I get deliveries too, but this way I know I get the best.’ Nathalie was double-checking everything while she put it away. Her quality control was rigorous. Everything was kept at the optimum temperature, labelled, piled neatly and placed in the order in which it would be used. The week’s menus were pinned to the wall, with all the ingredients listed and notes showing where they were stored. Nothing would be wasted or forgotten. The cheeses were lovingly catalogued: Pont-l’Evêque, Crottin de Chavignol, bleu d’Auvergne, Saint-Nectaire. Nathalie would serve them only when they had reached peak ripeness.

All this rigorous discipline and attention to detail was in marked contrast to the laid-back atmosphere in the bar. Every guest had the experience they wanted, whether it was the courage to try something new on a plate or in a glass, or the permission to linger as long as they wished. Juliet supposed that was how you made something a success: not leaving anything to chance.

‘OK,’ said Nathalie, clapping her hands. ‘It’s ten o’clock. We’ll have a little pause café and then the day begins.’

‘How do you do it?’ asked Juliet. ‘Where do you get your energy?’

‘I was in bed by nine-thirty,’ Nathalie reminded her with a wink. ‘Not writhing around in the sheets until two a.m.’

They sat down at a table by the window, watching the street come to life with workers, shoppers, bicyclists, mopeds, delivery trucks. And despite her lack of sleep, Juliet marvelled at the change she had made to her life. A score settled, a new project to challenge her, an old love rekindled. She looked at the calendar on her phone. More than ten days had already passed. Time was flying by, and she didn’t know what she could do to slow it down. She didn’t want to waste a moment.

38

If falling in love at twenty was intense, the joy of reconnection in later life when you’d always had a spark was absolute bliss, thought Juliet, especially when you had the benefit of a little more self-confidence and a willingness to be open and honest. To find that she and Olivier genuinely liked each other after so long was a delight: they made each other laugh, and think, and sometimes cry. And neither of them expected the physical intensity. It took their breath away.

‘It’s like film sex,’ said Juliet to Nathalie. ‘Honestly. I didn’t think you could have that level of passion at our age. Sorry. I know I’m oversharing.’

‘God, don’t worry. It’s great. It gives me hope. And you look like a total goddess. All glowy and bright-eyed.’

‘Well, I’ve got you to thank. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to go and find him if it wasn’t for you.’

Olivier resolved for the first time since he had opened the bookshop to take some proper time off for the duration of Juliet’s stay.

‘I’ve never bothered before, because there wasn’t any point. The bookshop is my life and my escape. But now I have a reason.’ He’d smiled. ‘And my staff will be so happy not to have me breathing down their necks. I will just check in every now and again.’

While Olivier was at the shop, Juliet worked on the book proposal with Nathalie. She became immersed in the rhythm of life at She Cried Champagne, getting to know its staff and its regulars. She watched Nathalie in the kitchen, devising recipes and experimenting with different flavours. She saw what an inspiration she was to the women who worked for her – for they were mostly women. Some of them came from troubled backgrounds, girls who’d had brushes with the law for one reason or another. Nathalie picked them up and dusted them off and gave them a purpose. She was tough on them, but they adored her.

‘Watching these girls shine is more important to me than anything,’ she told Juliet. ‘Some of them were heading for the wrong side of the tracks and fast. I’m so proud of what they’ve become. They know they can get a job at any restaurant in this town if they’ve been trained by me.’

Juliet’s awe of her friend was growing day by day as the proposal evolved. In the meantime, she had given more thought to her own book, The Ingénue, and she realised that was evolving too. It had started out as a coming-of-age book, but now she understood that it needed to be more important than that. It would be a coming-of-middle-age book, her own story, about how she had come to revisit her past and in doing so had found herself. She would have to change the names, and sprinkle in a little artistic licence, to protect the identity of the real people in it, but it was a book for women like her, women of a certain age who had lost their way and were unsure of the future. It was a book that would give them the courage to rebuild, to take risks with their minds and their hearts and their bodies. A book about friendships old and new; about holding on to the things they held dear, but having the courage to try new things. A book about making fantasy a reality – doing all those things they’d dreamed of.

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