Page 8 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘Of course!’ I had caught sight of the bathroom as we went past. It was palatial. I thought of the queues to our bathroom in the morning. The wobbly loo seat. The pathetic dribble of water that came out of the shower attachment that was either boiling hot or freezing cold. The bangs on the door if you dared to stay in too long.

‘I will leave you for a few minutes. Then come to the kitchen. You must be hungry.’

I had almost gone past being hungry, and my stomach still felt raw. But I couldn’t refuse his hospitality. He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and I went to lie on the bed for a moment, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of another home. It smelled expensive, of lavender and old wood.

I crept out to the bathroom quietly to use the loo, and wash my hands and face. I looked in the mirror to see what the Beauboises saw: a pale girl with dark shoulder-length hair, sludgy eyes and a gap between her front teeth. An ordinary girl from an ordinary town. All the Beauboises, even the children, looked extraordinary. Arresting looks and an air of confidence and a way of carrying themselves. And their clothes – they fitted them perfectly, hung just so, while by now mine were creased and limp and looked even cheaper than they were.

I was too drained to think about changing or putting on make-up. I went back to my room and pulled a jumper on over the T-shirt I’d had under my jacket, then walked over to the window, opened it and looked out at the street. The houses were pale in the evening light, the roofs gleaming silver beneath the moon, the cobbles black and shiny. I breathed in the Paris night and felt reassured that the morning would bring hope and the trauma of the day would be behind me.

I opened the door and walked back down the corridor to find the kitchen. To my surprise, it was tiny. Smaller than ours at home. Jean Louis was chopping his way through a pile of chives with a knife at an impressive speed. He smiled as I walked in.

‘I make you an omelette?’

Omelettes were not my favourite thing. Dry, rubbery egg that tasted of not much. But at this point I would have eaten a chair leg and the air was filled with the nutty scent of melting butter that made my mouth water.

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

I watched as he took three eggs and deftly broke them into a bowl with one hand while he swirled the butter around a cast-iron pan with the other. I hovered, wanting to help do something – lay the table, perhaps – but I felt tongue-tied.

And then Corinne whirled in, in a flurry of rapid-fire French. I didn’t recognise her as the woman who had come to the door. She wore a sleeveless black shift dress with a plunging back, and high shoes with satin ribbons tied around her ankles. Her hair was in a chignon at the nape of her neck, and there were very large diamonds in her ears. I assumed they were real. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who would wear paste. The rings under her eyes had gone and she had on dark red lipstick. I just about gleaned from what she said that the baby was asleep as she took a beribboned box of chocolates out of the fridge.

‘Bon appetit,’ she said to me as she sailed out of the room, leaving the most incredible scent behind her, like nothing I had ever smelled.

Diamonds. High heels. Intoxicating perfume. Could I ever be like Corinne? I wondered.

I looked at Jean Louis and he gave a smile that gave nothing away.

‘Your omelette is ready,’ he said. He gestured towards the door. ‘The salle à manger is this way …’

There was a place set for me. Next to it was a plate of salad that looked nothing like the salad we had at home: either a head of lettuce from my grandad’s allotment that often hid fat slugs or chopped-up pale green iceberg. These leaves were dark green, some of them red or purple, and glistened with oil. There was a baguette too.

I sat down as Jean Louis placed a plate in front of me. On it was a golden crescent that looked nothing like any omelette I’d ever seen, flecked with the chives he had chopped. He poured me a glass of red wine.

‘Enjoy,’ he said, as Hugo and Charlotte ran in and sat either side of me.

I felt incredibly self-conscious, but I was ravenous.

‘Merci,’ I said with a shy smile. ‘Merci beaucoup.’ And Jean Louis raised his own wine glass to me as he left the room.

The omelette was out of this world. It was soft and creamy and so full of flavour – buttery and salty with the slightest hint of onion from the herbs. I couldn’t eat it fast enough, wiping up the remains with slices of crisp baguette. The salad was bitter, but somehow those mysterious leaves were the perfect balance. I drank the wine too. It was dark and strong, but, like the salad, it felt so right. I would never forget that first taste of France. A simple meal, carefully thought out and executed.

By the end of it, I felt like a different person. Not just revived. Enlightened. I sat back with a sigh and the children clapped.

‘Attendez!’ said Charlotte, and she picked up my plate and carried it out to the kitchen. Then she came back with a smaller plate on which was placed a triangle of cheese with a chalky white crust oozing yellow underneath. She put it in front of me triumphantly.

I could smell a slightly cabbage-y pong, and wondered if it had gone off.

‘C’est bon,’ said Charlotte, sensing my reluctance, and Hugo nodded his agreement.

I picked up my knife and cut off a tiny slice, popping it into my mouth while trying to close my nose so I couldn’t taste it. But, like the omelette, it was a revelation. It tasted nothing like it smelled. Rich and savoury, it tasted more like mushroom than anything. And once I had swallowed that tiny piece, I wanted more. I devoured it with relish.

When I’d finished, I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt awkward being waited on. I picked up my plate and my glass and carried them into the kitchen. As I walked, the wine went straight to my head, and I felt overwhelmed with tiredness. In the kitchen, Jean Louis took one look at me.

‘You must go to bed,’ he said.

Suddenly, that was all I wanted. I wondered if I was supposed to help with the children, but I didn’t think I had the energy. I just wanted to collapse and sleep.

‘Thank you. Merci. Pour le …’ I couldn’t think of the word for food or meal. I wasn’t sure if it had been dinner, or supper, or what they would call it. ‘Omelette,’ I managed finally. ‘Delicieux.’

---