Page 11 of The Paris Chapter

‘Sounds like a greeting-card slogan.’

‘Doesn’t make it less true.’

He sounded completely sincere. I pulled out my phone to take a picture of the wall. ‘I suppose a stunning French woman brought you here and you fell in love with her that year you lived here?’

‘I wish,’ he said ruefully. He checked his phone. ‘I need to head back.’

‘I might wander around Montmartre,’ I said, putting my phone away. ‘Make the most of being here.’

‘You should,’ he said. ‘Tessa, don’t let anyone take away what you believe in. You should still have that hope in love. Because I think it’s out there for you. And for me,’ he said so softly, I had to lean in to hear him. ‘Even if I haven’t found it yet, and even if you thought you had but you hadn’t.’

He was alluding to Joe but not mentioning him by name. We looked at one another. Instinctively, I touched his arm. ‘Thanks, Ethan. Honestly, I needed this,’ I said, then dropped my hand and turned away because I could feel heat behind my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of him.

I couldn’t watch Ethan leave so instead I kept my eyes on the wall. This couldn’t erase the hurt I’d felt after what Joe did, but it helped. Because I knew deep down that Ethan was right. I couldn’t let Joe turn me into someone I wasn’t.

It was like Carly said – I had always loved love. And I didn’t want that to change.

I pulled out my notebook and pen and rested it on my arm as I quickly wrote.

As I stood in front of The Wall of Love, I realised that whenever you despaired that love was dead, something reminded you that it never would die. There would always be love somewhere. It might be big or small. You might not even always notice it. And right then, I certainly didn’t welcome it. But it hadn’t died or fled the earth or left me forever like I thought it had.

It was still here.

And so was I.

I looked at my words. The spark of an idea finally. Inspired by this wall. And a little bit by Ethan telling me that love was always somewhere to be found.

I imagined a woman who, like me, thought love had abandoned her, arriving in Paris and standing in front of this very wall, realising that it was her who had abandoned love, not the other way around. And maybe then she might be able to find her way back to it.

I hope I’ll be able to one day as well.

6

Evening fell in Paris. I had walked around Montmartre for a couple of hours enjoying the cobbled streets, shops and artists in the square. I had then come back to the apartment, where I emailed Gita the paragraph I had written by The Wall of Love. It wasn’t anywhere near a synopsis or even a blurb, but it was a fragment. And after the past two months of being completely stuck, it was very welcome.

Gita seemed to think I was being quirky too.

Okay, I get it. You’re keeping me in suspense! But OMG the idea of a woman who no longer believes in love going to Paris and healing her heart has me VERY excited! I can’t wait to read it.

I was curled up on the sofa with my laptop, watching my favourite comfort show, when I read Gita’s reply. She had taken the fragment I’d sent her and come up with a story. And I had to admit, considering how stuck I had been, it wasn’t bad. What Gita didn’t know though was it wasn’t my character who nolonger believed in love, but me. And how I was going to take someone on a journey to opening their heart again was anyone’s guess.

The apartment door swung open, making me jump. I closed the laptop, pausing the episode ofEmily in ParisI had been watching as Ethan walked in, holding a large paper bag.

‘You’re here,’ he said, smiling. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d still be out or not.’

‘I was exhausted after walking around most of the day,’ I said, sitting upright. My nose twitched. ‘What’s that?’ I gestured towards the bag he placed on the kitchen counter. Something smelled really good inside it.

‘I brought back some food from the restaurant for dinner; there’s enough for two. Come on.’

As Ethan pulled out plates and cutlery, I climbed off the sofa and wandered over, watching him for a moment. As he pulled out takeaway containers from the bag, I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘Why are you doing this?’

He looked at me. ‘Doing what?’

‘Being so nice to me.’

‘It’s not allowed?’ There was that amused look again. He took off the lids of the containers and my stomach rumbled. It looked really good.

Then it hit me. ‘You feel sorry for me.’

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