Paris by Heart Read online

  She felt her body relax, her eyelids becoming heavy as she admired the shiny crystal chandelier that sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the window. She’d heard that the best thing to do for jetlag was to avoid sleeping during the day, but how could you fight what your body needed most?

  She was just about to doze off when she heard a knock at the door. She sat up, startled, rubbing her eyes. Who could it be? She’d already spoken to Julie. “Come in!” She quickly added “entrez” in case the person spoke only French.

  The door opened. To Elise’s surprise it was Julie again. “I forgot to mention something earlier. I was hoping that you would do me a favour.”

  “Certainly, I’ll do my best.”

  “I need someone to teach English, once or twice a week, on a one-on-one basis after work. Since you’re here on a student visa you’re allowed to work a small number of hours, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Perfect. I’m more than happy to reduce the rent if you are prepared to do it. And you could use the café premises for the lessons, if you like.”

  Elise frowned. Julie’s English was excellent, but the prospect of lowering the rent held an awful lot of appeal. She’d thought she might have to find a job at some stage if she didn’t want to eat into the small amount of money she had set aside to start a business. Either that or live on a shoe-string budget. Or worse, go home early. This would be perfect, and Elise was certain she could help Julie develop even more sophisticated language skills, if that was her aim. “I’d love to, Julie.”

  “Wonderful! How about Wednesday and Friday evenings, from six to seven? Does that suit you?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have finished at the cooking school by lunch time and that doesn’t start for a few days anyway.” And Friday nights weren’t going to be a problem, since she didn’t know anyone in Paris and didn’t intend to explore the Parisian nightlife too often on her own.

  “Perfect. In exchange, I’d be willing to reduce the rent by a third. Does that sound fair?”

  Elise felt a jolt of joy through her body. A third! She’d definitely be able to stay and do a lot more in Paris with the extra cash. It was too generous, though. It didn’t feel right. “I’m very touched, Julie, but a third? That’s far too much money.”

  Julie the perfectionist picked a tiny bit of white fluff off the thick throw rug that adorned the end of the bed, rolled it into a ball, and delicately dropped it into the waste paper basket. She was all about precision. “Nonsense. Tuition is very expensive in Paris, and rightly so. There is no better investment than education.”

  Elise opened her mouth to protest, but Julie raised her hand and spoke firmly. “I’ll hear no more of it.”

  Elise smiled, grateful. She knew Julie was doing her a favour, even if she genuinely wanted lessons. There would have been thousands of students in Paris prepared to teach her for half the price or less. “What would you like me to do? Conversation, grammar, anything you’d like to focus on?”

  Julie pressed her hands together as she thought about it. “I’d like you to work on losing inhibitions and anxiety, especially the feeling of inadequacy. Without those hindrances one is free to move forward in life and go wherever one likes.”

  It wasn’t quite the answer Elise had expected. She’d never have guessed that Julie felt inadequate, but she decided not to question it: she’d quickly come to realise that when you found yourself in a foreign country you simply had to go with the flow. She nodded her agreement. “That’s what we’ll work on, then. When would you like me to start?”

  “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  “No, that’s fine. I expect the mornings might be difficult for a few days with the time difference with Australia, but by the evening I should be fully awake.” Elise grinned.

  “Downstairs in the back room, then, at eighteen hours—sorry, you say six pm, don’t you? There will be food available of course, so if you don’t mind teaching and eating, you may as well have a meal on the house. When my staff stay back past that time, they always eat here.”

  “Fabulous!” Just as soon as she’d blurted it out, Elise wondered if Paul would be eating there, too. It was too late, though. She couldn’t make an excuse to eat elsewhere now that she’d accepted. Well, if he was going to be there for a while, she’d simply ignore him. Besides, he’d have to hold the lashings of obnoxiousness as she’d have Julie by her side.

  The French woman left, gently closing the door behind her. The whole conversation had woken Elise, who no longer felt like resting. She decided to unpack the essentials, placing her suitcase on a chair near the beautifully carved French armoire.

  She opened the armoire’s door. It was heavy and creaked a little, just enough to remind her that it had been opened by generations before her. She placed a few tops on the uneven shelves, then her pyjamas and a satin dressing gown. She hung a dress and a jacket, sighing as she came to the conclusion that nearly everything would need ironing, even some non-crease clothes.

  Within half an hour her suitcase was empty and she managed to slide it on top of the armoire, well out of the way. Space was at such a premium, she couldn’t leave it lying around. Pleased with her efforts, she selected a silk top and a denim skirt that didn’t seem too badly creased, as well as comfortable underwear.

  She undressed and stepped into the shower, a hand-held one above a small bathtub, perhaps half the size of the one she had at home. It was bliss, the water running over her shoulders and down her belly, a wonderful reward after having travelled half way around the world.

  Usually in the shower her mind went blank and she thought of nothing but the soothing sensation. Today was different. Here, on the other side of the world, her mind raced. What delights were in store for her in this beautiful city? Would she meet a lot of people? Would they be welcoming? Would she enjoy teaching Julie? Would she be a good tutor? She’d never taught anything before, except helping her niece with homework but that didn’t really count.

  Her mind then wandered to the more immediate future. Where would she go this afternoon? To the local shops, or Notre-Dame? Should she push a little further and find a museum? She decided to stay close by, walk around the neighbouring streets and discover what the Latin quarter—le quartier latin—in the fifth arrondissement had to offer.

  She finished in the shower, dressed and applied make-up with more care than usual. She smiled, realising that she was already being influenced by French culture. People here were certainly more polished in their appearance than at home. She imagined the gasps if she were to go out in a track suit as she often did when she was in a hurry to pick up groceries in Australia. Or worse, barefoot, something she never did but was certainly not unheard of at home. She chuckled to herself.

  Elise slipped into her most comfortable footwear after her runners—shiny black ballet shoes with plenty of cushioning in the soles, ready for some serious walking, albeit in style. She grabbed her matching handbag, her lightweight camera and the key to the studio.

  She checked that she had her credit card, too. Although she’d have to be relatively conservative with her spending, she could allow herself a few more luxuries now that she’d be earning a portion of her keep in Paris. What a coup that was, and how easily it had all happened! It had just fallen into her lap. Teaching Julie would be fun and she was looking forward to it.

  She locked the heavy wooden door and made her way down the dark staircase, her hand against the wall in the absence of a handrail. The building was ancient and its quirks pleased her, although she imagined they would be cause for concern for health and safety officials back in a young country like Australia, where buildings were nearly always less than a century old and certainly never dated back to medieval times or earlier like some did in France.

  Feeling every imperfection of the wall, she wondered how many people had done the same before her. What had they worn? Velvet corsets and silk ribbons for the ladies. Would they have squeezed hoop gowns through here, one at a time? And
for the men, waistcoats and breeches and big buckles on their shoes. The very thought of it was amazing!

  Elise was so engrossed in picturing the past that she didn’t realise there was someone coming up the stairs. She stopped, suddenly conscious of being barely inches away from the person, a heady scent of cologne and vanilla wafting up the stairs towards her. When she looked up, it was Paul’s eyes she saw—those dark, almond-shaped eyes she’d found so attractive earlier. He stared back at her and it felt like a caress, a dangerous caress.

  She immediately took a step back up the stairs. Her pulse was racing and she told herself it was from embarrassment and surprise, but the churning in her stomach and the warmth that spread to her belly made it clear to her that it was more than that. She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. He was handsome and he smelled good. So what? She was no more interested in him than he was in her, and with his appalling attitude he was definitely a man to be avoided.

  She stiffened and felt she’d better say something, or the encounter would become more awkward than it already was. “I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs.”

  He held out something, and she recognised it as the source of the enticing vanilla scent. “I was bringing you some of these. We call them madeleines, probably after the person who invented them, I’m just guessing. It’s a woman’s name, Madeleine, you know?”

  Elise smiled. The little cakes were perfectly formed in the shape of a delicate shell the colour of the sun and their aroma reminded her of her grandmother’s baking. No wonder someone had written about them—was it Proust? She’d have to look up the book. And it was such a nice gesture for Paul.

  Perhaps she had misjudged him after all, perhaps they’d simply started off on the wrong foot. It happened often enough, didn’t it? She needed to give him another chance. “Thank you so much. They look delicious. And it’s such a lovely thing to do, so very kind…” She was tongue-tied now and couldn’t look him in the eye. There was no escaping his scrutiny there, no escaping him, on the narrow staircase where she faced him, alone. She couldn’t risk him seeing the effect he had on her.

  “Madame Brouard asked me to. I’m simply doing what I’m told.” He showed no emotion.

  The explanation took her by surprise and she felt a fool for having thought he was being nice to her. She tried not to give him any indication that after pleasing her he’d now irritated her, he’d enjoy it too much, but she couldn’t help it. She huffed, against her better judgment, a long, deep breath that made her frustration perfectly clear. “As you can see, I’m going out, so please return them to the kitchen. I’ll thank Madame Brouard myself when I catch up with her. I’m happy to say that she makes me feel very welcome.”

  Paul stood there with a look of total shock on his face until she waved him off. He turned and hurried downstairs to the ground floor like a little boy who’d just been punished and for an instant Elise wondered if perhaps she’d been too harsh, but she reminded herself that he had no qualms about being rude to her.

  As she followed him down the stairs Elise couldn’t help but notice his strong back, his shapely buttocks. Well, that’s all the man was—an ass. She reached the café on the ground floor and, as she passed him on her way out, stole one of the madeleines off the pretty silver tray.

  “One for the road,” she announced, smiling at him with as much confidence as she could muster.

  He rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the counter as he crouched down, probably putting away the madeleines in one of the many cupboards. Elise hurried off too, only too happy to be getting away from that perfect example of French arrogance. In the street she let out her breath. What a relief to have escaped him! She rubbed her forehead. What had Julie said about him? That he was an acquired taste, like Roquefort? Some people never developed the taste for that cheese and she suspected she’d never acquire the taste for Paul. How could she—how could anyone—when he behaved like that?

  No, the man was a lost cause. Boy, had she had enough of men! When they were not lying cheats like Steve, they were pompous Neanderthals like Paul. Once again she reminded herself not to let the male species spoil her life. She was in the most beautiful city in the world and with a credit card, no less. She would have a good time—correction—a fabulous time, no matter how much Paul had annoyed her.

  She turned left and headed to the cluster of shops she’d seen from the taxi. They’d been open for a while now, and the first was an antiques store. She peered through the shiny bay window at treasures of the kind she’d only ever dreamed of. She saw antique brooches with clusters of pearls and rubies, sixteenth century gilt carved wood altar sticks, a life-size bronze figure of French writer Voltaire, and on the wall a painting that looked remarkably like a Salvador Dalí. She pinched herself. Could it be an original?

  These were the kinds of precious reminders of history that she expected to see in a museum and here they were, gathered together in the most charming little shop. She wanted to scream with excitement, wanted to share the moment with someone she loved, to squeeze a hand, exchange a smile. Still, it was better to be here alone than with a man who lied constantly, who slept with another woman when he was supposed to be working, a man who thought nothing of the vows he’d exchanged on his wedding day. A man like her ex-husband.

  It was even better than being with someone obnoxious like Paul. That’d be nearly as bad! She chuckled. No, there was no chance of her ever giving in to the undeniable physical attraction she felt for Paul, not in a million years. Even if she did find him handsome in the most irresistible Gallic way, she’d be steering clear of him. It didn’t matter how divine he looked, they repelled each other like oil and water.

  She entered the store to feast her eyes on something much more worthwhile.

  Chapter 4

  Paul locked the café doors and walked towards the Metro, a container of boeuf bourguignon in hand. It was one of the perks of the job: Madame Brouard always let the staff take home any leftover food. Although he loved cooking, he was grateful he didn’t always have to julienne vegetables and simmer sauces when he got home. It meant more free time with Christine.

  It had been a long day though and now he faced a trip in a full train. More often than not he’d be squashed like a sardine against people he didn’t know, so close he could not escape their scent, good or bad, and still he loved this time of the day. He loved it because in forty-five minutes he’d be with his sweet Christine. She was his sunshine, brilliant on the worst of days. Without her his world would have crumbled and that wasn’t something a man could easily admit to anyone, not even to himself.

  Yes, he loved everything about Christine, he always had: the way her eyes lit up when he walked in the room, how she wrapped her fingers around his, how her curls caught the light. He adored her. He didn’t need anyone else.

  He certainly could do without that other woman who was forcing her way into his life—Elise. He shook his head as he recalled their encounter earlier that day. What was her problem? He’d noticed how embarrassed she’d been, nearly colliding with him on the dark staircase. He’d seen how she’d looked away and how she’d immediately taken a step back.

  He’d tried his best to spare her any feelings of awkwardness. He always tried his best to act like a gentleman. He’d told a little white lie and explained that it wasn’t his decision to bring the madeleines to her apartment; it was Madame Brouard who’d asked him to, so that Elise wouldn’t feel he was being forward.

  He’d wanted her to think of it as nothing but a welcoming gesture from another woman, not the act of a man who found her attractive; who she might have thought wanted something from her in return. The undeniable truth was that she was more than that—she was the kind of woman he couldn’t take his eyes off. With her berry lips and eyes that reminded him of hazelnut, he wanted to protect her at all costs,—but that wasn’t what had motivated him. He’d simply tried to make her feel more at ease.

  As it turned out, Elise had taken it all the wrong way, or so i
t seemed. She’d certainly been abrupt after that. What if he’d told her that it was he who wanted to offer her a sweet treat, to make up for the discomfort he’d seemed to cause her from the minute they’d met? That it was all his idea, in the hope that she’d feel comfortable with him, since they would soon be spending time together, to improve his English?

  He sighed. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference. The English lessons weren’t going to be fun. He was dreading them. He could tell that Elise hated him, but if it meant keeping his job and being able to provide for Christine, he’d bite his tongue and go along with Madame Brouard’s wishes.

  He finally reached the stairs to the Metro, and hurried down them with all the other people who had finished their day. He jumped onto the train and the doors closed with a clunk.

  He was lucky for once, there was a free seat. He was about to take it, looking forward to resting his legs after a long day on his feet, when a frail, elderly lady shuffled down the aisle, passing teenagers who failed to stand and men younger than Paul who ignored her. He waved her over. She looked surprised at first, but then quickly took up the opportunity and moved toward him, immediately sprightlier. She accepted his seat, smiling graciously in return.

  He made his way back to where he was standing before and held onto the rail. His mind went blank as the train zoomed along, gathering speed gradually as they started, and coming to a rather abrupt halt each time they stopped at the next station. He had to change lines once, but after that it was a matter of holding onto the handrail and waiting patiently until he reached the final station on his line, Mairie d’Ivry.

  He closed his eyes, tired from the day’s work, and to his surprise it wasn’t Christine’s face that came to mind. It was Elise’s. He saw her again as she’d walked towards him that morning, before they’d exchanged a word. That moment had been perfect. She’d been a vision, the kind dreams are made of, a surreal moment when his surroundings had disappeared and he’d perceived nothing but the beauty that had so captivated him.