The last time I went to Paris had been with Cara. We were eighteen and decided to go inter-railing together the summer before we started university. Despite the very best of intentions to see, Italy, Greece, Spain and Croatia we actually only got as far as Paris. The two of us fell in love with the city so quickly that we took summer jobs. I got a job as a cleaner in the Louvre, Cara found work in a bakery and we became fluent in French!
Because we both worked early morning shifts, we often had most of the day together to bum around enjoying lunches of bread (from Cara’s bakery), cheese and wine on the banks of the Seine. Then in the evening we would cruise up to a little bar in the fourteenth arrondissement, around the corner from where we had rented a tiny studio flat near the university.
It was an amazing summer. It was a place where Cara and I fell in love – with each other, with the city and also two very cute French brothers who ran the bar we spent most of our evenings in. Cara lost her heart to Patrice, the older of the two brothers who cooked most of the food, while I fell for Theo, a broad-shouldered, tall and frankly smouldering French wine wizard who spoke fluent English but rarely chose to use it. Instead he would communicate with passionate kisses and big glasses of Côtes du Rhône. It was no surprise neither Cara or I wanted to go anywhere else.
Now, as Lydia and I clambered out of the cab at the top of the Champs-Élysées, I felt a thrill of excitement and inhaled the sights and the smells. The gorgeous tree-lined street was buzzing with cars, pedestrians and fancy ladies gabbling in fast French into their mobile phones while the air itself seemed to smell of flowers, coffee and meat – after the devastating fire at Notre Dame it was wonderful to see the city pulsing with life and feeling, well, completely and utterly unmistakably Parisian! From the corner of my eye I could just make out the large Louis Vuitton gold initials that famously adorned the store and I turned to Lydia, delighted to see a smile as big as my own on her face.
‘I had forgotten how marvellous it all is here,’ she breathed, her head whirling around like a nervous pigeon as she tried to take it all in. ‘This city takes your breath away.’
I nodded as I reached for her case. ‘Let’s get inside then we can explore.’
It didn’t take long to check into our hotel near the Champs-Élysées. Lydia had decided that as we had made more money than either one of us could have anticipated from the antiques fairs, we should stay somewhere lovely, so she had chosen this old world, gorgeous hotel right in the heart of Paris.
Listening to the receptionist give us details about breakfast on the third floor and the champagne bar at the top I found myself daydreaming about what it would be like to live in this wonderful city. It had been so perfect the last time, what if I just upped sticks and came back? After all, aside from Rachel and Lydia there wasn’t really a lot to tempt me to stay in Bath. I had no family, no job, no boyfriend – perhaps this was the time for a new start?
But of course I said none of that to Lydia as we found our rooms and oohed and ahhed over the complimentary toiletries and the view of the Parc Monceau. Instead, I focused on Lydia and Jack. They were the reason we were here, I reminded myself as I ordered us two black coffees from the pavement café we found ourselves in near the hotel.
‘So what do you want to do first?’ I asked.
‘Do first?’ she raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I thought I’d start by auditioning as a dancer for the Folies Bergere! What the bloody hell do you think I want to do Erin? I want to find Jack!’
I held my hands up in defence. ‘Okay, okay. I was only asking. I just didn’t know if you might like to settle in a bit first, sort out any final arrangements for the antiques fair…’
My voice trailed off as I took in the serious glint in Lydia’s eye. It was true we had discussed the fair to the nth degree at home and I personally had overseen every bit of stock we were transporting through a specialist company. I had also dealt with our booking for our stall at the expo centre along with the accreditation and with Lydia’s help answered numerous enquiries through the website. I could see the last thing she wanted to do was talk any more about antiques and I had a feeling that the sooner we got on with our mission to find Jack, the better.
‘I take it you have his address?’ Lydia asked, getting straight to the point.
‘Yes, he doesn’t live far actually. In the twentieth arrondissement,’ I replied.
Lydia smiled. ‘Where the Pere Lachaise Cemetery is. Typical of Jack, he did always love to be around the great and the good.’
‘So you really want to go now?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘No, next week,’ Lydia snapped, before her expression softened. ‘Ignore me, I think I’m a bit nervous.’
I hid a smirk, privately thinking that the amount of gin she had knocked back on the plane with the strange new friend she had made might have had something to do with her tetchiness. However, I knew better than to suggest she had a hangover. According to my good friend she had never had a hangover, merely the odd headache or poor night’s sleep that occasionally coincided with an extra glass or two of wine.
‘Well, if you’re sure, let’s go after we’ve had these coffees,’ I said, slipping a handful of euros on the table to cover the bill.
Lydia needed no encouragement and downed her espresso in one. As she stood up, she slammed her cup on the saucer and looked me squarely in the eye. ‘Let’s go.’
I wasted no time hailing a taxi and an hour later we had arrived at the address Vera had given us. Clambering out of a car for the third time that morning, I paid the driver and stood back to marvel at the house in the warm summer sunshine.
There was no getting away from it – the house was impressive. A large white building set over two storeys with big picture windows and balconies. Set well back from the road, in the grounds of a large garden that appeared to be beautifully tended, the place looked as gorgeous as a hotel – a fact that wasn’t lost on Lydia.
‘Are you sure this is the right address?’ she said, peering at the house, hands shielding her eyes from the sun.
I looked down at the address and checked it with the map on my phone. ‘We’re definitely in the right place. Look, there’s a big board over there too with Maison Retrait on the front.’
‘Retreat House,’ Lydia murmured. ‘I just didn’t picture Jack somewhere so modern. And are these flats?’
I looked across at the large wooden double doors and saw a woman with a pushchair coming through one side, while a man with a Zimmer frame used the other.
‘It appears so,’ I frowned. ‘Funny, Vera didn’t say that he lived in a flat.’
Lydia shrugged her shoulders as she tugged at the hem of her dress. I saw she had left the leather jacket at the hotel and instead changed into a soft summery floral dress that showed off her petite frame.
‘I suppose she wouldn’t have necessarily known. I mean, Retreat House could as easily be a block of flats as it could a country manor,’ she replied, her tone giving nothing away.
‘Shall we go in then?’ I asked brightly, walking towards the door.
Glancing behind me, I saw Lydia was still rooted to the spot, her eyes roaming across the building. I felt a flash of concern. I should have known that this huge step wasn’t something to rush into. I should have instead insisted that we spend the day settling in and getting ready for the antiques fair in the morning. Quickly I returned to Lydia’s side and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked softly.
Lydia came to then, and swung her face around to smile at me. ‘I’m fine. I think it just hit me that the moment really has arrived. No more putting it off, no more excuses. I’m now going to see Jack Harrison in the flesh and let him know I’ve only just discovered he’s still alive.’
I nodded proudly. ‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’
Lydia shook her head then, and I couldn’t miss the flash of anxiety in her eyes. ‘I thought I’d know exactly what to say when I saw him, but now, well…’ Her face fell. ‘Now I wonder if I shouldn’t have prepared something after all.’
A gentle breeze caused her hair to flutter and the look of vulnerability in Lydia’s eyes wasn’t lost on me. But in that moment I caught something else too: optimism. And I knew that the very worst thing we could do would be to walk away and leave this for another day.
‘I think you should trust your instincts,’ I said earnestly. ‘You wanted to speak from the heart so that’s what you should do. The right words will come to you when you need them.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Lydia asked, wide-eyed with fear.
‘I know so,’ I promised. ‘You’ve come all this way; you’re bound to be nervous. But you can’t let those nerves get in the way of this. You’ll never forgive yourself. What’s happened to that determined spirit that wouldn’t even let me finish my coffee an hour ago?’
Lydia chuckled. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No harm done.’ I smiled. ‘Why don’t you make it up to me by going in there, knocking on Jack’s door and asking if he wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on?’
‘We’re in France, dear,’ Lydia said drily. ‘I rather think it will be the cafetière.’
I rolled my eyes. If Lydia was being a smart arse, she was clearly feeling better. ‘Come on.’
With that, she took a deep breath and then without waiting for me, marched across the road and straight up the path. Quickening my pace, I hurried to keep up with her and only just managed it as she pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Walking inside the huge light-filled lobby, I felt a surge of optimism myself. This place was gorgeous with big bright vases of flowers lining the windows, and the sounds of calming classical music filling the room.
Spotting a large white desk in the corner, we walked up to the very elegant French woman who was tapping away at a computer screen and wearing a name tag that said she was called Cecile. I gave her my best smile as she looked up. ‘Excuse me, we’re hoping to see Mr Harrison. Can we go on up?’ I said in my very best French.
‘One second if you don’t mind,’ the woman replied in perfect English. ‘Is he expecting you?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘No, but we wanted to surprise him. I haven’t seen him in over fifty years you see.’
Cecile’s face lit up. ‘Alors! You are an old love, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I grinned, knowing how the French were a passionate race. ‘We’ve waited a long time to see him.’
‘Oh, Monsieur Jack is a wonderful man. So polite, so generous. Let me just check where he is,’ she said, tapping away again at her screen.
‘Do you keep tabs on all the residents?’ I asked politely.
‘Not all,’ Cecile said shaking her head. ‘Only the ones who are here with us for care.’
‘For care?’ Lydia quizzed.
Cecile nodded as she gestured around her. ‘We are a multi-generational assisted living facility. We house the old and the young in these apartments. The young people help the older people who are frailer stay, how would you put it, young at heart when their health isn’t so good any more. In return we are able to offer them cheaper rent while the young also benefit greatly from our older residents’ wisdom.’
There was a silence between us as suddenly the penny dropped that this wasn’t Jack’s home, instead he was in a home. I glanced at Lydia and was shocked to see how pale she had suddenly become.
‘Ah! I have found him,’ Cecile smiled, interrupting our thoughts. ‘He is upstairs in his apartment – number twenty-two. Take the lift at the end of the corridor to the second floor and turn right.’
‘Thank you.’ I smiled, before turning to Lydia. ‘Are you ready?’