Page 24

‘ Bonjour, Monsieur Robert ,’ announced the porter when we walked through a green wooden gate into a courtyard filled with geraniums spilling out of pots. Robert opened the doors to a lift made for no more than three people and my stomach lunged when it ascended. Once he slid the metal gate to one side, he pressed the handle on the lift door, and I had to leap across a small gap between the lift and the floor. The tiny oak door did not prepare me for the large space that greeted us in the apartment.

‘I didn’t have time to clean up this morning. Claudette, my cleaner, is on holiday at the moment. My apologies. Make yourself at home, move anything that’s in the way but don’t touch my sketchpads and paints,’ he said, pointing to an easel set up in the window. When he flung open the windows to the balcony, a cacophony of sound rushed into the room. ‘You get so used to the sound that you can’t live without it,’ he said. ‘It’s as if the city speaks to me as I work,’ he explained, removing his jacket and reaching for a white coat splashed with paint.

At the far end of the room were the two ancient Louis XI style sofas, a battered leather armchair and a large coffee table covered in magazines, books, letters and discarded coffee cups. Robert moved jackets flung over the sofas and piled them in the corner of the room. Above the large marble fireplace, there was an abstract painting of a mature woman on a chaise longue reading.

Robert’s attention had left me as he dabbed paint onto the canvas. Not wanting to break into the force of concentration surrounding him, I perched on the leather chair because it was the only seat not covered in clothes. I took out my phone to pass some time. Stylish penthouse and rather bohemian. Maisie. X

It’s Paris. Is this the beginning of an affair? Mr Darcy x

Not in the mood for banter with Grant, I sent the thumbs up emoji. The salon was large and there were a further two doors in the room: one room was probably the kitchen and another a bedroom. I wondered how the living arrangements were going to work out. The room was crammed with sculptures, and I pondered whether the elaborate wrought iron object was a staircase or some sculpture. ‘Mr Laine, would you show me where my room is please so I can unpack and freshen up?’

He did not glance up from his easel and waved his hand in the direction of the large double doors. When I stepped in the room, a large white and gold bed dominated the room and sat beneath a canopy of fine material that hung from a gold, wrought iron frame. The linen was crisp, white and covered in burgundy and black cushions that matched the curtains. I opened two huge French doors that led onto a balcony. A bottle of red wine and one glass beckoned me on the bistro table. Returning inside, I slid open the wardrobe doors and hung up my clothes. One side of the wardrobe led into a small bathroom with a shower, toilet, hand basin and bidet. I placed my laptop on the desk near the double doors and delighted in the selection of pens and notebooks in the drawers. I worried it was someone else’s desk and they were about to come back and use it.

There was a tap at the doors and then they were pushed open. ‘I’m so sorry, Maisie. I get carried away with my work and forget the time. Everything here is for you to use. Claudette prepared the room before she went on holiday. Ah, I see you found the writing desk. Feel free to use the notebooks. They belonged to, to erm, my wife. Make yourself at home.’ I assumed the erm probably meant they belonged to his lover, or something. ‘Now, I sleep on the upper floor in case you are wondering so you’ll be quite safe,’ he said, reading my mind - obviously a family trait. ‘But expect me to be up until late into the night painting if the mood takes me. I have a studio upstairs but there is something about the atmosphere in the salon at this time of year. Here’s a set of keys to the apartment and a key for your room. If I get overbearing then please, please do tell me. I’m glad of the company, but my wife always complained about my artistic temperament.’

‘Thank you, Mr Laine.’ I stood up and he took my hands in his as if greeting an old friend.

‘I thought we’d go out to eat in a couple of hours. Any friend of Felix is a friend of mine. No need to dress up, it’s casual. Please feel free to have a glass of wine as you get ready. Oh, and I have one of those lazy coffee machines with the pods if you want a coffee.’

Not quite sure why Mr Laine wanted to take me to the bistro, I followed his instructions and changed for the evening. I wore the same trousers with a smarter sleeveless blouse. Tomorrow evening, I would buy provisions and eat on the balcony with the wonderful view of the city. It was the perfect place to write the story as I would be able to bring the setting to life. Whilst waiting for Robert, I connected to my mobile phone Wi-Fi in order to check the email from Danny. A tiny flutter of anticipation forced me to sit down in one of the antique cream and burgundy striped chairs.

Dear Maisie,

Everything is hectic here but at least business is booming. Laura and I are in lots of meetings with clients, and we have a very big dinner with a global travel company this evening. Thankfully, we have a lovely suite of rooms in the hotel.

It is wonderful you are in France. It’s such a shame I’m not in Paris to help with your investigations into your aunt’s disappearance. I must say, I did find it very strange how Ada suddenly vanished without her usual goodbyes. I confess I have not read her blogs. Maybe I will dig into them when I have time between meetings.

Anyway, I have attached some recommended sights and experiences for you there in Paris. I think it’s so important to get to the heart of a culture. There are some great ways of getting around without having to follow the tourists like a sheep. If you make contact with any of the tour guides on my list, then tell them you are writing an article for Big Breaks and you will get a substantial discount. As a matter of interest where exactly are you staying? Let me know if it is worth adding the place to my lists.

Danny

PS: Poor Camellia! I’m sure she had no idea what she was growing in her flowerpots.

I glanced out of the French doors and wondered what the view from Danny and Laura’s suite of rooms would be like and then let out a huge sigh. I studied the email again and realised Danny did not add the kisses at the end of the emails like me.

‘Maisie, are you ready?’ whispered Robert.

‘Come in,’ I said, still staring at the computer screen.

‘If you wish to write, we can go later.’

‘No, it’s fine. I have checked my emails and am ready to go.’

Robert proffered his arm and it felt natural to accept it. ‘ Merci beaucoup, Robert . ’

We walked across a cobbled square towards a bistro with a large red canopy sheltering three large windows. Chez la Mère Sylvie was written across the front and the sight of it made me gasp.

‘Are you OK, Maisie?’ asked Robert, almost inside the restaurant.

‘Yes, yes. I’ve read about this bistro before and wanted to visit it. What a coincidence you selected this place. I love it.’

Waitresses queued up to greet him and we were escorted to a large table in the window. Rather than the bistro chairs we had comfortable red banquettes for seats. The waitress lit the candle secured in an empty wine bottle and placed a red rose in the centre of the table. They spoke French for a little while and I realised Robert had chosen the menu. I tried not to show disappointment.

‘I come here most evenings, and the staff are like my family. The place is named after my wife because she invested money into the bistro in the early days. It’s wonderful food so I’ve ordered the specialities. I get a substantial discount.’

The French onion soup served in a plain white bowl was topped with camembert cheese and was delicious. White wine was poured into our glasses from a brown jug, and the zingy lemon flavour woke up my tastebuds. Silence between us felt comfortable and Robert checked his phone constantly, thus allowing me to swivel around and take in the atmosphere. I spotted the place where Aunt Ada must have taken her photograph and snapped a selfie.

Robert stood next to me and said, ‘Allow me to take a photo of you as a souvenir of your first evening in Paris. Tell me, where have you heard of this place before?’ he asked, pushing his soup to one side.

I had nothing to lose by telling him. There was no one else to speak to. ‘I read about it in my Aunt Ada’s blog. She was here searching for Bella Caron, the author.’

He clapped his hands together. ‘Ah, yes, the famous author of the Bella Mysteries. I have read that she has not yet finished the final novel. She lives nearby, you know.’ He studied me for a response.

‘Really?’ I announced, excited that my search was already underway. ‘Yes, I think her apartment is near here.’ When he gestured for the empty plates to be removed, he gave a warm smile to the waiter.

‘I’ve ordered steak and pomme frites for you. It’s quite a rare steak but very tender. I know you’ll like it. It is my boy Felix’s favourite since he was a child.’

It was difficult for me to think of Felix as a boy when I was sure he was probably in his late thirties and seemed to be one of those lucky people born with wisdom and a halo of confidence. If the blood was visible on the plate, then I would struggle to eat the steak. I drank a huge gulp of wine and cut a tiny piece of steak from the corner. The soft texture of the steak combined with the red wine sauce distracted me for a moment. ‘This steak is delicious. I assume Felix comes here often to visit you when he is on business.’

‘Not very often,’ he declared, waving his hand. ‘Felix has always been fiercely independent but dutiful. We don’t speak a great deal. He spilled his heart out to his maman. Jemima stays with me though and she is adorable.’

‘Yes, yes she is very lively.’

‘Well, that’s certainly one way of describing her. She craves attention, and I have the luxury of time when I’m not painting. I neglected Felix and so can now help with Jemima, but even she doesn’t phone very often because she thinks I am too ancient.’

‘She talks about you all the time. Felix visits France a lot though, doesn’t he?’

‘Felix visits his long-term partner in the Loire - just outside Paris. He’s been in a relationship with his university lecturer, on and off, since he was very young. I worry she has strangled his personality sometimes. She’s much older than him but wonderfully gifted and in great demand. I’m sure Felix is in love with her creative spirit and chases her like a moth to a flame. They’re both so temperamental and have a sort of open relationship, yet they seem to thrive on jealousy. She lives in a dilapidated chateau in the Loire but says it’s too small for both of their egos. They can’t live with or without each other. And she doesn’t want anything to do with Jemima, which breaks his heart.’

Now my glass was empty, Robert ordered another carafe of wine. My face was already flushed with the food, wine and heat of the restaurant, but now I also felt stupid for thinking there was ever a chance of romance with Felix. An open relationship meant he slept with others but never committed. Having immersed myself in happy endings in books as a child, I knew what I wanted. Matt had already trampled on my dreams, so I wanted to protect myself and find the right partner.

‘How about you, Maisie, are you happy? Have you come searching for love in Paris?’

‘No, I’m searching for my Aunt Ada and the missing story.’

‘Ah, well best of luck with your search.’ A cloud of sadness swept across his face, and he sent a text, but managed to keep eye contact between words. ‘It’ll be OK, I’m sure.’ He patted my hand. ‘You should have more confidence in your beauty. I knew someone like you once, and her lack of self-belief stood in our way. Parisiennes wear their confidence like a cloak, and you must do the same. One day, you’ll view a photo of the young Maisie and wonder why you didn’t have confidence in your appearance. The glow of youth is wonderful, but the lines of age add definition and sculpt the face. Relish the first stage of your beauty, Maisie.’

‘Thank you.’ He was very direct, and I did not know what else to say. My napkin fell to the floor and gave me a chance to move away from the intensity of his eyes.

‘Sorry, Maisie.’ He glanced at his phone, tapping in another message. ‘A friend was supposed to be coming here tomorrow but she isn’t answering.

‘I hope she is OK.’

‘Ignore me, I’m sure she’s probably driving.’

A waitress presented me with a lemon sorbet.

The tangy sensation of the sorbet on my tongue was heavenly, and I concentrated on removing every morsel from the silver dish.

Robert smiled at me then watched people walking past the huge window. ‘A window to view Paris,’ he said. ‘I’ve studied the reflection of the light on the cobbles many, many times. Ah, look at the woman in the polka-dot dress that belongs to another era. I swear people continue to walk these streets even when they have passed on.’ He took out his sketchbook.

I moved quickly, ran outside the bistro and followed the woman. It was her; I knew it was Bella Caron. As I ran, I listened to her footsteps on the cobbles and it was as if she lingered, waiting for me to catch up. And then she placed a heavy brown envelope on the bench. She unlocked a vintage bicycle that was leant against a tree. Footsteps were replaced with the click of the bicycle chain. The woman was gone.

Coffees had been set down on the table when I went back inside the bistro. I held up the brown envelope to show Robert and frowned with confusion. I didn’t know what to do.

‘Open it,’ urged Robert. ‘Is there an address?’

Inside there was a title page that read ‘ Lost Paris Secrets’ by Bella Caron, but the pages behind it were blank. It was Bella’s next book. ‘This is so strange,’ I muttered. ‘I found the ending of this story entitled ‘ Lost Paris Secrets’ in my aunt’s potting shed,’

‘It could be the lost story everyone is searching for. Maybe she has lost her inspiration and characters. You know when writers and artists have a creative block it can drive them to do crazy things. I once walked the streets of Paris for forty eight hours in search of inspiration.’ Robert stared into space. ‘Thankfully, I’m in the middle of some wonderful work and must get back to it.’ When Robert raised his hand, the waitress placed a bill on the table. ‘So, what’re your plans for tomorrow? I can suggest the Sacré Coeur Cathedral and the artists’ quarter near here.’ The abrupt change in subject suggested he had lost interest in my search and wanted to get back to his studio.

‘Yes. Erm. Thanks for the recommendations and the lovely evening.’ The silhouette of another couple passing the window caught my eye, inspiring a little pang of envy. My mind switched to Danny and then to Grant’s hints about the famous city of love. Alas, I was alone and probably chasing a ghost.