Chapter 1
Chapter One
A recipe for disaster doesn’t require that many ingredients.
An unhealthy amount of wishful thinking, mixed with a large dollop of devil-may-care when it comes to reading maps.
Add a sprinkle of desperation distilled from wanting so badly for things to change, and you had the perfect recipe for my current situation – barricaded inside a toilet cubicle at the Gare du Nord with only my shame and embarrassment for company.
I wasn’t sure when I would come out, if ever, and so I decided that the best thing I could do now was replay all of the events that had led up to this moment so I could make myself feel even worse.
The storm had really taken hold by the time I got to Dublin airport. A leaden sky lashed down rain onto the tarmac and buildings with a fury, as though the Gods themselves had something negative to say about my decision to leave.
‘Paris? In France?’
‘Yes, Dad, we’ve been through this a million times, and I do wish you’d stop saying it as though it’s the outer reaches of Mongolia.’ As I checked I had my passport for the umpteenth time, the trusty old Ford came to a halt outside Departures.
‘I don’t mean to, Edie, it’s just…’ He hesitated, rubbing his early-morning stubble and fixing his gaze on anything but me. ‘Are ya sure now? Rushing off to France on a whim seems a bit drastic. Would you not consider, I dunno, getting a cat?’
Great. The only thing worse than having an identity crisis was having it confirmed by your father. I took my phone out of my purse and confirmed that the flight was still on time.
‘I have to go. Listen, I’ll be grand and so will you.’
‘It should be me saying that to you,’ he said a bit sheepishly.
It wasn’t the first time our roles had been reversed.
Way before my time, I’d become fluent in the world of adult emotions, and that was why I had to do something drastic.
I had to strike out on my own and find out who I could be without my past weighing me down.
I had felt so confident answering the ad online.
I’d spotted it one night, after a couple of glasses of wine, when I indulged in my usual fantasy of moving abroad.
Scrolling through the website English Jobs in France, I typed in ‘Paris’ and suddenly it popped up:
Assistant manager wanted for a quaint little bakery in Paris.
Accommodation provided. English required.
I’d sat up in bed and stared at the words.
This was something I could actually do. It was something I knew I could be good at, despite the language barrier.
All at once, my imagination was filled with visions of a chic, sophisticated boulangerie in one of the posh quartiers of Paris; modern but with a nod to vintage.
Frankly, I was surprised by how quickly I got the job, even without a proper interview.
I couldn’t quite believe my luck. A few quickfire questions over the phone, ensuring my fluency in English and a background in the service industry, and that was it.
My career path had been something of a cul-de-sac up to that point.
I never really figured out what I wanted to do, so I just ended up waitressing in a café.
It was meant to be a temporary thing; an escape from the pressures at home and an easy way to earn some money while I figured things out.
But over time, my future became more and more unclear and my job was the only stable thing I had to hold on to.
At the age of thirty, I just couldn’t see myself doing anything else. Until Paris came calling.
Once inside the airport, I tried to distract myself from the awkward goodbye with my father by trying to choose between a Mac blusher and a liquid eyeliner.
I wouldn’t ordinarily treat myself, but this was Paris after all.
I had to up my game. Just then, I heard a breathy young woman sing the announcement:
‘Final call for passenger Edith Lane, travelling to Paris on flight EI754. Please proceed to gate nine immediately, as the gate is now closing, thank you.’
I grabbed both products and practically threw money at the shop assistant, making a dash for the flight.
This was my great adventure and I intended to soak up every second of it.
For years I had watched old films with my mother, sighing enviously at elegant actresses like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, who embodied the kind of self-assured, fearless woman I hoped to be.
Just thinking about how we used to lie on the couch together and listen to my mother’s old jazz records, dreaming of the day I’d find the courage to be the star of my own movie, brought back bittersweet memories.
For when the time came for me to flee the nest, she needed me to stay.
Not that she would ever have asked it of me, but it was natural as breathing, caring for her.
That was when those movies, High Society, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, became our escape.
More recently, my own additions, Amélie and Moulin Rouge, created a world of timeless fantasy where we could pretend reality didn’t exist.
Ever since I could remember, I’d been obsessed with the city of love.
My parents had their honeymoon in Paris and spoke about it as though it was the most magical place in the world.
Whenever we needed cheering up, we’d take out their photo album and my mother would point out all of the amazing places they’d visited.
I chose French as my foreign language at school and I spoke incessantly about living in Paris one day.
My father, being a pastry chef, had always promised that we would go, as a family.
But there are some promises you can’t keep, no matter how hard you try.
* * *
As the rain lashed relentlessly against the plane’s oval window, I noticed a tall, silver-haired man scanning the aisles for his seat.
There was something in his piercing blue eyes that caught my attention.
I tried to arrange my features into a nonchalant yet inviting look and to my great surprise, he smiled back and deftly swerved into the seat beside me.
This is it, I thought to myself, an actual meet-cute and we haven’t even left the tarmac yet!
He removed his coat, revealing a distinct white dog collar and a cross pinned to the breast of his shirt. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ he asked politely.
‘No, not at all, father,’ I sighed, breathless with disappointment.
Oh, well, at least God would be keeping an extra special eye on the plane.
Which was just as well, for when we made our laboured ascent into the angry sky, I and my fellow passengers recited silent prayers several times over as our flying tin can lurched up and down in the turbulence.
Babies cried, children whimpered and I anxiously chewed my nails, wondering why the universe had picked today to unleash a storm.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the dapper priest at my side, startling me out of my fear-induced stupor.
‘Oh, me? Yes of course, I’m grand,’ I assured him, decidedly pleased to have a man of the cloth at my side.
‘There’s no need to worry at all,’ he continued, closing the Ken Bruen crime thriller he was reading. ‘I’ve read the end of this particular story, and we all arrive safely in the end.’
This statement, coupled with a mischievous wink, made me laugh and automatically I relaxed a little.
‘What takes you to Paris?’ he enquired.
‘I’m starting a new job: assistant manager of a little bakery.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting. Isn’t it amazing that they couldn’t find someone in all of Paris to do that job?’ he marvelled, shaking his head.
It struck me as most peculiar that this thought had never once entered my head, and it irritated me no end that he was the one to spot such an obvious oversight.
I smiled politely in agreement, but inside felt a mountain of doubts towering over my new life.
What did I really know about where I was going?
And why were they so quick to offer me a job without so much as an interview?
‘Do you have family in Paris?’ he interjected again, not finished with his interrogation.
‘No, no family. Just going on my own,’ I replied in an upbeat tone that felt contrived.
‘Aren’t you the brave one,’ he said.
I wasn’t sure I liked this guy anymore. Every remark made me feel like I was being undermined. I gave a slight nod and turned my attention towards the window, unofficially ending our interaction.
A flash of lightning lit the entire inside of the plane with a blinding spotlight, silencing everyone on board for a moment and then causing the children to cry even harder.
Oh, shit, I thought, that’s what you get for being mean about the priest. I kept my eyes closed and, for some reason, hugged my handbag to my chest, as if I’d need it close to hand when the plane went down.
I whispered quietly, ‘Help me, Mum, help me.’ Eventually, the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom and assured everyone that all was well and we were now beginning our descent into Charles de Gaulle airport.
* * *
I could still see the lovely woman’s face, Julie, the proprietor of the boulangerie on Rue de Compiègne.
I recognised the facade immediately – I’d spent long enough drooling over their pictures on Instagram.
As I crossed the street, I could hear music in the air.
Outside, a trio of musicians played the same classic French soundtrack of jazz music I’d saved on countless playlists.
One sat squeezing an accordion, another strumming a guitar, while a tall, thin man wearing a flat cap plucked a double bass.
I had arrived! But following a halting conversation of broken English and French, my stupid mistake became clear.
‘Désolée, mais je crois que vous vous trompez,’ Julie said, while placing some cups on a tray for the waitress to take to a table of four.