Chapter 2
2
‘There they are, mes belles filles .’ Maman takes me into her arms, holding me tight, as if she senses my nerve endings are frazzled to the extreme. Perhaps it’s the permanent pinched expression on my face that makes me look like I suck lemons for fun in my spare time. That and the good old lockjaw that really is becoming a painful reminder that I’m holding on to my stress by my back molars alone.
After Maman releases me, she pulls Eloise into a hug. ‘You’ve grown so tall and it’s only been a few months since I saw you last. Tu es jolie .’ She’s right, my daughter is very beautiful, with poise like a ballerina, whereas I stand more rigid like a tin man, a soldier. My dad says I have good bearing; my maman says I need to drink more wine to loosen up. She’s French. That’s her answer to everything.
‘ Merci, Mémère,’ Eloise says, smiling wide, the sight warming my soul. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her in a while and it gives me a much-needed boost. Isn’t it strange the way your child’s happiness is inextricably and forevermore linked with your own ?
When they part, I hand Maman the bag of goodies from the produce market. Her face lights up as if I’ve done her a momentous favour and not the other way around. ‘ Merci , Coco. What a treat.’
I follow her to the kitchen. She unwraps the various wedges of fromage and places them on a wooden board to allow them to come to room temperature, which is proper cheese etiquette.
Cheese is hallowed in France. There are rules one must follow to preserve these long-standing traditions, such as which order to eat cheese – usually you start with the milder cheeses such as Comté and end with the strongest like Roquefort. Each style of cheese is sliced in a particular way depending on the shape. Then you must navigate when it’s suitable to eat the rind and when to avoid. I enjoy the fact there is a system for fromage . It makes perfect sense and I do take exception if someone cuts a wedge of brie across the middle of the triangle. You can’t uncut a poorly cut wedge of brie – the damage has been done.
‘I took the afternoon off so I would be here to welcome you both, but Dad had a new client meeting so he had to stay on.’
‘Oh, Maman, you didn’t need to do that. We could have let ourselves in.’
‘Any excuse to sneak out of work is fine by me.’
I squeeze her shoulder in thanks as I survey their compact apartment and wonder how we’re all going to cohabit in such a small space. There’s no way we can avoid disrupting my parents’ lives with four of us living in such confined quarters, which isn’t exactly fair on them.
My parents are ‘couples’ goals’, as Eloise says, in business and in love. They taught me the value of being passionate about what you do, committing to a goal and striving to achieve it. They’re entrepreneurs who work hard, always have, but it’s never taken away from family time. As a kid, I wasn’t social, I didn’t fit in; I suppose I still don’t in a way, but when they introduced me to books, life suddenly made sense. I loved those early readers, and that love for literature only grew with each year. The cadence of a sentence, the rules of grammar, the beauty of a well-placed metaphor; I’d found my raison d’etre.
And now, I might have returned, a failed venture behind me, but I’ll always be proud of what I did manage to achieve. This is an adventure, an extended sleepover with my parents. And right now that sounds like just the tonic.
Their quiet encouragement has allowed me to take calculated risks in business, knowing they’ll be there – like now – if it doesn’t work out. Recently, they’ve reminded me that reward comes with risk, and I’ve got plenty of time to start over. It’s also a relief knowing I’ll never have to hear an ‘I told you so’ from them.
Maman is born and bred Parisienne, and my dad is a Brit. I speak both languages fluently but we mostly use French when we’re all together.
Growing up, we travelled back and forth across the pond many times as they dabbled various business ventures, before returning to our hometown of Paris for good when I was about Eloise’s age after they purchased a commercial laundry. I’m dead proud of what they’ve achieved, turning a small business on the brink of collapse into a thriving success. They’re big on the whole jump outside of your comfort zone thing. I’m a little more risk averse but have still learned from their example.
‘When is Dad due home then?’ New client meetings usually involve long bistro lunches where deals are made over a glass of vin rouge and the plat de jour .
‘Around five, although he said he’d try and sneak off earlier if he could. He’s desperate to see you both.’
Alongside Eloise, my parents are a bright spot in my life, always have been. I could announce I’d inadvertently killed Alexander by spooning arsenic in his tea instead of sugar and they’d simply pull me in a for a hug and say accidents happen and ask if I need help getting rid of the corpse.
They’re good people, inside and out.
‘Why don’t you put your things in the guest bedroom, and I’ll make apéro ?’
Apéro, from the word apéritif , is the lull a few hours before dinner, when friends and family come together and share a drink and finger food. ‘Sure, but Dad won’t be happy he’s missing out.’ I get my obsession for fromage from him. There’s not a cheese too pungent for his tastes. I’m sure my French maman found this endearing. If you don’t revere cheese in France, there’s a very good chance you’ll be booted out, such is the passion for it.
‘I’ll make him a plate for later or he’ll never forgive us for eating all the Roquefort.’
‘I’ve never known anyone who eats as much blue cheese as he does.’ If I imbibe too much, the sharp tangy flavour makes my eyes water, but my dad can eat an entire wedge of it with no adverse effects.
‘You’d swear he had French blood.’ Maman’s laugh follows me down the hallway as we drag our suitcases to the spare bedroom. It’s on the smaller size, but typical of a Parisian apartment, and a double bed takes up most of the space. We hoist our cases on the bed and unzip them.
‘I’m not sharing a bed with you, am I?’ Eloise says, her tone implying sharing a bed with her mother is the very worst outcome she could imagine. I suppose it’s ‘cringe’, as she says on the daily, a generational slang thing, where they cut words in half. For what purpose? To save time? It doesn’t make sense and the editor in me twitches, but I can’t fix a whole generation; I know, I’ve tried on my own daughter and didn’t get far. ‘You’re delulu if you think I am.’
I’m especially confused by the phrase delulu, aka delusional. Is it so much harder to say an extra syllable? I know I’m missing the point and language has been altered since the dawn of time, but still, it’s a head scratcher.
She stares me down with so much intensity it gives me pause. It’s so grown up, so jarring to see such a look from her. ‘ Well? ’
Usually, I can internally brush off these Eloise-isms, but right now my patience is taut. I remind myself to take a deep breath and think of the turmoil she’s suffered because of my choices. Maybe I am delulu! ‘Yes, darling, we’ll be sharing this room and this bed as there are no other options right now. It’s not ideal, but it’s not forever. We’re lucky to have a fallback like this.’
‘I’m not sharing a bed with my mother , for crying out loud.’
I recall the advice from the parenting books. Smile, give short practical solutions in a moderated tone of voice. ‘OK.’ I paste a genial smile on my face that gives me a headache. ‘You can sleep on the sofa if you wish.’
‘I hate this.’ Eloise flicks her long blonde hair and skulks out of the room. With a sigh, I unpack our belongings into a set of drawers so I can stow away our suitcases under the bed.
In time, I’m hoping Eloise will understand the relocation is for the best. Who wouldn’t want to live in the 14th arrondissement of Paris? There are les catacombes des Paris on one side – just macabre enough for her sensibilities – and La tour Eiffel on the other, perfect for Instagram-worthy happy snaps she’s fond of. It’s close to Jardin du Luxembourg and the Panthéon, and there are hundreds of other little gems tucked away around every turn.
After I’m finished unpacking, I sit on the edge of the bed and slip my phone from my pocket to check my emails, hoping I’ve reached the interview stage of any of jobs I’ve applied for in Paris. All I find is a plethora of rejections. I can almost taste the worry. But I remind myself, I’m home now, we have a safe space to stay and that is one very big obstacle that I don’t need to stress about for the moment.
It might be better to get out there and pound the pavement, putting feelers out. How does one go from the stunning heights of publishing director of their own publishing house to completely unemployable?
It’s best not to dwell on the unfairness of it all, as that will achieve zilch. Instead, I picture myself finding a job, settling in, my daughter blooming in Paris and telling me she loves it here. One can only hope.
I leave the phone on the bedside table, vowing not to check my emails again today, and join Eloise and Maman in the kitchen.
‘Coco, can Eloise have a small glass of wine?’ Maman arches a regal brow as she makes the joke she always does, ready for my usual retort. It’s a myth that French children grow up drinking wine; it’s not the case at all.
‘Absolutely not! She’s only thirteen, and I’ve got a feeling she’d be a mean drunk.’ I throw a big smile my daughter’s way and almost fall over backwards when her own lips quirk upwards.
Maman gives me a wink. Will Eloise settle here under the supportive gaze of my parents? Part of me thinks so. While my daughter breathes fire at me, she’s always respectful towards her grandparents.
I pour wine for us, and an apple juice for Eloise.
‘Welcome home.’ We clink glasses .
‘ Merci, Maman.’
She pats my hand, the way mothers do, a gesture that speaks a thousand words without uttering even one. Tears prick the back of my eyes. I want to tell her I’m going to fix my life. This is just a blip. That I’m so grateful for her and Dad and their unwavering support. But the words won’t come. I have a feeling she knows when she hugs me tight.
There really is no place quite like home.