Six
C harlotte had explained her sudden Paris trip with two different stories. To her staff, she’d said she was going to spend time with her elderly aunt, who, she intimated, hadn’t been well recently. But she couldn’t use the same story with her children, who were fond of Juliette and would be worried if they thought she was sick. So she’d told them that she wanted to revisit the gardens of Paris as inspiration for new designs. And that wasn’t altogether a lie.
Right now, she was on her way to the Carnavalet Museum in the Marais. Housed in two superb ancient mansions, the Carnavalet was Paris’s oldest museum, fittingly dedicated to the history of the city. Charlotte knew that it had undergone a major renovation recently, including the rejuvenation of its gardens, which were of the formal French sort. Apparently, she had read, it now boasted a more contemporary interpretation of that classic style. Charlotte was rather curious to see exactly what that meant.
She had lived long enough in England to find the formal French garden style, with its gravel paths, geometric patterns and regimented plants, a little unwelcoming, though undoubtedly elegant. And she had immediately taken to the traditional English approach, with its homely profusion of vegetation, green nooks, rustic benches and cheerfully mixed flowers. It amused her, too, that the French caricature of English people portrayed them as cold and uptight, and the English caricature of French people imagined them to be frivolous and exuberant, yet their garden traditions were rather the opposite. But you could generalise too much, she thought, as she got off at the Saint-Paul Metro station. Plenty of English people had regimented gardens and plenty of French people had cosy ones. Her aunt’s garden was one of the latter, while her parents-in-law’s stiff patch, with not even a blade of grass allowed to misbehave, was one of the former. It didn’t reflect their characters, though. Tom’s parents had always been kind to her, even warm. But they didn’t seem to have noticed what was going on with their son, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them.
To be fair, she herself couldn’t pin down exactly when she realised that something was wrong between her and Tom. In a long marriage such as theirs, and with such different personalities, there had been ups and downs but deep love for each other and their three children had helped them weather the occasional blow-up. In the past they’d always been able to talk about things, even if it could take a bit of time and patience to winkle things out of Tom. So when he’d gone quiet, Charlotte wasn’t concerned at first. She was in the middle of a hectic period at work and was pretty distracted herself. When she did eventually ask him what was up, he answered readily enough, saying he was stressed about his workload at the high-end recruitment agency where he was a senior manager. And, he’d added with a faint smile, he was having a bit of trouble adjusting to the fact he and Charlotte were now empty-nesters, since their youngest son, Jamie, had left for university. Tom had always been an involved father and a conscientious worker so Charlotte accepted his explanations. But as time went by, his mood didn’t improve and he wouldn’t talk about it, so she became more and more worried. Finally she suggested that even if he wouldn’t talk to her, maybe he could consider speaking to a professional. But Tom rejected the idea with such force that she immediately backed off.
Since then, he had pretty much withdrawn. He went to work every day, he didn’t get drunk, or stay out, or rage at Charlotte. She knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else because, somewhat to her shame, she had checked up on him. He was going from home to work to home to work to home, day after day after day. But despite his physical presence he wasn’t there . Not in any of the ways that counted. He made an effort if his parents or the children were visiting, but when they left, it was back to square one. Her beloved husband had become a stranger who communicated only when he absolutely had to. And sex was a distant memory.
She began to dread going home and spent more and more time at work, but the old satisfaction seemed to have waned, infecting her daily routine, making her more distracted, less disciplined, and …
Enough! Being here was meant to be an escape, she thought, halting in front of the window display of a small clothes shop. Concentrate on the here and now, she told herself—like that beautiful embroidered green top in the window that is calling to you, though it’s not the kind of thing you usually wear, not these days anyway. Well, these days can go and screw themselves , she thought defiantly, pushing open the door of the shop. I want to be back in a simpler time, a time when it was just me, in Paris, young and carefree . She felt a spurt of guilt at that—was she really wishing her life away, her darling children, the work she’d taken such pleasure in, the long years of love with Tom? No. She needed a break. And that top. Right now.
She tried it on and smiled at herself in the mirror. She’d leave it on, she told the saleswoman, along with something else she’d scooped up: a retro brooch she would have loved at nineteen. The jewellery she wore these days was made of real gems and of a discreet design. This one was exuberantly shaped like a seahorse and studded with sparkling clear and green rhinestones. The saleswoman smiled as she rang the items up on the till. ‘A new look for spring, madame?’ she said.
‘Why not?’ said Charlotte, lightly.
The saleswoman’s smile broadened. ‘We all need it sometimes, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ Charlotte said, feeling strangely, deliciously untethered, as if her responsibilities had left her. If she had been nineteen, she’d have been on her way to meet friends in a café, not heading off to a museum alone. She felt a sudden lump in her throat, wishing she could visit one of those friends and reminisce about old times. But they’d all scattered.
Just after leaving the shop, her phone pinged, bringing her back to the present. It was a text from her daughter Elise. Hey Marm, thinking of going to Paris next weekend, you still going to be there? xx
Charlotte hesitated. Could she really be away from London that long? But then she thought of what awaited her back home and found herself typing, Sure. Still have quite a lot of people and places to see . Then she added, Aunt Juliette is away for a while. It’ll just be me .
I know , Elise wrote back. She WhatsApped me the other day. She’s going on to Krakow after Prague, and maybe Budapest too. Revisiting old haunts, she said .
Well, Charlotte thought, amused, her aunt told Elise more than she told her. But those two had always shared a complicité , an instinctive understanding of each other. She was about to answer when another message from Elise appeared. She also said you might need company .
Charlotte’s chest tightened. I’m okay. But I’ll be very happy to see you .
Me too. I’ll see you then. Love you, Marm .
There were tears pricking at Charlotte’s eyes now. Love you too, darling .
Charlotte stood there for a moment longer, scrolling through the exchange of messages. How was she going to hide her turmoil from her daughter? Well, she had six days to cut her way through the thicket of painful thoughts and messy feelings to arrive at a decision. She couldn’t continue living with the situation as it was. Was her relationship with Tom still salvageable, or was it better to think about separating, painful though the thought was? She was good with deadlines, they made her work more efficiently, and also think more clearly. In six days she’d come to a decision whether her marriage was over or not. And then she’d know what needed to be done.
Firmly ignoring the cynical little voice in her mind that said, Fat chance , she walked on and soon reached the museum. Never mind mooning about the joys of hanging around in cafés when she was a carefree girl, she had to be who she was now . And that was a mature, self-assured professional woman going to look at something that might give her new ideas. At the very least, it would give her a few moments of pleasure. And that would do, right now.