Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Another postcard arrived first thing the next morning.
I just about managed to refrain from kissing the postman, for my heart leapt at the thought of Hugo and his intense eyes that sought to know me on that magical night.
I had been intermittently going over that evening in my head, wishing things had turned out differently.
Our premature goodbye had left me feeling as though I’d missed my chance, so these postcards kept my foolish hopes alive.
The picture this time was of a beautiful building, La Musée Carnavalet. An exquisite stone mansion, featuring an inner courtyard with café-style seating and giant parasols. Ah, Paris, I sighed. On the back it simply said –
Thinking of you, Miss Lane,
Hoping it wasn’t all just a dream.
Hugo x
I knew I shouldn’t have been so affected by his words, but I couldn’t help it.
I had a major crush on him and in a way, I had sort of resigned myself to whatever would result from it.
A fling, a heartache, a lifelong relationship; either way I was bound to see it through.
I cringed at how his handwriting piqued my curiosity even further.
I was desperate to know more about him, to find out if he felt the same way I did.
At the same time, there was also a sense of being overwhelmed by my feelings, and that made me want to run and hide.
I put the card in the pocket of my apron and went to wipe down the tables outside, humming a little tune to myself.
‘I don’t need to ask what has put a song in your heart,’ came Nicole’s voice, as she stopped by the bakery that morning to pick up some pastries for the salon and have a quick chat.
‘He is very, you know, old-fashioned, with his postcards and calling you “Miss Lane”,’ she said, sipping a quick espresso at the counter after I’d shown her the postcard.
‘I know, I think that’s what’s making this so unbearably romantic!’ I agreed, rather enjoying the drama of it all.
‘He still does not say when he’s coming back,’ she added, flipping the postcard over in her hand.
I left the statement unanswered and popped some pains au chocolat into a brown paper bag for her to take back to the salon.
‘De toute fa?on, it’s better than dating apps, hein? Mon Dieu, you should see what’s on there,’ she said, draining the last of her cup.
‘You’re replacing Johnny already?’ I said, jokingly.
She gave a raucous laugh. ‘Don’t believe the stereotypes, not all French people take lovers. Honestly, with work and little Max, where would I find the time? No, it’s my mother. She and my father divorced some years ago and I suggested she go on a date.’
‘The man who gets to go on a date with your mother will be one lucky guy. She’s a total stunner, inside and out!’
‘As I keep telling her, but the men on these sites? Aye-aye-aye. I don’t even think their profile pics are real.’
‘Well, if I meet any millionaire bachelors, I’ll send them your way,’ I assured her, as she headed for the door.
‘Don’t forget, Johnny is playing in Nostalgie on Thursday night, so you have to come, yes?’
‘Sorry, it’s way past my bedtime. I’m hardly getting any sleep as it is.’
‘Too busy dreaming of you-know-who,’ she winked, as she sashayed out of the bakery.
Madame Moreau was at the specialist that afternoon for her arthritis, so for the first time I was left in charge of the bakery.
It felt wonderful. This was what I had imagined when I left for Paris all those weeks ago.
I decided to give Django Reinhardt another go, even though he’d almost given me a heart attack the other night.
I had fallen in love with his swinging guitar style and served the customers with a rhythm that made me feel as though I were dancing around the tables.
I felt completely in control and I so enjoyed being my own boss and not having Madame Moreau’s constant presence like a long shadow over me.
Since it seemed impossible to impress this woman or get any kind of validation from her, I had lost the urge to try and I knew she sensed the change in me.
Our interactions were purely perfunctory and it worked better for both of us that way.
Manu on the other hand was entirely different with me, and I with him.
I sensed that he was hiding some kind of secret and that it was only a matter of time before he would come to search me out.
When I closed up that evening, I decided to go out for a bite to eat.
Madame Moreau had not yet returned from her outing and I didn’t feel entirely comfortable being in the building on my own.
I went to the brasserie where I had met Nicole the previous week and sat at the back of the restaurant on a banquette.
The staff were kept on their toes with a decent number of patrons eating out on a Monday night.
I ordered a ‘Salade Roquefort’, a blue cheese and walnut salad that packed a punch, with a glass of equally bolshie red wine.
That was one thing I was coming to appreciate about France – their ballsy flavours and simple presentation.
Bread, wine and cheese could happily sustain the population for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I was so tired and preoccupied after a long day at work that I didn’t really mind eating out on my own – something I never would have done at home in Dublin.
I’d always thought people either looked lonely or ridiculously self-confident when eating out alone.
I felt neither just now in my absent-mindedness.
A thought was forming in my subconscious, and it was only as I mopped up the dressing with my bread that it came to the fore.
‘I’ll Google him!’ I actually said it aloud without realising, but thankfully no one seemed to notice.
I quickly typed ‘Hugo Chadwick photographer’ into the search engine.
The first result was for a genealogy website, where a woman was searching for a Hugo Chadwick who had died in the late 1800s.
The second was for a country pub in England called The Chadwick Arms and after that there were a few photography studios in Australia and America with the name Chadwick, but nothing for my Hugo.
I deleted the word ‘photographer’ and hit search once more.
This time, the first result was a Facebook page for Hugo Chadwick.
My heart jolted, then my conscience had a serious argument about looking too eager if I sent him a message and quite possibly ruining the old-fashioned correspondence we had going on.
Still, I need not have wasted my energy worrying, for when I clicked on the link I found a black-and-white picture of a Colombian bodybuilder.
Not too hard on the eye, but still not my Hugo.
I felt a bit deflated and hardly noticed the next link for Chadwick Holdings Incorporated.
My eyes glanced over the first line or two, with terms such as ‘principal investor’, ‘commercial properties’ and ‘asset management’, none of which held much meaning for me.
Just out of curiosity, I noted that their registered office was in London with a subsidiary in Paris.
In the end, I decided to abandon my background search.
I didn’t want to feel like a stalker and satisfied myself with the belief that if he wanted to tell me more about himself, he would.
Besides, it was nice to have this air of mystique.
If he looked me up online he wouldn’t find much.
The very raison d’être of social media was having something to show the world, and up to now, I didn’t think my life had anything worth bragging about.
In fact, I was actively trying to hide myself and the blank spaces where all of my milestones should have been.
And that was when the doubts crept in. Why would someone like Hugo be interested in me?
I didn’t want to indulge these negative thoughts, so I paid my bill and left before I had a chance to over-analyse the situation any further. Walking home, I bumped into Geoff, who was taking his dog for an evening walk in the square.
‘Settling in OK?’ he asked.
I bent down to pat Ruby.
‘I am actually, thanks.’
‘Better than Paris?’ he asked, recalling our conversation.
‘Do you know what? I’m starting to think Compiègne was meant to be.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t you come on one of my tours? If you’re planning on sticking around, it might be good to find out about the history of the place.’
I wasn’t really the type for tours and large groups of people, but I recognised the hand of friendship when I saw it and decided to say yes. I agreed to go on my next day off. If nothing else, it would distract my thoughts from Hugo Chadwick.