Chapter Three
Poppy dragged the bright yellow suitcase she’d borrowed from Rachel over the top step of the exit from the Paris Métro and paused to wait for her heartrate to return to normal. She had spent the last two hours wrestling with the confusing labyrinth of tunnels, walkways and platforms, taken the wrong train twice, and at one stage she had feared she would never see the sky again. Now that she was finally above ground, she resolved to explore Paris by bicycle or on foot.
She straightened the navy-blue fedora that Holly had bought her for her birthday, hitched the straps of her satchel over her shoulder, and checked the directions Jamie had emailed to her before she launched herself into a maelstrom of people who were clearly anxious to get home after a long day at work or sightseeing in one of the world’s most beautiful cities.
And she could now see why it had been given that label.
No matter which way she looked, there was an Instagram-worthy image; a brasserie whose patrons were sheltered from the November breeze by a row of fluttering crimson canopies, a florist’s shop whose window looked like a Monet painting, a fashion boutique showcasing a selection of chic designer outfits, an old-fashioned bookshop just screaming for her to come inside and browse its shelves. But her exploration of the arrondissement’s treasures would have to wait because Olivier’s maman was expecting her and she was already over an hour late.
She glanced again at Jamie’s instructions then turned right down a wide, pedestrianised street, lined with tall, architecturally impressive buildings. Spindly trees, their branches bedecked with garlands of fairy lights, gave the already attractive avenue a magical ambiance amidst the bustling neighbourhood that included the world-renowned Notre-Dame Cathedral.
There was an energetic vibe thrumming through the air, and everyone she walked past looked like they’d just stepped from the pages of a glossy magazine. She couldn’t resist stopping in front of an elegant parfumerie, its window display so beautifully designed it could have been a work of art, except this tableau had the added benefit of the most wonderful fragrance. She closed her eyes and inhaled a breath, relishing the miasma of aromas that helped to calm her Métro-induced anxiety. She made a mental note to return to sample its sparkling products so she could report back to Freya whose Uncle Toby had been a famous “nose” in the perfume industry before he’d passed away earlier in the year.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window and, to her horror, collided with a very glamorous woman who looked like a 1920s movie star. Poppy apologised profusely, heat whooshing into her cheeks as she realised she had spoken in English, but before she could conjure up the French words for “I’m so sorry”, the woman had thrown her hands into the air in irritation, tutted loudly, and gifted her with a look that could have cooled lava at twenty paces before continuing on her way, muttering darkly under her breath.
Poppy remained frozen to the spot, upset by the unexpectedly harsh encounter, and it was a few moments before she managed to pull herself together. To her relief, when she checked Jamie’s email for a third time, she realised she was just a few steps away from her destination, and she hurried across the avenue to a huge carved oak door situated between a brightly illuminated pharmacie and a quaint antique shop. She scrutinised the row of metal buttons by the side of the entrance and pressed the one labelled “Hélène Bourdain”.
‘Allo?’
‘Bonjour, Madame Bourdain. It’s Poppy Phillipson, Jamie Phillipson’s sister.’
‘Ah, Poppy, bonjour. Viens!’
There was a loud buzzing noise and the door clicked open. Poppy stepped inside, dragging her luggage across the marble-floored foyer, which was home to a bank of varnished wooden boxes on her right and a wide flight of grey marble stairs on her left. She sighed, hooked her fingers around the handle of her suitcase, and started her ascent, knowing that the tiny studio that Madame Bourdain rented out to visitors was in the eaves.
She cursed herself for overpacking, especially given the fact that, despite her careful selection of outfits she’d considered appropriate for a three week sojourn in Paris, she now suspected that none of them would match up to the effortless style of her French peers. Growing up in a house with four older brothers, clothes hadn’t really featured high on her agenda. Like them, she had lived in sports gear – hoodies, sweatshirts, leggings and trainers, and a pair of jeans and an array of colourful tee-shirts for when she was going out for a drink or a meal with her friends. She rarely wore dresses, or shoes with any kind of heel, and her only nod to fashion was her beloved collection of hats in all shapes and sizes.
She reached the second-floor landing and stopped to take a breath, glancing down at her outfit and cringing when she saw her white denim jacket had a button missing, and her tee-shirt had a splodge of mayonnaise on the front from the over-priced sandwich she’d bought on the Eurostar. No wonder the woman she’d bumped into on the street had curled her lip at her; she looked – and felt – like a scarecrow, beamed down into the fashion capital of the world to gather some desperately needed fashion tips, and when she thought about the contents of her suitcase, those tips couldn’t come soon enough.
However, there was nothing she could do about it until she’d settled into her studio and had the chance to explore the boutiques she’d passed on her way, although she suspected most of the items in those windows would cost more than she earned in a month, probably two. After scaling another flight of stairs, she heaved a sigh of relief when a door opened and a cacophony of high-pitched barking assaulted her ears, followed by an effusive welcome from the cutest little Pekingese with a long white coat and a pink bow in her hair.
‘Oh, how adorable!’
Poppy abandoned her luggage so she could kneel down and greet her new friend – the first contact she’d had with someone who was pleased to see her since arriving in France – and her heart melted when the little dog gave her an affectionate lick before heading back to her owner who was standing on the threshold of her apartment smiling broadly.
‘Bienvenue à Paris, Poppy!’
Poppy was surprised when she was suddenly engulfed in a heavily perfumed embrace, followed by several exuberant cheek kisses, and then bombarded by a stream of French she had no hope of understanding.
Petite, slender, with immaculately coiffed short silver waves framing her attractive face, the woman standing in front of her was no different to all the other residents of Paris in that she was wearing a stylish wraparound dress in a rich, burnt-orange colour, and a long string of knotted pearls that Poppy suspected were the real thing, just like the huge diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand. She looked like she was heading out to a soirée at the élysée Palace.
Jamie had told her that no one knew for certain how old Hélène was, and Poppy could understand their hesitation. Olivier’s maman – who had reached down to scoop her little dog into her arms – exuded vitality and youth. Her skin was flawless, her blue eyes sharp and intelligent, and her perfectly shaped eyebrows were raised as she waited for Poppy to respond to her enquiry.
‘I’m so sorry, Madame Bourdain—’
‘Oh, you must call me Hélène, and this little rascal is Gigi.’
‘I’m so pleased to meet you both, and I’m sorry, but my French is… well, it’s a little rusty, and I have no idea what you just said to me.’
‘I simply welcomed you to our home and thanked you profusely for agreeing to come to Olivier’s rescue. The poor thing is completely incapacitated!’ Hélène shook her head and tutted, her voice deep and raspy, her accent heavy and a delight to the ears. ‘Please, come inside while I find the keys to the studio. I would offer you un café crème and a plate of Olivier’s rose-infused macarons, but sadly I’m on my way out.’
Poppy stepped inside Hélène’s apartment and didn’t know where to look first; the exquisitely decorated walls painted in a rich duck-egg blue, the expensive Louis XIV furniture, the hand-knotted Persian rug on the highly polished wooden floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows framed by swathes of golden silk, or the jaw-dropping view beyond them. However, the place was far from photoshoot-ready; every surface sported either a collection of ornaments – some of which were clearly home-made – or a picture frame, a candelabra with patterned candles, a vase crammed with fresh flowers and bushy foliage, a ceramic table lamp, or a tottering pile of magazines and books. There was even a baby grand piano in the corner with some kind of mechanical contraption parked on its glossy black lid!
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Hélène. I got a little confused by the Métro system and ended up back where I started… twice. I hope I haven’t delayed you.’
Hélène laughed. ‘Not at all, and if it makes you feel better, you’re not the first of my guests to complain about the complexities of the Métro, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Did Olivier tell you that I rent out the studio upstairs as an Airbnb in the summer months? It’s the perfect location for visitors to explore all the iconic sights in the area, and for me, it’s a wonderful way to meet and get to know people from all over the world. I know we are going to be great friends, Poppy. Come, I’ll take you to your new home and let you get settled in, then I must leave for my class.’
‘Oh, what kind of class?’
‘Tonight, my friend Odette and I are learning the art of pyrographie.’
‘Pyrographie?’
‘Yes, it’s lots of fun, and it’s important to try everything, don’t you think?’
Poppy had no idea what pyrography was, but she knew that “pyro” meant fire, and she had visions of Hélène and her friend Odette setting fire to random objects and then perhaps photographing them, or maybe it was the art of learning how to start fires from a bundle of twigs and dried leaves, sort of survival training for urbanites for when the apocalypse arrives. However, before she could ask Hélène to explain what, and more importantly, why, she had chosen pyrography as a hobby, she’d grabbed a set of brass keys from a bowl that looked like it was from the Ming Dynasty and headed out of the apartment.
She followed her new landlady up another flight of stairs and waited for her to open the door. Once inside, Hélène headed straight to the window to fling open the shutters to disperse the faint aroma of furniture polish, lavender and old manuscripts. The studio was small but perfectly formed, and when Poppy joined Hélène on the tiny wrought-iron balcony overlooking the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of Paris, she gasped as she caught a glimpse of the ramparts of the famous Notre-Dame Cathedral in the gap between two buildings to her right.
‘Wow!’
‘C’est magnifique, eh?’
‘Mesmerising.’
Pleased with Poppy’s reaction, Hélène dropped the keys onto the plank of varnished wood that served as a kitchen counter, pointed out the room’s various amenities, then retrieved Gigi from where she had been investigating a hole in one of the skirting boards, and turned back to Poppy.
‘D’accord, I must leave you now. Fais comme chez toi. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. There are many bistros, brasseries and restaurants around here, as well as markets and supermarkets if you prefer to cook, but the one thing I want most for you while you’re here is that you experience the real Paris. So, take a walk, familiarise yourself with the arrondissement, soak up the atmosphere, sit and sip un café and just people watch. I will let Olivier know you have arrived safely. He and Alain are looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. à bient?t, Poppy.’
Hélène repeated the cheek kisses gesture and left her to unpack, the miniature apartment a little less vibrant without its proprietor’s vivacious presence. Poppy slumped down onto the sofa – upholstered in saffron velvet and draped with orange, pink and red throws, cushions and blankets – and spent a few minutes surveying what would be her home for the next three weeks while she helped Olivier at the patisserie around the corner.
The last rays of that day’s sunlight sliced in through the open French doors, bestowing the room with a soft amber light, and to her surprise, she experienced a warm feeling of belonging, a certainty that she would be safe in her home under the eaves, where the only sounds were the birds tweeting their evening sonata and the faint tooting of distant car horns.
Anxiety had been a constant companion as she made her journey from Devon to Paris on her own, and while she wouldn’t admit it to Jamie, she had almost turned back when she struggled to navigate the hustle and bustle of St Pancras station. Now she was here – in one piece – she experienced a surge of pride, followed by determination to build on what she had achieved, and, like Hélène, to enjoy everything that Paris had to offer… but maybe not pyrographie.
Feeling energised, she pushed herself up from what would be her bed for the night, collected her suitcase from the corridor where she’d abandoned it earlier, and had just made a start on her unpacking when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. When she saw who was calling her, she grinned and headed out to the bistro chair on the balcony to take the call.
‘Hey, Jamie.’
‘Salut, Poppy, are you settled in?’
‘Actually, I’ve just arrived.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t ask. It took me longer than I thought to master the Paris Métro system.’
Jamie laughed. ‘I totally get that! When Bart came over to visit me while I was doing my training there, he ended up riding round in circles for three hours. In the end, Olivier and I had to go and rescue him.’
Poppy smiled. It made her feel better that even her eldest brother, famous for his sensibleness – and who had a master’s degree in Maths and Computer Science – had also found the Parisian public transport system baffling.
‘Did you meet Hélène?’
‘I did, and Gigi.’
‘Ah, yes, little Gigi. Whatever you do, do not offer to take her for a walk.’
‘Why not?’
‘Princess Gigi doesn’t do walking.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘No, she rides everywhere.’
‘Rides?’
‘Yes, rides, like the Queen of Sheba! I’m not sure what they’re called, but I call it a “canine carriage”. When I made the mistake of offering to take Gigi around the block one night for her final constitutional because it was raining, I was absolutely mortified to find myself parading a Pekingese – dressed in a luminous pink Chanel coat, no less – round the streets of Paris in a pram! Although, to be honest, no one batted an eyelid. I love Parisians, even their dogs are chic!’
‘Unlike me.’ Poppy groaned. ‘I think I might have to go shopping.’
‘Don’t worry, the staff at Patisserie Madeleine wear chef’s whites or beautifully designed and embroidered linen aprons. What did you think of Hélène?’
‘She’s lovely, but we didn’t have much time to chat. As I said, I was late, and she had to rush off to some class or other with her friend. I’m not sure what pyrographie is exactly.’
Jamie burst into laughter. ‘It’s the art of decorating wooden items with fire. I told you she was a little eccentric, but that’s part of her charm, and everyone adores her. I had some of the best times of my life when I was staying in her studio in the attic, and I’m sure you will, too, Popps. And that’s my second piece of advice; under no circumstances should you accept her invitation to join her at one of her classes.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Now that I know what pyrographie is, it sounds like fun.’
‘Maybe, but what about roller-skiing, or mushroom foraging, or duck wrangling, or soap carving, or drone racing, or…’
Poppy giggled. ‘Okay, okay, I take your point.’
‘Those are all real-life activities that Hélène and her best friend Odette took part in while I was living there. Olivier and Alain worry about the two of them all the time, especially when they do things like skydiving, hang-gliding and bungee jumping!’ Jamie paused, his voice softening. ‘Hélène lost her husband ten years ago, and Olivier says she needs to keep busy, constantly expanding her horizons and meeting new people. Oh, and talking of meeting new people, I’ve arranged for you to meet up with one of my friends. Stéphane says he’s more than happy to show you the sights – the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre – and suggest a few places for dinner.’
‘Jamie, I told you, I’m on a dating hiatus until the end of the year!’
‘It’s not a date; it’s just a friend who wants to show off his beautiful city to his friend’s sister who’s new in town and needs a lesson on how to use the Métro!’ Jamie laughed. ‘He works at the bookshop around the corner from Hélène’s apartment, and you did say you were going to start writing your romance novel while you’re over there. How can you depict a truly swoonworthy hero in your story without doing the research first?’
‘I’m not interested in experiencing anything first-hand. After what happened with Drew, not to mention the last three dates I’ve been on when I’ve been stood up and abandoned mid-date, I think it’s best to sit in the audience and not stand centre stage. I intend to loiter on the sidelines and watch others do the swooning!’
‘How is that authentic?’
She sighed. She had never won an argument with Jamie, and she was far too tired to go into battle with him now. ‘Okay, okay. I would like to see the sights while I’m here, and having someone local as my very own personal tour guide would be a bonus. Thanks, Jamie.’
‘De rein, mon petit chou-fleur!’
‘What?’
But Jamie had already cut the call, and as she slotted her phone back into her pocket she was ambushed by a sudden wave of exhaustion, which wasn’t surprising as she’d been up since five a.m. that morning and had spent most of the day travelling, something that she wasn’t used to doing, not to mention the emotional energy she’d expended navigating the various modes of transport by herself for the first time. So, instead of finishing her unpacking, she grabbed one of the pink cashmere throws, draped it around her shoulders, and curled up on the sofa.
Within minutes, she was motoring down sleep’s superhighway, dreaming of skydiving, bungee-jumping and fire-art classes.