Letter from Paris Read Online Free
in the air, she stood up and walked briskly back home. She closed the heavy double doors behind her, threw her coat on the hallstand and ran up the stairs.
Joseph’s right, she thought. I AM very lucky to be going to Paris. I should never take my wonderful life for granted.
Going into her bedroom, she made a mental list. Okay. What do I need for carry on? Nightie, underwear, tights, layers…space for my coat…she thought. Then balancing on a wicker chair, she reached up to a high cupboard and pulled out her suitcase. Remembering the broken fastener, she slung it to one side and dug around for another. Spotting Peter’s Hermès Holdall crammed at the back of the shelf, she stretched up and made a grab for the strap. The chair swayed as she tried to reach it and catching her balance just in time, she managed to fling it across the room.
If Peter were here he’d be furious with me for being so stupid, she thought, climbing down and catching her breath before picking up the bag. Then noticing the bundle that had landed at her feet, she leaned down and picked up a sheaf of envelopes. Untying the ribbon around them, she fanned them in her hands. Each one was addressed in the same cursive handwriting. There was no stamp and no address, simply a first name, Peter.
Luella recognized the feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sense of premonition she had felt years ago, seconds before the doctor told her she had lost her baby. A wave of panic swept over her as she leaned against the edge of the bed and caught her breath.
Dropping the letters onto the quilt, she went into the bathroom and began dispensing cleansers and toners into travel-sized containers. Realizing she was pouring nail varnish remover on top of moisturizer, she stopped and splashed her face with cold water.
“Open the letters. You know you want to. You know you must,” her reflection seemed to be saying. Another louder voice was clamoring in her head. “They’re addressed to Peter; they’re none of your business. Put them back where you found them.”
She dried her face and stared in the mirror hardly recognizing her reflection, feeling strangely detached. Surely this is happening to someone else, she thought, leaning against the sink for support, her heart pounding. Returning to the bedroom, she lifted a single envelope and turned it over in her hands. She sat down, pulled out the letter and ran her finger over the embossed logo of the hotel letterhead, Le Meurice. Paris.
I’m sorry for doubting you, Peter, but I have to know, she thought. Please, please don’t let this be what I think it is.
Moments later, unable to control the violent tremor in her hands, Luella let the pages drop to her side and stood up. Walking unsteadily downstairs, she leaned for a few seconds on the newel post before crossing the hallway. Switching on the dining room light, she headed for the drinks cabinet where she downed a double shot of brandy. It burned the back of her throat. It was good to feel something – the rest of her was numb.
5
Maybe the secret of savoir faire lies in body language, India thought sitting in the bistro on the corner of Rue Cassette sipping her coffee. She was having a sartorial crisis: her navy blazer was far too predictable, her Breton T-shirt a little clichéd, the square silk scarf too considered. She observed that the young woman across the table had broken all of Inès de la Fressange’s rules with her tousled hair and sheepskin jacket, although with her air of insouciance, she still looked decidedly French.
Standing up carefully, straightening her back and walking briskly in the direction of what she hoped was Rue de Rennes, India eventually found Monoprix without having to ask directions and was soon the proud owner of a long beige linen scarf.
A woman approached her as she was handing over her euros. “Excusez-moi Madam. Ou sont les produits de beauté?” she asked.
“A bas,” India answered, gesturing to the back of the
Joseph’s right, she thought. I AM very lucky to be going to Paris. I should never take my wonderful life for granted.
Going into her bedroom, she made a mental list. Okay. What do I need for carry on? Nightie, underwear, tights, layers…space for my coat…she thought. Then balancing on a wicker chair, she reached up to a high cupboard and pulled out her suitcase. Remembering the broken fastener, she slung it to one side and dug around for another. Spotting Peter’s Hermès Holdall crammed at the back of the shelf, she stretched up and made a grab for the strap. The chair swayed as she tried to reach it and catching her balance just in time, she managed to fling it across the room.
If Peter were here he’d be furious with me for being so stupid, she thought, climbing down and catching her breath before picking up the bag. Then noticing the bundle that had landed at her feet, she leaned down and picked up a sheaf of envelopes. Untying the ribbon around them, she fanned them in her hands. Each one was addressed in the same cursive handwriting. There was no stamp and no address, simply a first name, Peter.
Luella recognized the feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sense of premonition she had felt years ago, seconds before the doctor told her she had lost her baby. A wave of panic swept over her as she leaned against the edge of the bed and caught her breath.
Dropping the letters onto the quilt, she went into the bathroom and began dispensing cleansers and toners into travel-sized containers. Realizing she was pouring nail varnish remover on top of moisturizer, she stopped and splashed her face with cold water.
“Open the letters. You know you want to. You know you must,” her reflection seemed to be saying. Another louder voice was clamoring in her head. “They’re addressed to Peter; they’re none of your business. Put them back where you found them.”
She dried her face and stared in the mirror hardly recognizing her reflection, feeling strangely detached. Surely this is happening to someone else, she thought, leaning against the sink for support, her heart pounding. Returning to the bedroom, she lifted a single envelope and turned it over in her hands. She sat down, pulled out the letter and ran her finger over the embossed logo of the hotel letterhead, Le Meurice. Paris.
I’m sorry for doubting you, Peter, but I have to know, she thought. Please, please don’t let this be what I think it is.
Moments later, unable to control the violent tremor in her hands, Luella let the pages drop to her side and stood up. Walking unsteadily downstairs, she leaned for a few seconds on the newel post before crossing the hallway. Switching on the dining room light, she headed for the drinks cabinet where she downed a double shot of brandy. It burned the back of her throat. It was good to feel something – the rest of her was numb.
5
Maybe the secret of savoir faire lies in body language, India thought sitting in the bistro on the corner of Rue Cassette sipping her coffee. She was having a sartorial crisis: her navy blazer was far too predictable, her Breton T-shirt a little clichéd, the square silk scarf too considered. She observed that the young woman across the table had broken all of Inès de la Fressange’s rules with her tousled hair and sheepskin jacket, although with her air of insouciance, she still looked decidedly French.
Standing up carefully, straightening her back and walking briskly in the direction of what she hoped was Rue de Rennes, India eventually found Monoprix without having to ask directions and was soon the proud owner of a long beige linen scarf.
A woman approached her as she was handing over her euros. “Excusez-moi Madam. Ou sont les produits de beauté?” she asked.
“A bas,” India answered, gesturing to the back of the
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