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His face was all innocence. He was right, though, about hunger. She remembered all those weeks last spring when she’d simply forgotten to eat.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s how you know that youwantto be alive.’
Autumn Leaves
Harry leaned forwards from the back seat and held out his map to the taxi driver.
‘Ici, s’il vous plaît.’
He was pointing to the knife-and-fork symbol labelledLa Closerie des Lilas, the restaurant that had been catering to the rich and infamous since the lost generation made it a must-do. Jenny had suggested a lunchtime booking. It probably wasn’t the sort of place a man would eat dinner all by his lonesome. He exhaled deeply and pressed his thumb into the pain in his right thigh. More than anything, he needed to sit for a while. Although, he realised with a twitch of interest, he did actually feel hungry. All that walking must have stirred his appetite.
Traffic was heavy, which suited Harry just fine. Leaning back into the seat, he felt his eyelids getting heavy. Maybe he had time for a restorative nap. He felt his head dipping forwards and didn’t fight it.
Then, all at once, the taxi came to a sudden halt, a loud horn sounded from the adjacent car, and a string of expletives emanated from the front seat. Harry’s head was involuntarily jerked backwards into the headrest. He raised a hand and rubbed his neck. Well, alrighty then, he thought. No sleep for the damned.
‘Place de la Bastille,’ said the taxi driver, making eye contact with Harry in the rear-view mirror and waving his hand to indicate the large column around which the car, having found a break in the traffic, was currently careering.
Harry nodded back, uncertain how to show appreciation for a non-existent historical landmark.He’s trying to distract me now,thought Harry, so I won’t sue him for whiplash.
The car sped on, crossed the Seine and navigated a tangle of narrow streets with a bravura display that relegatedSpeed and Hot Sauceto the rank of downright soporific. Finally, they emerged onto the broad expanse of boulevard Saint-Michel, and the taxi pulled up abruptly at the doorstep of La Closerie des Lilas. The driver, smiling broadly, turned to face the back seat.
‘Alors, monsieur, nous voilà!’
Harry wondered whether the man was hoping for a big tip or a job as a stuntman.
* * *
Still rubbing his neck, Harry nodded his thanks to the Maître D’, who pushed in the red leather chair beneath him as he sat and then handed him a menu. Harry ordered the house drink: a cocktail of calvados, amaretto and Lillet Blanc tinted with crème de cassis. Coeur Lilas, they called it: a lilac heart. It was a girly drink, Harry thought, but it brought to mind an old Buckley song; it seemed to match his mood of dampened courage.
He sipped the drink and surveyed the room. The clientele was too sophisticated to seem blatantly touristy, but Harry could distinguish American voices in the general buzz of polite chatter. Strings of fairy lights twinkled coyly in every corner. Perhaps because he was alone, Harry had been seated close to the grand piano. An elegantly dressed man was playing ‘Autumn Leaves’ a tad too brightly.
A waiter took his order for the filet de boeuf Hemingway, with pommes Pont-Neuf – whatever they were. It was the red meat he craved, not the celebrity connection. He caught the waiter’s sleeve at the last moment and asked for a carafe of something red.
Harry polished his reading glasses and opened his book but found that the twinkly fairy lights didn’t provide sufficient illumination for small print. He closed the novel, took out his phone and tapped into his personal email account.
Top of his inbox was an email fromjenfairchild93with a subject line that readMore Must-See Places to Visit in Paris!He scrolled past it. He scanned the subject lines of half a dozen messages from studio executives wanting to know when he’d be back in town and one from his dietician titledAvoid Red Meat at ALL Costs!!!
With his thumb, he scrolled further, until he saw her name – her maiden name of course: Nancy Leib. He looked at the timestamp on it. She must have replied to his email as soon as she’d read it. He didn’t know whether or not that was a good sign. He tapped to open it.
Harry, my dear Harry,
What I wouldn’t have given to have received that note from you five years ago! I won’t say it doesn’t give me some satisfaction to have you asking me to fly to Paris for a fancy dinner. A year ago, maybe even a month ago, I might have hopped on that plane, but right now I’m busy.
Things are going well for me here. Believe it or not, I’m going back to acting. I’ve been meeting with Louis Casteneda. He’s got a great role for me – a TV show. I’ll be playing a washed-up, middle-aged actress whose rising-star daughter is pregnant. Shouldn’t be too big a stretch! Seems like Hollywood is finally willing to acknowledge that women live past fifty. I’m so excited about it. Scared to bits, too, but mostly excited.
The thing is, Harry, you didn’t let me go. You left me with no other option but to go. You valued your own pleasure more than our relationship. If your pleasure turned out to be a fleeting thing .?.?. well, I can’t say I’m sorry about that.
I thought we were happy, Harry. I trusted you. I believed that you were as invested in our marriage as I was. And then you walked out as if our whole life together was just a movie that got a bit boring in the middle. You humiliated me, you defiled our home, and you traumatised our daughter. You destroyed my faith in you – and worse, you broke Caroline’s trust in the world.
You were the one who ended our marriage, Harry, and there’s no easy way back. I was a wreck when we split. I thought I was worthless, and then I thought I was a fool. I thought I’d wasted my best years on you, and then I thought I’d burst from anger. But I moved on. Life moved on, Harry, without you.
I forgive you. Honestly, I do. But it’s all in the past – the good and the bad – and I don’t want to go backward. Does that make sense?
Enjoy Paris.
With love,
Nancy
