Paris
Present Day
The sights and smells of the Paris flea market were almost too much for Amelia’s hungover senses to bear. Only her excitement at living in the city she adored, and a need to be out of her apartment, led her forwards.
Though the baking emanating from the nearby shops smelled delicious, the aromas changed with every step causing her stomach to roil and calm in equal measure. The strong scents of garlic and onion were overtaken by that of sweet pastries and butter. The crowds wove around her, all heading for the farmers’ market at the bottom of the tiny street or returning up the hill with bags laden with fresh produce. In between, shopkeepers cast open their windows, displaying the eclectic range of goods they had to offer. Amelia’s eyes darted between the numerous chandeliers that hung from the ceilings of one store, onto antique vases side by side on a small side table. Traditional French furniture lined the street outside along with stacks of paintings. On the other side of the street, smaller objects like perfume bottles, vintage jewellery and trinkets glittered as the sun hit the windows.
All around, the sound of chatter penetrated her ears, resonating through her sluggish brain. Fluent in French, Amelia could make out most of what was said, but when so many voices merged and the locals spoke so quickly, she struggled to keep up. Snippets of conversation met her, forming unusual and humorous sentences. She pushed her large round sunglasses further up her nose to shield her eyes from the sun’s strong glare, and her stomach rumbled loudly.
Spring in Paris was a magical affair as flowers bloomed around the city, giving the air an overwhelmingly floral scent. She’d been there for eight years now, but the capital never failed to impress her. Each season affected the city differently, but whereas summer could sear the streets with a hazy heat, spring gave all the golden glow but with a much more temperate feel.
Pausing at her favourite café, with a mix of folding metal and wicker chairs tightly packed around small circular tables, she took a seat and ordered a café crème and a buttery, flaky croissant; the perfect thing to soak up the rest of the wine lingering in her system while she waited for Océanè to join her. She’d want to know all about her date with Bastien last night and by the time Amelia had something to eat and chatted to her friend, she’d feel well enough to look again for the perfect items to finish off the job she was working on. As an interior designer, Paris – with its chic fashions and varied shops – was ideal for her business. Could she have built this career in the tiny English village she’d grown up in? Probably not. Though regret at the way she’d left bubbled inside, causing her insides to roll again.
Twenty minutes later, Océanè arrived and ordered the same as Amelia. Amelia asked for another café crème before the waiter disappeared, knowing the questioning was soon to begin and a second caffeine hit would help her endure it. Her friend didn’t exactly mince her words.
‘So?’ Océanè asked in her heavy French accent. ‘How was your date last night? Was Bastien attentive? Did he buy you champagne? You have seen him, what? Five times now?’
‘He bought me wine. And lots of it. Too much, in fact,’ Amelia said, adjusting her sunglasses once more as the sun moved across the sky, climbing higher. The coffee was helping her headache, but she still felt a little fragile. This morning she had dived to the bathroom and hastily scraped her black hair into a chignon and swiped bold red lipstick over her lips, knowing it would give her pale complexion some colour. Over the years she had tried to absorb the Parisian style of dressing: classic, expensive pieces, simple lines, and most of the time she managed to pull it off, but there were times, like this morning, when fashion wasn’t important. She’d thrown on old loose jeans and a jumper but it only took a moment with a real Parisian to make her feel sloppy and slobbish, and as Océanè cast her eyes over her outfit, she knew she didn’t approve.
Océanè swiped her blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘You do look a little, how do you say …’
‘Under the weather?’
‘Pasty.’
‘Thanks.’ Amelia giggled.
‘Did you not have a good time? He is very handsome, non?’
‘We had a very nice time.’ For once, Amelia was grateful that she looked so ill any blushing wasn’t likely to show as thoughts of his intense and passionate kisses rang through her head. ‘And yes, he is very handsome. He wined and dined me, paid me compliments, made me laugh, but I’ve left him to make his way home while I’m out.’
‘You are avoiding him?’ Her friend’s tone was incredulous.
Bastien was almost perfect and she liked him well enough, but Amelia wasn’t very good at the small talk made the next morning. It made her uncomfortable and embarrassed and to be honest, she hadn’t had a lot of practice at it. An image of Adam flashed into her brain and she shook it away. Ever since she’d left him back home in the tiny village of Meadowbank, he’d pop up in her mind, most often when she was thinking about or trying to date someone else. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t shake him off.
‘But you will see him again tomorrow?’ Océanè asked. ‘He is in love with you, I think.’
‘I don’t think he’s in love with me. I know he likes me, but—’ Amelia paused while the waiter delivered their drinks. She took a sip of coffee and saw the imprint of her red lipstick on the rim of the cup. ‘I don’t think it’s love.’ Sometimes, she found it hard to believe that someone would ever love her. Her life had been so destitute of it from such an early age. ‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I’m in the market for that sort of thing at the moment. I like him, but …’
The words died on her lips. What could she say? He was another man who over the years hadn’t made her feel the way Adam had? Océanè would laugh at her for thinking of a love that happened so long ago. An image of their goodbye at the train station floated before her, causing her throat to tighten. She dropped her eyes to her cup, focusing on the coffee inside it, hoping it would draw her mind and the pain away.
Océanè took a moment to understand the phrase, but realisation quickly dawned. ‘You are mad. He has everything a woman could want: money, success, good looks.’
Bastien did have all those things and he was also kind and funny, which is how they’d made it to five dates rather than just one, but despite her best efforts, he still hadn’t managed to break through to her heart.
‘You are a cold woman. You care only for your work.’
Amelia raised her head at this remark. Was she cold? She didn’t think so. She had friends and had been through some decent relationships, but they’d never felt strong enough to last. She wasn’t cold, she was just focused on living her life to the full. She’d worked hard to become one of the foremost interior designers in Paris, and she wanted more than just a man who was perfect on paper. She wasn’t prepared to invite a man into her life for the sake of it. She’d always done fine on her own and her life was far too busy for loneliness.
Océanè continued. ‘I do not know how you can be so immune to his charms. Our men – French men – Parisian men – know how to win a woman’s heart.’
‘Your French men are pretty charming, but I’m far too busy with work to worry about love.’
‘Don’t your parents want you to get married? Mine do. They say that I should marry Émile and have children before they are too old to enjoy being with them. They say my eggs will die.’
‘Your eggs?’ Amelia almost spluttered her coffee.
‘Eggs.’ Océanè motioned towards her lap. ‘Your parents do not worry about your eggs?’
A sharp pain shot into Amelia’s chest and a hurt she’d convinced herself had been dealt with stabbed anew. ‘My parents are dead. They died when I was a child.’
Océanè’s hand paused as she tore off a piece of croissant. ‘You have never told me that. We have been friends for years and yet