Paris Dreaming Page 28

  ‘But either way, dear girl, you will be fine. You come from a long line of strong Gamilaroi women who know how to live their lives without relying on men to be happy. And only when you are happy yourself will you be truly happy with someone else.’

  ‘Are you happy, Mum?’

  Mum laughed. ‘Of course. I’ve got all my kids and grannies and my daughter is in Barthelona being a flash Black and is making me real proud.’

  I hesitated. ‘Are you ever going to have another boyfriend, Mum?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m still married to your father.’

  She was still married to my father and he’d been dead for over twenty-five years. That was a love I couldn’t imagine. It made me think of the line in Moulin Rouge: the greatest thing in life you’ll ever learn is to love and to be loved in return. I wondered if Mum had seen the movie.

  With some hope in my voice, I said goodbye.

  ‘I better go, Mum, I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, dear girl.’

  I walked back to Judith’s with a greater sense of control over my emotions, if nothing else. It was the first time Mum had ever really talked about her love for Dad. With so much experience under her belt, perhaps she was right about Jake. Maybe he just needed to hear that I loved him, that I needed him in my life, that he made me happy. Maybe that was the other difference with ‘her’: she said the things Jake wanted to hear.

  On my last morning in Barcelona, Judith took me to her favourite marketplace, the Mercat de Santa Caterina. The streets were quiet at 9 am because the Catalans were still sleeping; late nights meant late mornings here.

  My brain was forcing thoughts of Jake to the front of my mind while Judith gave me commentary about the local buildings and architecture.

  As we entered the newly designed market building, I saw an explosion of colour through the fruit and vegetable displays and inhaled a strong yet unusually pleasant smell of fish.

  I was amazed at the variety of everything and couldn’t believe there were so many types of olives and eggs. I saw some ostrich eggs that reminded me of the carved emu egg I gave Mum for Christmas some years ago. That memory triggered an idea about getting an egg carver to Paris for an exhibition in the future. I pulled out my Moleskine and added it to my ‘When I return to Paris: TO-DO LIST!’.

  Judith had a favourite fishmonger called Jordi – a flirtatious fifty-year-old who winked at all his female customers – and we stopped to buy calamari and monkfish. Everything was so fresh that the crabs were still moving. It was unnerving.

  As we bought mushrooms, old men stared at me and a young man said, ‘Hola.’

  I knew that would’ve made Jake jealous, he always got funny when other men flirted with me. I liked the attention, but it took me back to the reason I was in Barcelona in the first place.

  Judith ordered her vegetables in Catalan with ease and I admired her ability with languages. I stepped back a minute and just looked around, watching the sellers and buyers exchange words and foods and euros.

  Before long, the market was buzzing with life. I stood still and felt a lump forming in my throat, and I forced myself to swallow hard. I am in Barcelona. I am in the Mercat de Santa Caterina. I am amongst pesce, ensalada, olives and breads. No-one was going to have sympathy for me while I was in such good hands in such a wonderful country.

  As Judith went to a supermarket nearby, I propped myself up at Bar Joan (pronounced ‘juarn’) and ordered an iced coffee and a coca de vidre, a local Catalan pastry, sweet with pine nuts.

  There was an old couple sitting next to me. The woman was so tiny her shopping trolley was almost the same size as her, and the Catalan tomato bread she chewed on was almost as big as her head. The husband talked with an animated face as he played with the coins he would use to pay for their coffees.

  I was inspired by the longevity of what I imagined their love to be. It reminded me about Mum still being married to Dad. That thought made me smile and have some hope for Jake and me.

  As the cab pulled into a drop-off bay at the airport, I was exhausted from thinking and crying and I was emotionally drained. I needed my energy back in order to finish my project at the embassy. The job was the one thing I could look forward to.

  I had felt like Judith had given up trying to make me happy as she put me in a cab to the airport and handed me a card.

  ‘Open it on board,’ she said, and hugged me tight. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’

  I nodded and felt overwhelmed by the friendship she had offered me the past days.

  ‘You are going to be fine,’ she said through the cab window.

  Fastening my seatbelt on my Qantas flight from Barcelona, I was surprised to see the plane only half-full with about sixty other passengers heading to Paris. I guessed most travelled with the local airline, Iberia. I opened the card from Judith.

  It simply read: ‘Have faith in rational thought.’

  By the time we landed in Paris, I felt stronger. I had decided that my tidda was right. I needed to have faith in rational thought: if not in Jake’s, then at least in my own. And especially in Mum’s.

  I wasn’t sure when or how I was going to do it, but I needed to let Jake know I loved him. That I had been missing him desperately, that losing him – us – had been the hardest thing I’d ever had to deal with since Dad’s death.

  Maybe he wouldn’t take me back. I wanted to move into the future and get on with life, but I had to know that I had done my best with Jake. I now knew I hadn’t. I would meet with Canelle and Sorina and fill them in and see if Jake was free for dinner.

  You are going to be absolutely fine, I told myself, as I sat in the cab on the way back to the 20th and rain drizzled down the window. I remembered the strength of my mum over the years, having to raise us kids without Dad to help her. I was like Mum: I was strong, and I would take on her wise ways also.

  As the cabbie put my case on the footpath, my phone rang. It was Lauren, furious she hadn’t heard from me. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in such a filthy mood.

  ‘Can you cause people any more concern? No-one’s heard from you for ten days, why haven’t you answered emails? People are worried. I’m worried.’

  I was a little surprised at how angry she was with me. I felt like a chastised child.

  ‘Apart from causing everyone concern, it’s also out of character. And, it’s rude of you not to return messages.’

  While she took a breath I said, ‘I’ve been in Barcelona, just landed in Paris. I’ll call you back in five minutes, okay?’

  She perked up. ‘Barcelona?’

  I could tell Lauren was already appeased at the thought of me having a holiday, without knowing the drama behind the trip.

  ‘Speak in five,’ I said quickly.

  The call ended and I climbed the stairs, stopping at Dom and Catherine’s along the way to let them know I was back. I was greeted with a welcome similar to parents who had missed their only daughter.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ I said meaningfully.

  I called Lauren and summarised the past few weeks. It was a painful exercise but I had to get it all out, and she had to know.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked.

  ‘I need to tell him how much I love him. That I want to be with him.’ I was adamant. ‘I just hope he wants to be with me.’

  ‘Of course he wants to be with you, you’re Libby Cutmore.’

  ‘But I’ll survive even if he doesn’t. Let’s face it,’ I said confidently, ‘I’ve got a pretty extraordinary life, and I am capable of great things. I was absolutely fine before I met him, and I’ll be fine without him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Lauren said impatiently. ‘Now get off the phone and call him.’

  I laughed. ‘Yep, you’re right, I’ll call him right now, while I’m full of Cutmore courage.’ I felt stronger having talked to Lauren.

  ‘And good luck, sis.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  �
��And when you’re all finished loving each other up, try sending me an email, okay?’ Libby laughed.

  ‘I promise!’

  I dialled Jake’s number and got his voicemail. I hung up like a nervous teenager. I didn’t want to leave an unscripted longwinded message. I caught my breath, wrote some dot points and dialled again. When the phone went to voicemail for a second time, I left a positive-sounding message.

  ‘Jake, it’s Libby. I’m back in Paris and I’d like to see you. I need to see you. Can we have dinner tonight? It’s Thursday. I’m on the mobile.’

  I then called Canelle and Sorina, and asked them to meet me in an hour on rue du Champ de Mars for coffee. I had to get some final support for what I needed to do.

  I showered, changed and raced to the Métro, desperate to see my friends and bring the day closer to the night when I hoped to see Jake. I took the train to Bir-Hakeim by mistake – on autopilot to work – but didn’t mind. The extra walk gave me more think ing time.

  But as I crossed rue Jean Rey I looked to the right and saw Jake standing next to a cab. There was a woman with him. It had to be Suzanne. She was much chunkier than I thought she’d be – for a yoga instructor – and her long mousy hair was straggly and in need of a good cut and colour. He hugged her. I felt sick.

  I turned and ran, hailing the first cab I saw.

  I raced up the stairs at home, hoping Dom and Catherine weren’t in my path along the way. I collapsed on my bed and screamed into the pillow for two minutes at the top of my lungs after throwing cushions around the room. I didn’t think I had any more tears left, but they fell like waterfalls of sadness.

  I ran to the bathroom and dry-retched over the toilet bowl, sick in the knowledge that I wasn’t even going to get the chance to tell Jake how I felt now. I couldn’t, not after seeing him appear happy with another woman. I had failed.

  Then my buzzer went. Fuck! Dom heard me screaming, I thought.

  ‘Hello?’ I said softly.

  I wanted to pretend I had just woken from my sleep and a bad dream. That at least could explain why I was such a physical wreck.

  ‘It’s Jake.’

  I felt nauseous.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, angrily.

  ‘I got your phone message.’

  ‘Was that before or after you were completely wrapped around your wife on the street?’ I yelled, hoping that I wouldn’t throw up while on the intercom.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you at work.’ I said accusingly. ‘Bastard.’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Can I come up, please?’ he pleaded.

  I pressed the buzzer and let him in. I couldn’t see the point in turning him away: there was nothing more he could do to hurt me now. But when he walked through my door, I thought my heart would break all over again. I had missed him so much.

  ‘What’s all this about being wrapped around someone on the street?’ Jake looked completely confused.

  ‘Well, I saw her. I saw you.’

  I poked him so hard in the chest I nearly broke my finger.

  ‘I saw the hug. I saw you being the “happy couple”,’ I said with venom as I made air quotes. ‘That was her, wasn’t it?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Why are you shaking your head at me? Are you going to lie to my face now about it? For fucksake, I saw you!’ I screamed.

  ‘It was Suzanne,’ he said, calmly.

  ‘So, where’s your wife now?’ I looked out the window to see if there was a car waiting downstairs.

  ‘On the way to the airport. She just dropped by work to give me these.’ He held up an envelope. ‘She signed the papers.’

  ‘I don’t care what she did.’

  They were probably fake anyway, he probably just wanted one last shag.

  I tried not to look at him. I wanted him to know I loved him, but I also wanted him to know how much I was hurting. How wrong I thought he had been.

  I fidgeted with my handbag. He took it from my hands and placed it on the floor. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me into him, looking into my eyes.

  ‘Please stop being angry with me, I’ve missed you every nanosecond, Libby.’

  Angry? I was furious. ‘Oh I’m sure. Every second you weren’t in bed with her, right? Or at dinner with her, or walking in parks.’

  My heart started aching again and I cried, hating myself for not keeping it together.

  ‘I didn’t sleep with her, we didn’t …’ he said, looking straight into my eyes.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I pushed him away.

  ‘Hear me out please, Libby, I have been desperate all this time you’ve been away. When she first arrived I just picked her up and took her to a hotel. She didn’t come anywhere near my bed. She never even came to the residence.’

  Jake looked at me like a child desperate for their parents’ trust.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, disbelieving.

  Jake held my face in his hands.

  ‘Because I didn’t want her at my place,’ he said gently. ‘You are the only woman I’ve had there, the only woman I wanted there.’

  I could imagine how pissed off she must have been if this was the truth.

  ‘I bet she wasn’t happy about that.’

  ‘I don’t know, she didn’t say. She just seemed happy to be in Paris.’

  Something suddenly occurred to me. ‘Oh fuck, did you pay for her and her yoga mat to come here?’

  He was silent.

  It was pathetic.

  ‘You really are a doormat for her, aren’t you? More money than brains.’ I walked away from him.

  He shook his head. ‘Not anymore.’

  He walked towards me.

  ‘I could hardly look at her without thinking of you. I hated her for tearing us apart. But I hated myself more for allowing her to.’

  I could feel myself weaken at the thought that maybe he’d missed me as well.

  ‘You let me get on a plane to Spain with a shattered heart and self-esteem.’

  ‘I’ve been an idiot, Libby,’ he said, wiping my tears with his thumbs.

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘And I am filled with self-loathing for what I have put you through. Put us both through.’

  ‘So you should be.’ I was starting to feel slightly better.

  ‘It’s not all my fault, Libby,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘What? Are you saying it’s my fault?’ I could hear my voice rising again.

  ‘You’ve never said you loved me. I had no idea where I stood.’

  I felt guilty.

  ‘All this time, I’m the only one who said it. I was seeing you, and we were together, and I was happy, but I never knew if you loved me. You’ve never told me.’

  Jake searched out my eyes, still looking for the answer I was desperate to give him.

  ‘I would never have walked out that night if I knew that you really wanted me, but you let me go without saying it.’

  ‘Of course I love you,’ I said, taking his face in my hands. ‘You are the love of my life. I thought you’d be the last man I’d ever love.’

  Jake beamed. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’ He kissed me gently. ‘If you never say it again, it doesn’t matter. I just needed to hear it.’

  He hugged me so tight, he nearly squeezed the breath right out of me. I didn’t care. I never wanted him to let go.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to write a new chapter in my life.’ He kissed me again and I could feel myself melt inside. ‘And I want you to help me finish the book.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, sniffling and wiping my face with the palm of my hand.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He took my hand, leading me towards the door to the stairway.

  ‘It’s wet out. Let’s just stay here. I’ll make some tea.’

  ‘Please,’ his eyes pleading with me, ‘it’s important.’

  I followed him downstairs and he hailed a cab.

  ‘The Pont des Arts,
’ he instructed the driver.

  As we headed towards the Seine and the place he first told me he loved me, my phone beeped.

  I knew exactly what to reply.

  People talk about the process of writing as a solitary one. I have never felt that way. All my books require spending time with a great cast of real-life characters I like to call ‘research assistants’. And in the case of Paris Dreaming, we had a lot of fun in a number of cities.

  Firstly, for inspiring the visual arts element of this work, I acknowledge the individual artists showcased in my novel, and the curators of the Australian Indigenous Art Commission at the Musée du Quai Branly – Hetti Perkins and Brenda L Croft – who also introduced me to the name the Musée du Crème Brûlée.

  I am grateful for assistance from the Musée, notably Philippe Peltier, and the generosity of spirit of Tom Menadue and Harriet O’Malley at the Australian Embassy in Paris. Your time is most appreciated.

  I’m deeply thankful to those who took on the role of ‘assistant researchers’ with passion, trudging through the streets of Paris for days and nights on end. Merci beaucoup to my local parisienne guide and reader Aline Gargar-Belmont and to friends Estelle Castro, Lora Fountain, Carol Aghajanian, David Martin, Susan Spooner, David Wright, Victoria Johnson and Kerry Foy.

  In Spain, I thank my tidda Julie Wark for hosting me, introducing me to Catalan culture and reading drafts over a glass or two of cava!

  To my research team in Canberra – Kirsten Bartlett and Rachel Clarke – your dedication to my Dreaming titles does not go unnoticed.

  My thanks to the Moree Mademoiselles, Cathy Craigie and Miah Wright, for advice on their hometown. And to the Deniliquin Darlings, Steven Ross and Carlee Rundell-Gordon, much gratitude for introducing Libby and I to the Deni ute muster.

  For aiding research, reading drafts and offering suggestions I took on board, I thank Jonathan Jones, Emily McDaniel, Caroline Verge, Anne Cranny-Francis, Bernardine Knorr and Michelle Crawford.