One Summer in Paris(35)

To distract herself, she pulled out the map her grandmother had given her.

She wished Mimi had agreed to come to Paris with her, then she could have shown Grace all her favorite places in person instead of simply drawing them on a map.

Perhaps she’d go for a stroll before dinner, but first she’d lie down just for a few minutes.

She woke three hours later, disorientated and with less than fifteen minutes until her dinner reservation.

She sprang off the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that was a combination of jet lag and months of sleep deprivation.

She applied her makeup, slid into a dress that was smart but not too over-the-top, grabbed her bag and made her way to dinner. On her own.

She could read a book, but she’d left hers on the plane and hadn’t yet bought another. After dinner she’d find that bookshop her grandmother had talked about, but for now she was going to have to stare out of the window and try hard not to look as if her husband had abandoned her.

The moment she entered the restaurant, she knew this had been a mistake.

This wasn’t a place where single women came to gaze out of windows. This was a place for romance and fine dining.

She was about to turn around and head back to her room, when the headwaiter spotted her.

“Madame Porter.”

How was it everyone knew who she was? She’d come here to disappear, but this hotel prided itself on personal service.

Grace followed him to the table laid for one in the window of the restaurant. Usually she loved traveling. She loved the sights and smells of new places, the discovery of local food, the sheer unfamiliarity of it all.

Right now she couldn’t access the usual feelings of excitement.

Feeling conspicuous, she looked at the menu.

She ordered a steak, and refused the suggestion of red wine.

The couple next to her, both of them effortlessly elegant, were laughing at a shared joke.

Another couple nearby kept reaching across the table and clasping hands.

Grace picked up her water. Maybe she should have made an exception and ordered wine. She needed something to numb her misery.

Some people loved solo travel. She was clearly doing it wrong.

At the end of the most excruciating evening of her life, Grace exited the restaurant and pulled out Mimi’s map.

“Madame Porter.” The concierge smiled at her. “Can I help you with something?”

Grace held out the map. “I’m trying to find a bookshop.”

The concierge studied the marks on her map and gave her directions.

Stepping through the door of the hotel, she felt the warmth of the sun.

It was late evening, and the whole of Paris was bathed in a summer glow.

Grace still had that slightly fuzzy-headed feeling that followed a transatlantic flight, but she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and followed the path along the river.

It was as busy as it had been in the middle of the day, and her spirits lifted slightly as she watched the evening river cruisers drift slowly past her. Music and laughter floated downstream along with the boats.

Philippe.

The memory was so vivid, she stopped walking.

It had been exactly this time of year. She’d been desperate to go on a river cruise. Neither she nor Philippe had the money so instead they’d taken the Batobus, the water taxi that stopped off at various points along the Seine.

It was from the river that she’d caught her first glimpse of the Musée d’Orsay, Notre Dame and the Louvre. From the water you could see the entire facade of the famous Grande Galerie and the Pavillon de Flore. There was no commentary, of course, but she hadn’t needed one because she’d been with Philippe, a native Parisian, who had kept his arms wrapped around her as he’d volunteered his knowledge of Paris.

They’d jumped off so that he could show her the Eiffel Tower, and then caught the last boat back. He’d kissed her as the sun was setting over the famous Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge over the river Seine.

Grace blinked, surprised that the memory could still be so vivid after so many years.

What was Philippe doing now?

She’d never looked him up or tried to find him on social media. The past was a door she’d never wanted to walk back through. She was only thinking of him now because this was Paris.

Would she have thought of Philippe if she’d been with David?

Focusing on the present, she strolled across the bridge as the concierge had instructed and followed the river on the other side toward the cathedral of Notre Dame. She ducked away from the river and here the streets were narrow, cobbled and shady. People were buying ice cream, browsing in boutique stores and strolling along enjoying the late-evening sunshine.

Grace glanced at the map and tried to orientate herself. Engrossed in working out where she was, she wasn’t aware of the man approaching from behind until he shoved her.

She flew off balance and landed hard on the cobbles. Her ankle twisted under her and her shoulder smacked into concrete, followed by her head. There was an explosion of pain. This is it. This is where I die.

Even in her dazed state, she imagined the headline.

Body of jilted wife found in Paris.

A tug on her shoulder brought her back to the present and she realized the man had snatched her bag.

“No!” All her valuables were in her bag. Passport. Money. ID. A photo of Sophie smiling on a trip to the beach.