Thirty Days in Paris

Praise for Veronica Henry ‘An exquisite story bursting at the seams with summer, hope and love’MILLY JOHNSON ‘Gorgeous. A joy to read from start to finish’JILL MANSELL ‘Joyful and beautifully written’SUNDAY EXPRESS ‘Uplifting, inspiring and guaranteed to make you hungry’SARAH MORGAN ‘Beautifully described’GOOD HOUSEKEEPING ‘Warm, escapist and utterly uplifting . . .Veronica Henry at her very best’LUCY DIAMOND ‘Such a dreamy novel to cosy up with!’PLATINUM ‘A multi-generational masterpiece brimming with Veronica’s elegance and wit’CATHY BRAMLEY ‘A lovely, cosy, delicious read’LIBBY PAGE ‘Heartwarming and optimistic’PRIMA ‘Perfect escapism full of warmth, joy and a brilliant cast of characters’ALEX BROWN ‘Delicious foodie moments and a story of hope for the future’WOMAN To my brother PaulBecause we’ll always have Paris! CONTENTS Praise for Veronica Henry Dedication Title Page Epigraph 1 2 3 4 The Ingénue 5 6 The Ingénue 7 8 The Ingénue 9 10 The Ingénue 11 12 The Ingénue 13 14 The Ingénue 15 16 The Ingénue 17 18 The Ingénue 19 20 The Ingénue 21 22 The Ingénue 23 24 The Ingénue 25 26 The Ingénue 27 28 The Ingénue 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 Epilogue Acknowledgements Credits About the Author Also by Veronica Henry Copyright ‘It is better to forget me. It would be better to forget everything.’ Alain-Fournier, Le Grand Meaulnes TO LET Charming ‘chambre de bonne’ in the 2ème Situated a stone’s throw from the glamorous Rue Saint-Honoré, with its chic boutiques and cafés, this former maid’s room is now a bijou apartment equipped with everything you need for your stay in Paris. Available short or long term. 1 Juliet stood in the middle of the kitchen, overwhelmed by its emptiness. There wasn’t a single appliance out on the worktops. There wasn’t a cup or a plate in the sink or an empty bottle waiting to go into the recycling box. There wasn’t a jar of Marmite or peanut butter cluttering the island; no crumbs or circles of red wine or damp teabags. It felt almost funereal, with no smell of toast or percolating coffee to soften the edges, just the faint whiff of Cif. Every surface shone, from the granite to the blank blackness of the induction hob. It was pristine, silent, with the perfection of a kitchen catalogue. Just like the picture Juliet had found on Pinterest when they did the extension. A Shaker kitchen painted Mizzle by Farrow and Ball, with vintage knobs Juliet had sourced from a reclamation yard so that it didn’t look like every other kitchen extension in Persimmon Road, with their skylights and bi-fold doors out into the garden. The four of them had practically lived in the kitchen. They would sit there for hours over a platter of nachos, with a raggle-taggle assortment of multigenerational friends and neighbours, debating politics and the issues of the day, as well as more trivial dilemmas. Should Juliet get a tattoo? A unanimous yes. She hadn’t. Should Stuart? A unanimous no. He had: a Celtic band around his upper arm, to show off his newly toned bicep. Juliet had to admit it looked good. He looked good. Though it was strange. The fitter he had got, the more she’d drawn away from him. This sculpted, streamlined, sinewy version of him felt like a stranger. Which was one of the reasons they were in this situation. Packing up nearly twenty-five years of life together in order to be apart. Last Saturday, they had thrown a farewell party for all their neighbours and the pair of them had sung along to ‘Go Your Own Way’ by Fleetwood Mac, seaweed arms waving, pointing at each other. But smiling. It was an amicable separation. There was no animosity between them at all. They had both agreed it was the right thing to do. Now, however, there was a lump the size of a squash ball in Juliet’s throat as she stared at the door jamb that led into the utility room. Dozens of names and dates written in pencil wormed their way up it. The highest was Nate, at least a head taller than she was, the details inscribed over four years ago. The ritual had started when he was a toddler and had his friends from nursery over for tea and it had ended on a pre-university pizza night when it had become clear they had all stopped growing. What she wouldn’t give to have them here now, wrestling to be measured, Izzy worming her way among them and elbowing them out of the way. ‘We can’t leave this,’ she said, running her fingers over the ghostly names. ‘Just take a photo,’ said Stuart, who seemed to have lost every vestige of sentimentality along with his weight. Her chin wobbled at the memory of a tiny Izzy stretching herself upwards as high as she could manage while Juliet rested the pencil on the top of her head and carefully drew a line, then wrote in her name and the date. It was more than just a growth chart. It was a diary. A guest book. Proof of the sanctuary this kitchen had provided to an endless stream of youngsters. A reminder of the meals she’d supplied to all and sundry, from turkey dinosaurs (she knew the other mothers judged her for them, but she didn’t care) to pasta puttanesca. The advice that had been doled out, the homework agonised over, the birthdays that had been celebrated. But now, Izzy and Nate were both away: Izzy on her gap year, somewhere in South America (terrifying), and Nate in the third year of his four-year business degree, in Copenhagen (not so terrifying). Juliet flipped open the lid of the toolbox on the kitchen worktop and pulled out a screwdriver. ‘Oh no.’ Stuart knew her well enough to see where she was going with this. ‘They’re doing a complete refurb. They’re ripping everything out. I heard them when they came to view.’ Juliet started trying to prise the door