Someday in Paris Read online

  SOMEDAY IN PARIS

  Olivia Lara

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Olivia Lara, 2020

  The moral right of Olivia Lara to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781838933142

  Cover design © Charlotte Abrams Simpson

  Aria

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  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dominique: 9 December 2019

  Part I: ‘Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.’ — Alfred de Musset

  Zara: 9 December 1954

  Leon: 11 December 1954

  Zara: 16 December 1954

  Leon: 16 January 1955

  Zara: 4 February 1955

  Leon: 14 February 1955

  Zara: 24 February 1955

  Zara: 28 February 1955

  Leon: 9 March 1955

  Zara: 14 March 1955

  Leon: 15 March 1955

  Zara: 16 March 1955

  Zara: 28 March 1955

  Leon: 28 March 1955

  Part II: ‘Nothing is impossible for a willing heart.’ — Jacques Coeur

  Leon: 14 June 1956

  Leon: 14 June 1957

  Dominique Gardiner: 15 June 1957

  Leon: 15 June 1957

  Dominique: 15 June 1957

  Leon: 22 June 1957

  Alexander Roberts: 1 September 1957

  Part III: ‘Two hearts in love need no words.’ — Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

  Alexander: 1 September 1960

  Dominique: 1 September 1960

  Part IV: ‘Try to reason about love and you will lose your reason.’ — Stanislas Jean de Boufflers

  Alexander: 5 October 1960

  Dominique: 1 December 1960

  Alexander: 1 December 1960

  Dominique: 19 January 1961

  Alexander: 20 January 1961

  Dominique: 20 January 1961

  Part V: ‘One always returns to one’s first love.’ — Charles-Guillaume Étienne

  Dominique: 1 March 1961

  Dominique: 9 December 1961

  Alexander: 9 December 1961

  Dominique: 28 December 1961

  Dominique: 9 December 1962

  Alexander: 9 December 1962

  Part VI: ‘We love truly only when we love without reason.’ — Anatole France

  Dominique: 9 December 1963, 5 P.M.

  Alexander: 9 December 1963, 7 P.M.

  Dominique: 9 December 1963, 7 P.M.

  Alexander: 9 December 1963, 8 P.M.

  Dominique: 9 December 1963, 9 P.M.

  Alexander: 9 December 1963, 10 P.M.

  Dominique: 9 December 1963, 11 P.M.

  Alexander: 9 December 1963, 11 P.M.

  Dominique: 9 December 1963, 11.30 P.M.

  Dominique: 11 March 1964

  Alexander: 11 March 1964

  Dominique: 22 April 1964

  Alexander: 20 May 1964

  Alexander: 30 June 1964

  Dominique: 1 July 1964

  Alexander: 6 July 1964

  Dominique: 7 July 1964

  Alexander: 8 July 1964, Afternoon

  Alexander: 8 July 1964, Evening

  Dominique: 8 July 1964, Evening

  Dominique: 8 July 1964, Night

  Alexander: 8 December 1964

  Part VII: ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’ — Thomas Mann

  Dominique: 9 December 1964

  Dominique: 11 December 1964

  Dominique: 12 December 1964

  Dominique: 17 December 1964

  Part VIII: ‘Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream.’ — Euripides

  Dominique: 29 June 1965

  Dominique: 24 February 1966

  Dominique: 15 October 1966

  Dominique: 3 July 1967

  Dominique: 24 December 1967

  Dominique: 1 December 1969

  Dominique: 5 December 1969

  Dominique: 9 December 1969, Evening

  Dominique: 9 December 1969, Night

  Dominique: 11 December 1969

  Dominique: 12 December 1969

  Part IX: ‘There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists or simulate it where it does not.’ — François de La Rochefoucauld

  Anthony Peltz: 9 December 1973

  Anthony: 10 December 1973, Morning

  Anthony: 10 December 1973, Evening

  Anthony: 12 December 1973

  Anthony: 23 December 1973

  Dominique Saint Germain: 23 December 1973, Evening

  Part X: ‘Nothing is real but dreams and love.’ — Anna de Noailles

  Anthony: 11 January 1974

  Dominique: 22 February 1974

  Anthony: 12 March 1974

  Dominique: 25 March 1974

  Dominique: 17 May 1974

  Anthony: 6 June 1974

  Dominique: 13 June 1974

  Anthony: 20 June 1974

  Dominique: 15 July 1974

  Dominique: 5 September 1974

  Dominique: 9 October 1974

  Dominique: 12 October 1974

  Anthony: 4 December 1974

  Anthony: 6 December 1974

  Anthony: 7 December 1974

  Dominique: 8 December 1974

  Dominique: 9 December 1974

  Dominique: 9 December 2019

  Anthony: 9 December 2019

  Dominique: 9 December 2019

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  For anyone who ever doubted themselves:

  Believe in yourself, listen to your heart and always – I mean ALWAYS – follow your dreams.

  DOMINIQUE

  9 DECEMBER 2019

  COLMAR

  What makes people fall in love? Truly in love? What makes them believe they’ve found the one, their soulmate? And why that person and not someone else?

  What draws us in and never lets us go? Is it their eyes, their smile, their voice? The way they fit into our world? Is it because our parents like them and our friends think we’d make a great couple? Or maybe they make us laugh, have a good job, and want two kids like we do?

  What if it has nothing to do with that? What if it is something else entirely?

  I was fifteen the first time I asked myself this question. It was then that I had my first dream that didn’t feel quite like a dream. My mother said women in our family are special. She said I should listen to my dreams, but I was young, and I didn’t believe her. Or maybe I didn’t understand.

  I am eighty years old now. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But I’ve lived through enough to know people don’t believe you until you show them. And they shouldn’t. They should make up their own minds, listen to their own hearts, and follow their own dreams.

  My story,
the one I’ve been waiting to tell for so long, the one I never thought I would get to share until Valerie was born – my youngest son’s daughter – will not answer questions. Not even the question. But it will ask them.

  Ever since Valerie turned fifteen, I have been waiting for the day she would say, ‘Mamie, I had a dream.’ And then I would have to tell her. To show her. When she turned sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and nothing happened, I started to worry. What if I’m not around when it happens, or I am around but too senile to remember everything? That’s when I wrote it all down. That way, no matter what, she will know what happened and how it all came to be. And when the story’s done, she can make up her own mind about the dreams, the connection and what her soul is trying to tell her. She might believe me, she might not, but I have to try.

  A few days ago, she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Still no word of the dreams. But there is a young man in her life, although she’s reluctant to talk about him. I don’t know if today of all days I should ask, but something tells me it might be time. There’s a spark in her eyes. A familiar spark. I might be wrong; it might be nothing, but it might be everything.

  *

  ‘How are things with you, darling?’ I ask as we get close to Reims. The plan is to drop her off to meet some friends at the university in Reims while I go to Paris. Every year, on 9 December, I go to Paris no matter what.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, too busy with her phone to look at me.

  ‘Anything interesting happening?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  As usual. Either Valerie has a painfully dull life or a secret one.

  ‘Ugh, perfect,’ she scoffs and throws the phone in her bag. Then she picks it up again like she can’t decide what to do.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Silence.

  ‘It might help if you talk about it,’ I say.

  ‘It’s nothing really. Just this guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  I think I already know the answer.

  ‘Someone I met online. We’ve been chatting every day for a while now, but for the last two days, he’s been completely ignoring me. No email, no text, nothing. I’m so naïve. It’s my fault, really, for getting worked up about a man I’ve never even seen. Isn’t it stupid?’

  I smile. No, no, it’s not. Not at all.

  ‘He’s clearly ghosting me. This is so embarrassing.’

  ‘What does ghosting mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Ghosting? It’s when someone disappears without an explanation. I’ve sent him tons of messages since Friday and nothing. Look,’ she says, shoving the phone in my face.

  ‘Can’t see while I’m driving, darling,’ I say calmly.

  She seems frustrated with me. ‘Anyway, my friends say he’s a catfish; otherwise, why wouldn’t he talk on the phone or Skype?’

  ‘First ghosts, now catfish. Everything used to be much easier when I was your age.’

  ‘A catfish is someone who pretends to be someone else online,’ she says.

  I don’t see the connection between that and a catfish, but what do I know?

  ‘Online as in on the internet?’

  She laughs again. ‘Everyone is on Facebook and Twitter these days. He could very well be a twelve-year-old Parisian having fun with his playmates.’

  ‘As opposed to?’

  ‘A twenty-six-year-old actor on a movie set in Sydney.’

  Today is probably not the day I tell her about the dreams. Even to me, an actor who avoids showing his face seems fishy.

  ‘He won’t even send me a photo. All the signs are there. Why did I even think there could be something between us? This whole thing is stressing me out. I can’t eat. And ever since he stopped responding I’ve been having the strangest dreams.’

  ‘What are the dreams about?’ I ask. A dream can be just a dream. Even in our family.

  ‘Don’t know. Stupid stuff.’

  ‘Please, tell me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please, Valerie.’

  She looks out the car window. ‘I dreamed about a man with a gun. He was pointing it at me, and I was scared, terrified. But the strange thing is, although it was me in the dream, it wasn’t me. I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s as if I saw it through someone else’s eyes.’

  I slam on the brakes.

  ‘Are you okay, Mamie? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Valerie, what do you really feel about this man?’

  ‘What do you mean? I told you. I don’t even know him.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I feel I can’t breathe without him, that’s what I feel. Happy now? If I don’t talk to him for a few hours, I miss him. I want to share everything with him. I feel I was somehow meant to meet him. And it’s like, no matter who he is, what he looks like, I wouldn’t care because—’

  ‘Because you love him.’

  ‘That’s impossible. You can’t love someone you’ve never met.’

  I take a deep breath. Of all the days. It had to be this one.

  ‘You will have to meet your friends some other day, darling,’ I say as I take a sharp right back onto the highway instead of driving into Reims.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Valerie and I hear the concern in her voice.

  ‘You’ll see when we get there.’

  She keeps asking me all the way to Paris, but I don’t say a thing. I have to do this right. There’s an accident on the highway, and we get caught in a lot of traffic, but we finally make it.

  ‘Why are we stopping here?’ asks Valerie and follows me out of the rental car.

  ‘Button up your coat, darling. It’s freezing.’

  I open the trunk, grab the flowerpot and tuck it into my coat.

  ‘Slow down,’ she says, rushing to catch up with me.

  The fresh snow crunches under our boots and the wind blows through the naked trees.

  ‘I don’t like to keep people waiting. It’s disrespectful.’

  ‘You’re meeting someone in the cemetery? Mamie, are you sure you’re alright?’

  They are waiting at the end of the alley.

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ I say and hug each of them.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asks Hugo, staring at us.

  ‘My granddaughter, Valerie.’

  ‘This is the first time in fifty-five years Dominique has brought someone along,’ he says. ‘How in God’s name did you convince her?’

  ‘I’m not sure I did,’ says Valerie.

  ‘Shall we?’ I ask. I lead her through untouched snow, to a row of identical stones. The names and the dates of birth are different, but the date of death is the same.

  9 DECEMBER 1964

  Valerie steps closer. ‘Mamie? Who are all these people and why are we here?’

  I caress her face. ‘In the beginning, they all came. Over a hundred people. Through the years, some died, some moved away, others just couldn’t make the trip anymore. It’s only the eight of us now, and I can’t abandon them.’

  The group spreads out, each of them stopping in front of a stone. I do the same.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why do you all come here and whose grave is this?’ she asks, reading the name engraved on the stone. ‘Who is Alexander Roberts, did you know him?’

  I clean the snow off and carefully place the small pot of lilies.

  ‘I dreamed about him once.’ I smile. ‘Now, let’s go home. We’ll make hot cocoa, and I’ll read you a story.’

  ‘I’m too old for stories, Mamie.’

  ‘You’re never too old for stories. Definitely not for this one.’

  ‘You’re very mysterious. Does Grandpa know about this story of yours?’ she asks.

  ‘Your grandfather and I have no secrets.’

  *

  A few hours later, we’re sitting on the couch, our feet warm under a plush blanket.

  Sixty-five years to the day. I feel a hand on my shoulder and my heart smiles.

  ‘What is th
e story about? Is it about this man? This Alexander Roberts?’ asks Valerie.

  I open the leather-bound notebook. ‘It is about the three identical paintings on the wall you’ve been asking about and the book with lilies on the cover. It’s about dreams and taking chances. Missed opportunities and mistakes. Loss and sacrifice. But above all, it is about love. The kind of love that survives time, distance. Even death. The kind of love I wish for you.’

  I take a deep breath, clear my voice and start reading.

  PART I

  ‘Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.’ — Alfred de Musset

  ZARA

  9 DECEMBER 1954

  COLMAR

  The guard pushed a metal cart through the museum’s main gallery and into the minuscule art library. He took a piece of cardboard out of his pocket and wrote something on it before placing it on one of the many empty shelves. Zara squinted and counted. ‘One, two, three… seven.’ The last time she had seen that many new art books in Colmar’s library was over a year ago when Madame Martin, the lonely old lady on Rue Rapp, passed away. As much as she lived for the days when new books arrived, she hoped nobody had died this time.

  When the cart’s wheels screeched again on the hallway’s marble floor, she sneaked out of her hiding place and rushed to the shelf. The note said ‘December 1954. New,’ and the books were all about architecture, sculpture, and art restoration. All except for one book with no visible title. A big, shiny tome with water lilies on the cover. She was sure she had never seen it before, but somehow it looked familiar. It felt familiar, and she was drawn to it, inexplicably.

  Zara went back to her safe place, in the east corner of the library, holding the book tight, and carefully opened it. Monet’s Impressionism. Limited First Edition. 1954. On the inner cover were two initials in ink: ‘L.P.’ Below, two more: ‘A.P.’

  *

  ‘Whose story is this? I thought maybe you’d tell me all about your past since you’ve always been so secretive. But who’s this Zara girl? I’ve never heard you mention her. And what does she have to do with the cemetery and 9 December 1964 and that Roberts man?’ asks Valerie.

  ‘You have to wait. And listen. Above all, listen. And when your ears get tired, listen with your heart,’ I say before turning the page.