The Happy Endings Book Club (18 page)

“Check this out, Aunt Tilly. A brand-new Burberry dress with the label still on it. And it’s only £100.”

Tilda held the dress. It was lovely. It was black, knee-length, with a V-neck and three-quarter sleeves.

“Do you want it, Deb? My treat.”

Debra was busy looking at the Burberry site on her phone. “Holy crap, that dress is selling for £450.” She looked up from the phone. “You have to get it.”

“Okay, I’ll get it for you.”

Tilda paid for the dress and afterward found Debra waiting for her nearby.

“Good score, Tilly.”

Tilda handed the dress to Debra.

Debra tried not to laugh and handed it straight back. “It’s not for me. I thought it would look great on you.”

“But I got it for you.”

“Tilly, when was the last time you saw me in a dress?”

Something began to dawn on Tilda. “Not for a few years.”

Debra nodded. “Because I’m not that sort of lesbian.”

“You’re a lesbian?”

“That bothers you?” Debra smiled at her aunt.

Tilda laughed and reached out for her niece. “Why would it bother me?” She then drew back and whacked Debra playfully with the shopping bag. “It just means I’m stuck with this dress.”

Debra linked her arm through her aunt’s. “That the point. You should treat yourself more often.”

Tilda slipped the dress on and added some make-up, her new red heels and a black jacket. She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself. That wasn’t true. She recognized herself. And it was the first time in ages.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” she said to her reflection.

The hotel restaurant was lovely. Every detail was utterly perfect. The wallpaper was hand-painted, and the dark wood floors were covered in oriental carpets. A fireplace warmed the room. There was an assorted mix of lounge chairs and divans around small wooden tables. The whole place was an explosion of color, with unusual fabrics and lampshades. And scattered around the restaurant were the reasons she’d chosen the hotel: ten truly stunning flower arrangements. The shades, the form, and the combinations took her breath away.

The restaurant manager greeted her by name and with an appraising stare. “I’m Henri, and am at your service tonight.”

At my service?
Tilda had to bite back a suggestive remark. Henri was extremely good-looking, if rather formal in both appearance and manner. He took her coat and then led her to a reserved table in the corner.

“Is this suitable?”

Tilda lightly touched the flower arrangement on the bench beside her table. Red tulips, berries and rust-sprayed branches, with some foliage, all in a copper pot.

“This is perfect,” Tilda said. “I love the flowers.”

“My brother, he does them.” Henri said with pride. “He is an artist, no?”

Tilda nodded. “I’m a florist too. In London.”

“Ah, another artist.” Henri pulled out her chair and then he left her alone with the menu and her thoughts.

Me, an artist? There’s a label.

This place is so beautiful.

Will everyone think I’m a total reject because I’m dining alone?

Perhaps if I just casually stare around the room.

Are they kumquats in that arrangement? How clever.

What on earth am I doing in Paris?

I’m in Paris. Oh my god!

By the time the waiter placed her escargots à la bourguignon in front of Tilda, her chattering thoughts had calmed, and so did she. She savored her snails and then the slow-roasted mallard duck and finally the roquefort soufflé with poached pears and walnuts. She relished every bite of the three courses. The robust red from the Rhône region was so good she had a second glass.

She enjoyed dining alone. No one seemed to stare at her like she had a second head (or an invisible nose). Henri appeared occasionally and treated her as though she was an honored guest. Two men seated nearby finished their meal and left the restaurant, but not before one of them gave her an appreciative nod. He could
see
her.

Tilda soaked it all in and thought about what she’d read on the train.

At its very essence, invisibility is an issue with sight. Others can’t see you, but that is only the most recent manifestation of this disease. Think back—be honest with yourself.

How do you see yourself?

How do you see others?

And how do you view the world?

Finally, how long have you had this problem with your vision?

Tilda was the first to admit that her view of the world was limited. She was a creature of habit, but those habits didn’t include much pleasure.

As Selma had written earlier in the book:
Pleasure is important. With youth, this comes naturally. We’re all pleasure seekers. But the years pass, we have more responsibilities, and time becomes the enemy. We don’t have time for pleasure. We don’t have time.

Tilda had once found enormous pleasure in her work. It used to be such a joy to design and create flower arrangements. Somewhere along the way, though, it had just become work. That’s not to say she was unhappy with her career. She’d never want to do anything else. And she was proud of what she’d accomplished. But her work, along with the rest of her life, had become rather routine. She had a nice apartment, some great friends, and her relationship with Debra. But where was the sparkle? The pleasure? Her only treat was her once-a-month book club—and that was about it. She didn’t ever take the initiative to do anything special for herself.

Until now.

Today was special. The hotel, the restaurant, the food. Paris. She was in Paris, in a beautiful dress.

And … she’d been on a date recently. That had also been special.

The irony of Selma’s words wasn’t lost on her:
Finally, how long have you had this problem with your vision?

Probably longer than Patrick. He was blind, but his view of the world seemed healthier than hers.

She soaked in the atmosphere. How would Patrick view this place? The fabric on the chair and the tablecloth were rich and felt wonderful under her fingertips. The scent from the flower arrangements was subtle, so as not to overpower the food. The music was faint, but oh so French. She could hear the fire crackling. Chatting in the kitchen.

And suddenly she felt something in her limbs that she hadn’t felt for a long time: they felt
present
. Something subsided. She was totally relaxed.

She called Henri over and signed for her meal to be added to her account, then returned to her room. She hung her dress in the closet and slipped into her nightgown. Then she went into the bathroom to wash her face.

As she looked in the mirror she was stunned. She could see her nose again. It was as clear as anything, right there in front of her.

*

Tilda woke early after the best sleep she’d had in ages. She pulled back the curtains and let the morning sun stream in.

Good morning, Paris!

She showered and then dressed in her new trousers and blouse and sweater. She checked herself out in the mirror. She looked nice, but it was her nose that set the whole outfit off. To think she’d always had a problem with it, and wished it was smaller. Looking at it now, it was the loveliest nose she’d ever seen.

Restaurant Antoinette became a buffet breakfast bar in the mornings. She poured herself a coffee and placed two
pains au chocolat
on her plate. She chose another table this morning, next to a display of parrot tulips and miniature roses. She leaned in close to the arrangement to get a better look. Pine needles, eucalyptus pods. What a great choice.

“You like my work?”

Tilda swung around and came face to face with a haughty-looking and very handsome hunk, in dark jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. He gave her the once-over, even her shoes.

“My brother Henri said you are a floral artist from London.”

“A florist. Yes. I’m Tilda.”

He stuck out his hand. “Alain.”

Alain with a capital T for trouble, thought Tilda. It was the middle of a Parisian winter but suddenly the room was hot.

“I chose this hotel because of your flowers,” she said.

He looked delighted. “If you are free today, perhaps I can take you to a special place to view some other wonderful foliage.”

Christ, there was an offer that was hard to refuse. Hard, yes, but not impossible.

“I’m going to the Marché aux fleurs and the Marmottan Monet museum today. But thank you anyway.”

“And this afternoon?”

Tilda looked stumped. She was just planning to get lost in the streets of Paris for a while.

“Do you know Jeff Leatham’s work?”

Tilda’s eyes widened at the mention the artistic director of the Four Seasons George V. Other women liked movie stars … she had a crush on Europe’s top florist. “I know it well, but only from photos.”

“How can that be?” Alain asked. “Let me take you to the George V this afternoon. We can view it together.”

She’d been so determined to spend time alone. But she also wanted to see the floral arrangements at the George V, especially with someone who was himself a talented florist.

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

He gave her an impossibly sexy smile. “I’ll see you back here at four?”

“See you then.”

Tilda watched him swagger from the room, and then sat down to breakfast. Meeting Alain had unnerved her a bit, but still she’d do her best to eat both pastries. She bit down on her first
pain au chocolat
and almost moaned out loud. A mouth-watering pastry and a date with a hot man, all before 8 am. It was going to be a glorious day.

But then she thought of Patrick and felt a stab of guilt. She knew it was ridiculous. One date hardly meant she couldn’t have some fun here in Paris. And having fun here didn’t mean she’d jeopardize whatever it was she had with Patrick.

Tilda finished her coffee and promised herself that she’d stop analyzing everything, and just be in the moment. Starting with the second
pain au chocolat
.

After breakfast, Tilda hit the sidewalk and wandered toward the Marché aux fleurs. She’d discovered this little gem years earlier. It wasn’t as impressive as the flower markets the Netherlands had to offer, like Amsterdam’s floating Bloemenmarkt or the Aalsmeer Flower Auction, or even the New Covent Garden Market where she bought most of her stock. There were also other markets in Paris she had visited before, but this was the oldest, and with Notre-Dame looming nearby, definitely her favorite.

She entered one of the pavilions and it was a relief to get out of the icy wind blowing off the Seine. The stalls were packed with winter staples of shrubs and trees, hanging baskets and potted plants, but still the place was ablaze with color. She breathed deeply, a symphony of scents greeting her. While spring was no doubt the most spectacular time to visit the market, there were still flowers and plants here that would be unavailable anywhere else.

Tilda lingered by a stall of citrus trees in full bloom. The smell of the blooms and fruits seemed out of place in the Parisian winter. She ran her hand across some of the decorative pots that Parisians used to jazz up their balconies. There were succulents, cacti, violets, pomegranates, hydrangeas, cyclamens, geraniums, bilberries …

She wandered on through the stalls of linens and pottery and knick-knacks. Decorative birdcages and birdhouses swung above her head, waiting for each Sunday, when the Marché aux fleurs became a bird market.

Some stalls were doing a roaring trade in Christmas trees, festive wreaths and decorations. She took her time looking at how the florists had woven the berries and pinecones through the Christmas flower displays.

She bought a small Christmas bell for Patrick. She couldn’t help herself. It had such a beautiful sound, it caught her attention and drew her in, and she felt he’d like it. She didn’t even know if he had a tree to hang it on … but if not, he at least had a bell.

She made her way slowly but surely through the market, looking at everything, learning what she could, and allowing the plants to inspire and revitalize her. She was so content to be where she was. She didn’t need to rush anywhere, or do anything. She simply was. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. When she eventually emerged into the sun she felt completely reinvigorated.

Next Tilda caught the metro to the sixteenth arrondissement and her favorite Paris museum. The Marmottan Monet museum didn’t have the crowds of some of the other more famous museums. Lining up at the Louvre for a glimpse of the
Mona Lisa
had never been Tilda’s thing. (Although she had done it—once.) Tilda had always loved Monet, and the Marmottan Monet museum held the largest collection of his work.

She spent a glorious couple of hours looking at pieces by artists like Gauguin, Morisot, Pissarro, Guillaumin, Sisley and Renoir. She wandered through the museum, imagining it to be the grand old home it once was. She claimed the house and its collection of medals and porcelain, furniture, statues and chandeliers as her own. She was having so much fun she was almost shocked whenever she ran into anyone else.

“What are you doing in my home?” she felt like saying.

But it was Monet’s work that held her suspended in time, as she moved from his early years right through his life. She stood still before the waterlilies. She lost time in front of
Impression, Sunrise
, the painting from which the Impressionist movement got its name. She finally came out of what felt like a trance. It was nearly three. She needed to get going, to meet Alain. It was with a tinge of regret that she left the Marmottan Monet, promising she’d return much sooner this time.

*

Alain was waiting for her in front of the hotel. His face lit up when he saw her.

“Put this on.” He thrust a helmet at her.

Any enthusiasm Tilda had for this adventure suddenly vanished. “We’re going on a motorbike?”

“Yes. And that is for your head.”

Thank god he clarified that
, thought Tilda.

Alain straddled the bike and called over his shoulder. “Get on.”

Despite every cell in her body telling her to cancel immediately, Tilda shoved the helmet onto her head and mounted the bike behind Alain. You only live once, and how often did she have the opportunity to press up against a hot Frenchman?