The Paris Time Capsule (2 page)

Cat picked up the phone and dialed Monsieur Lapointe’s office just after nine o’clock in the morning, Paris time.

The receptionist was firm.
“Monsieur Lapointe does not begin for one more hour. I will give him your message, Madame.”

Cat slumped back down on her bed. She had promised Christian that she would spend tonight with his family, and now she was exhausted. It was his parents
’ wedding anniversary and they had asked her to join them to celebrate.

At four am New York
time Monsieur Lapointe still had not called back. Cat held her hand over the phone. It would not do to appear desperate. But she would be unable to get any sleep at all until she found out what on earth was going on and preferably, the entire thing was sorted out.

She would ring again.

This time, the woman on the end of the phone put her straight through to Monsieur Lapointe.

“
Madame Jordan?” he asked, placing a strong emphasis on the last syllable of her name.

“
Oh, bonjour Monsieur.”

“
When can you come to Paris?”

Cat drew in a breath.
“Well, is it at all possible to discuss this over the phone?”

“
I will tell you everything in person. This will work best.”

There was a silence.

“I really can’t get to Paris. My work …” Her work? Taking portraits of well to do New Yorkers was about as creative as running a bath. But there was no question of her dropping everything and going to Paris.

“
Madame. Please.”

“
But, the fares, Monsieur.” Although … she could afford a cheap airfare to France. She had saved every penny she could for the last few years.

“
I cannot come to you, Madame.”

“
No.” He had a point.

Cat took a couple of laps around
the living room. “So, you’re saying you cannot do this over the phone or in writing?”

“
Madame, you could put it this way indeed. The circumstances of this will are … not ordinary … you will have to come to Paris to sort it out. And, Madame, I would prefer to meet you before we go ahead. There are formalities, many formalities. These are very important, you will see.”

Cat sat down where she was.
“I … assume you’d want me there as soon as possible?” Now she sounded like she wanted to go. She cleared her throat. “I mean, I would have to work it out with my boss, you know. I can’t just leave everything here.” What was she saying? She had months of annual leave lined up. She never went anywhere.

“
I will be here when you come.” Monsieur Lapointe gave her precise directions to his office. “Bring the key, Madame Jordan.”

“
Of course.” Cat took a breath. “Look, can you tell me at least what on earth this Isabelle de Florian had to do with my grandmother?”

“
You will make the appointment with my personal assistant. Au revoir, Madame.”

Four hours later Cat had tried and failed to fall asleep, emailed her boss
requesting leave, received a reluctant yet positive reply from his phone while he was apparently going for his morning jog, and booked herself on a flight to Paris the following day. With the help of Monsieur Lapointe’s assistant she found a small hotel near the Opera, right around the corner from the legal office.

But when Cat
hung up the phone for the last time and the first signs of light appeared through the gap in the curtains, the full impact of the entire situation hit her. Her grandmother had been a wild card. Cat was nothing like her at all. Why on earth had she allowed herself to be persuaded into flying to France the very next day?

The small family anniversary dinner for Christian’s parents turned out to be a party for fifty. Even if Cat had wanted to discuss her ridiculous grandmother’s situation with Christian, it was clear from the moment she stepped through the elevator into his parents’ crowded apartment that there was not going to be a chance to be alone with him all night.

And anyway, how Christian or anyone in his family would begin to relate to
Cat’s story was anybody’s guess. The chic people at this party wouldn’t give a darn about Virginia Brooke.

By the time Christian had introduced her to enough charming people to fill a ballroom, not t
o mention his endless cousins who were down from Boston, it was almost impossible to remember why Cat’s little trip to Paris with a rusty key and a letter was of any importance at all.

By ten o’clock, Cat had convinced herself that even if she had found the chance to discuss Virginia’s tale with Christian, she wouldn’t have bother
ed. He wasn’t into travel, and wouldn’t understand why she hadn’t insisted that the lawyer send her an email. Christian often said that everything you could ever want was in New York, and that you could use a laptop to experience the rest. His grandparents had a comfortable house in the Hamptons for holidays. Why would you want to go anywhere else?

Cat told him she was going to Paris for work.

“Would you like me to book you first class?” Christian asked, one hand on the small of her back.

They stood by the elevator. Christian’s mot
her had retreated to one of her silk covered sofas and she had kicked off one of her pale blue shoes. The only people left in the apartment were immediate family.

“
I’ve never travelled first class before. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

It was the sort of automatic reaction that she sometimes had with Christian and his friends, only to wish she could reel it back in straight after she had said it. How gauche she must appear.  And yet, it wasn’t what she loved, first class
this, luxury that. It wasn’t what she loved about him. She hadn’t known about his wealth when they had first started dating. It was his kindness that she loved, his friends who had welcomed her into their circle.

“
Surely, not coach. Not now, honey?”

“
Now?”

“
No.”

“
I’ve booked. Business class, so it’s fine.” It was only a small white lie, but the thought of telling Christian that she had grabbed a last minute deal on a budget airline that left at nobody’s business of a horrible time would no doubt send him into a spin.

“
The firm’s paying,” Cat went on. “They insisted.” The firm? What firm? But, it was the seeing beyond the world that Christian inhabited that was hard for him. Cat had worked this out after she came to know him better. It was as if Christian was in the right place all the time. There was nowhere else to go and there was simply no point in him considering it. There was no constant questioning on his part. It seemed a most appealing way to be and had intrigued Cat from the moment she met him.

“
Call me the moment you land, honey.”

Cat slipped into the elevator. When Christian was out of sight, she pulled off her high-heeled
nineteen fifties pumps just for a moment. She let her sore feet absorb the coolness of the patterned marble floor.

Cat woke early on her first day in Paris. The streets were filled with shop vendors pulling open their shutters and calling boisterous “Bonjours!” into the cold morning air. She huddled her way through the narrow streets. Every now and then she stopped to marvel at the sheer line of pink sky that ran between the beautiful old buildings. Sunrise over Paris.

It was a small patisserie, a few streets in from the Seine that caught Cat’s eye.
Rows of exquisite creations in every color and style were lined up in the full-length windows. Several locals sat inside reading their morning papers and the smell of roasting coffee drifted out onto the pavement.

Considering this was
Paris, a croissant and coffee seemed like the perfect idea.

At ten o’clock precisely
, having gone back to the little hotel and freshened up, Cat waited opposite the reception desk in Monsieur Lapointe’s office. Her hands kept burrowing into her handbag, seeking out the key, clasping at it. It was impossible to know what to expect.

In any case, the situation had to
be sorted out quickly and with a minimum of fuss.

Monsieur Lapointe appeared through an interior door exactly ten minutes after Cat sat down. He went to the reception desk first, chatted to the woman sitting there for a moment. Cat took in his impeccable three-piece navy blue
suit and highly polished tan shoes. When he turned to face her, she couldn’t help but notice the red flower in his lapel, and the immaculate silk handkerchief in his front pocket.

But when Monsieur Lapointe stepped forward, it was clear that he seemed
more harried than dapper. Perhaps someone at home had insisted that he wear a flower and a handkerchief. Perhaps he wasn’t comfortable with any of it at all.

Cat stood up and followed him out into the corridor. He led her into
a room with a large antique table and a woman whom he introduced as his assistant, sitting right on the middle chair.

Monsieur Lapointe adjus
ted a stack of papers on the table, arranging the immaculate white sheets into a perfect fan. Then he walked around the room and held out a chair opposite his own for Cat. The sound of her chair scraping against the hard floor seemed incongruous in the serious, silent room, and Cat felt herself redden as she sat down.

Monsieur Lapointe glided into his own chair.

“Madame Jordan. First, I must see your passport for the verification.”

C
at was prepared for this. For what seemed like minutes Monsieur Lapointe turned pages and filled out a pile of endless white forms.

“
The formalities, Madame. This is important. Most important.”

Cat felt a mixture of heady jet lag and heightened sensibility. She folded her hands tight in her lap.

“Café, Madame Jordan?” His assistant broke into the silence, causing Cat to jump in her seat.

“
Oh! Sure, that would be great.”

The assistant slipped out.

After another several minutes had passed, Monsieur Lapointe screwed the lid back onto his fountain pen. Cat had all the time in the world to notice that it was filled with the very same sepia ink that was on the package to New York.

“
Now,” he said. “We will wait for my assistant and the café.”

“
Sure.”

“
We have some more formalities, Madame Jordan. It is the requirement you see,” he said, when his assistant arrived, wheeling in an elaborate coffee set with tiny green cups and a silver milk jug.

Madame poured.
Monsieur Lapointe began filling out yet another set of forms, this time handing every sheet of paper across the table to Cat for her to sign. With each form came a detailed explanation on his part.

“
Your inheritance tax will be sixty percent of the total value of the estate,” he said. “It is a flat rate for non relatives in France. I will help you with this once we have done the attestation immobiliere. Do not worry about it now.”

“
Oh?” Her head was spinning with French legal terms. It seemed like hours had passed but Monsieur continued in his methodical way.

Madame, it seemed had no such qualms about checking on the time.
“Excuse-moi, Monsieur?” she asked. “C’est temps pour le dejeuner? Non?” It was time for lunch?

Monsieur Lapointe sat back in his seat and appeared t
o consider most seriously whether it was lunchtime or not.

“
Oui,” he said, finally. “It is time. Of course. Madame Jordan, we will meet again in three hours.”

Three hours?
Cat sat up in her seat. Surely they could order in sandwiches and eat for five minutes? But Monsieur Lapointe pulled back his chair while Madame handed him a coat: tan cashmere, of course.

“
Are you sure … did you say three hours?”

“
But of course. We take time to eat properly in France.” He rattled off something quick and obviously witty in French.

His assistant giggled
.

Cat busied herself
with her scarf. “Alright then,” she said, as they both stood by the door. “I’ll see you back here at three.”

“
This is all excellent,” Monsieur Lapointe smiled. He looked more relaxed now. “It is all very good.”

Yes, Cat thought as she heaved open the heavy front door. I have all the time in the world.

It only took a minute to walk back into the hotel to pick up her camera. As Cat wandered down through the Tuileries
gardens towards the Seine, she set up several shots of iconic Paris scenes, the Eiffel tower in the corner of a long distance shot at the end of the gardens, with the Orangerie on the left hand side of the frame, the bridges, spanning the river with their timeless elegance.