Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (17 page)

Through the window of the taxi, Paris presents itself to me in shades of gray. What the writer Saul Bellow, who lived there
for some time, described as “the native Parisian
grisaille
” is reflected in the streets, the buildings, and even the people. I’ve always felt that Parisian women dress to match the
muted colors of their city—rejecting color in favor of black and gray with accents of white. How pared-down and sober they
are compared to their London counterparts, hinting at sexiness only in the slightly tighter cut of their skirts, the low-key
coquettishness of their leather ankle boots, the gamine but not quite groomed quality of their cropped hair and pale skin.
Nothing’s in your face like it is in London; there’s not a single bobbing cleavage or back-handle out there on the boulevards,
whereas at home there’s an epidemic of midriff-mooning. French women are sexy, it seems to me, because they understand the
art of insinuation. Their sexuality is a subtle, slow-burn thing rather than a here’s-my-booty, take-it-or-leave-it fait accompli.
Sex. Whatever happened to sex? It’s as if someone has locked up my sexuality and thrown away the key. I don’t like this feeling
one bit.

The woman who checks me in at my little hotel in the heart of the Marais, which is on the Right Bank and home to the Jewish
Quarter, the gay quarter, and some of the best museums in Paris, is as friendly and charming as my taxi driver. She even seems
to appreciate my faltering O-level French, although it takes only a couple of painful attempts on my part at asking, “Do you
have a map?
Avez-vous une carte?
” for her to start addressing me in word-perfect English. I don’t know why everyone says the French in general, and the Parisians
in particular, are so rude. So far they’re being delightful.

“I wonder if you could book this restaurant on the Left Bank for me,” I say to her. “It’s called Brasserie Colette, and I’d
really like to try it.”

“Aah, yes, a very good restaurant. My pleasure, madame. I will call you in your room to let you know. My name, if you need
me, is Madame Maripol.”

The lift takes me up to my aerie on the top floor. Paris is renowned for its tiny hotel rooms, and this one is no exception.
Not enough room to . . . I try to pirouette with one arm outstretched, imagining myself swinging a cat. I knock against the
bed and fall onto it, chuckling at my inanity.

The double bed—just about big enough for me—takes up almost the entire floor space. I jump up onto my knees on the blanket
and reach out to the wardrobe, which is so tightly packed in that its door scrapes the side of the bed as I attempt to open
it. I haul up my suitcase from the floor and then crawl over it to the other side of the bed, which is almost right up against
the double windows. Flinging them back, I let out a yelp of delight. Gray, my new favorite color! I’m in Paris! I’m going
to have a ball!

It’s all so very . . . French. Down at ground level on the narrow street are three cafés right next to one another, with chairs
and tables lined up in rows on the pavement and, above, a stone building dotted with tiny wrought-iron balconies. An adjacent
building is so imposing that it must be one of those eighteenth-century mansions the French call
hotels particuliers
, once home to wealthy aristocrats. I can glimpse inside to a pebbled courtyard framed with stone arches and with low-lying
topiary at its center.

All the heaviness that has been clogging my head for months has lifted, like clouds parting to reveal a chink of brilliant
blue sky. Gray skies, gray buildings, but suddenly, it feels like sunshine. For once I’m relieved to be middle-aged and invisible,
wearing sensibly well-padded walking shoes and not having to impress anyone. Every few minutes I have to stop to consult the
map. This involves a delicate conjuring trick of removing my glasses to read the map close up, then putting them back on to
read the street signs, and then removing them again to check the map. All this while also trying to keep the guidebook open
to the relevant page and avoiding dropping my handbag.

What surprises me most about Paris is how little it seems to have changed since I first visited when I was eighteen years
old. This is both its best and worst asset. Best in the sense that not every shop is part of a global chain, not every café
a facsimile of one in New York or Tokyo. Paris has hung on doggedly to its legendary romantic charm. But there’s a kind of
arrogance, too, about this refusal to move with the times. Paris could certainly do with a cleanup. I find myself playing
hopscotch around the dog shit and wondering if all the cigarette butts on the pavement might soon join up to form a unique
Parisian street carpet. And except for the occasional iconic piece of modern architecture—such as I. M. Pei’s Louvre Pyramid
and Nouvel’s Fondation Cartier—it has nothing new to match London’s dynamic rebirth in Docklands and the Square Mile.

It’s the old stuff that’s unbeatable. I’m standing right in the middle of the perfectly symmetrical Place des Vosges, built
from 1605, all arcaded redbrick and stone facades and steeply pitched roofs, the oldest square in Paris. The garden at its
center was once a setting for duels and romantic trysts. A famous French courtesan, Marion Delorme, lived on this square at
number eleven, running one of the most popular salons of her era. I’m swept away by the visual simplicity of my surroundings
and the stories these buildings could tell. What makes my mood so different here in Paris is that I’m in the moment, the here
and now. I’m taking time to stand and stare. I’m not even thinking about the what-ifs and the what-nexts, and that feels like
liberation. Jack would love this, the casual mooching and meandering. We mooch and meander well together. Or at least we used
to.

• • •

Underwear. I’ve decided that underwear is the answer. Even though I haven’t yet formulated the question.

I’ve done the Picasso Museum, I’ve done a goat-cheese salad, and I’ve been walking up and down Rue des Saints-Pères on the
Left Bank for twenty minutes, peering into the windows of the plethora of lingerie shops for which Paris is so famous. I read
in a newspaper recently that while women in the UK buy an average of three bras a year, the typical Frenchwoman tallies up
more than a dozen. This is underwear I can relate to. Not like Agent Provocateur. I’m not really the crotchless-panty type,
however nice the fabric and neat the stitching.

Sabbia Rosa, says the name above the shop. I take a deep breath and walk in. “
Est-ce que je peux vous renseigner?
” asks the assistant as I unzip my black puffer jacket to allow in a little air. “
Je regarde juste, merci
,” I reply without hesitation. I’ve looked this up, so I know I’ve got it right. “Aah, Engleesh,” she says, as if that explains
everything, from the puffer jacket to the frizzy hair.

Nothing can break my mood, not even a snooty shop assistant. The underwear is having the same effect on me as Picasso’s portrait
of Dora Maar. I want it and I want it now. I can’t have the Picasso, but I might be able to take home some of this. It’s the
real McCoy, serious, sensual underwear for serious, sensual grown-ups—for politicians’ mistresses and the likes of Catherine
Deneuve. French politicians’ mistresses, that is. I mean, you wouldn’t want to go to the expense for a John Prescott or a
Jack Straw.

Row upon row of sheeny, slippery satin slips and camisoles in vibrant jewel-box colors. I feel like a child let loose in a
sweet shop. Everything in this boudoir of a boutique is irresistible. I try on a slip the color of emeralds, with insets of
creamy, handwoven lace. I haven’t turned into Anouk Aimée or Fanny Ardant; I still look like me, only much more sultry and
sophisticated, especially after the second twirl, when I decide to take off my sports socks to get the full effect.

For perhaps a quarter of a second, before my inarguable logic sets in, I balk at the three-hundred-pound price tag. Then I
rationalize that a garment that costs me that much but makes me feel a million dollars has to be a once-in-a-lifetime bargain.
Yes, I’ll take it. And because I can’t possibly wear it over my M&S five-to-a-pack briefs, I buy a pair of matching panties—small
but not invisible and with crotch intact—and a discreet matching push-up bra. Then I buy the whole thing again in blindingly
fabulous fuchsia. The bill comes to not far short of a thousand quid.

A thousand quid spent on underwear in the time it takes me to remember my pin number! Does anyone—other than Catherine Deneuve
and the mistresses of French politicians—even wear slips anymore? Oh, what the hell. Outside the shop, I feel like dancing.
I lift up the bag to my face and plant a kiss on it. Me and my lingerie need a little snack. We head off in the direction
of a patisserie that, according to my guidebook, makes the best macaroons on the planet.

• • •

Madame Maripol has managed to get me a reservation at Brasserie Colette, but I have to get there by seven-thirty. That gives
me under an hour to wash, flop, and get dressed again.

I run the water, but it’s cold. After a couple of minutes, it’s still running cold. I dial reception, and Madame Maripol answers.

“
Mais, oui
, it eez the plumbing.”

“I know it’s the plumbing, but I do have a restaurant reservation, and I do need to have a bath.”

“It eez not a problem, madame. Leave the tap to run for ten minutes and the water will be perfect.”

“Ten minutes!”

“Yes, madame.
C’est normal
. This is how it works.”

No apology, no excuses, just a French-style statement of the facts, a telephonic Gallic shrug, as though it’s perfectly acceptable
for water to take ten minutes to warm up, which perhaps in Paris it is. So I wait, too cheerful to be irritated. She’s right,
though; after ten minutes the water is sufficiently steamy for me to sink into a hot bath into which I squish the entire contents
of the hotel’s complimentary shower and bath gel. I’m living it up, after all. I’m also
un peu fatigué,
and my feet are aching after seven hours pounding the Paris pavement. But it’s been a wonderful day. An early dinner and
early to bed will round it all off perfectly.

For the sheer indulgent pleasure of it, I decide to wear my new underwear with the one skirt I have brought with me. The slip
slithers silkily over my head. As I move around the bedroom, it travels in opposition to my skin, caressing it like a lover.
I get a sudden reminder of what it’s like to feel sexy. If Jack were here right now, I might even be able to locate that dormant
repository of desire. Maybe, just maybe, Paris and Sabbia Rosa will do for me what Kilburn and Primark can’t: kick-start Jack
and me back into something physical, which might, in turn, over time, lead us back to the intimacy we’ve lost.

As the lights twinkle along the Seine and the taxi transports me over the bridge and back into St. Germain, I lean back against
the upholstery and smile.

Arriving at Brasserie Colette, I am surprised to find it completely packed. Filled with young lovers in cozy twosomes, friends
in foursomes, and a large group who must be having some kind of family celebration. I feel very alone. It’s not that I mind
eating by myself, not at all, but it does make me think about Jack and Maddy and how it might be even better to share this
experience with someone I cared about.

My table turns out not to be a table at all but a bar stool jammed between the cashier’s counter and the window. There’s no
room for my legs, so I have to sit sideways. I’d be more comfortable eating my dinner standing up.

“I am zo zorree, madame, but we are full up,” says the
maître d’
apologetically.

“Never mind,” I say, remembering how often Maddy has had to put up with being a single person and treated as a second-class
citizen in a world designed for pairs. “I’m sure the excellence of your food will make me forget about the cramp in my thighs.”
My sarcasm is lost on him; he nods uncomprehendingly.

I’m too busy trying to make sense of the menu to notice the man when he walks in. My first consciousness of a new male presence
is when he’s trying to drape a chocolate suede jacket over about fifty other coats piled on the wooden coat stand adjacent
to the counter.

By the time the newcomer has picked up various coats that have been dislodged in the process of attempting to add his, the
maître d’
has marched over and blocked my sight line, gripping the man by the shoulders and kissing him vigorously on each cheek.

“Danee,
mon ami
, welcome back to Paris. It is zo good to zee you. And where eez your delightful wife?”

“Hey, buddy, good to see you, too. My wife couldn’t make it this time, I’m afraid, too busy with work and the kids. I’ve flown
in for three days for a conference, and then it’s straight back home to Boston. But I couldn’t come to Paris without visiting
my all-time favorite restaurant and the incomparable Monsieur Arnaud, my all-time favorite
maître d’
.”

“But why did you not telephone? We ’av no table, only zis one by the bar, next to zis most unfortunate lady.”

The American is unfazed. “You have to remember, you guys weren’t this popular three years ago, when you’d just opened. I never
expected it to be so crowded so early on in the evening.”

They launch into French. The American’s is perfect, except for the accent, which is even worse than mine.

I stare at my menu, trying to guess what the starter
Effilochée de queue de veau tiéde, glace à la moutarde à l’ancienne
might be. Something to do with old mustard is as far as I can get.

The poor guy must be at least six feet three. How he’s going to sort his legs out at the side of the counter, which is at
right angles to mine, I can’t imagine. And it’s going to be embarrassing, the two of us sandwiched in like this. He’ll feel
obliged to talk to me and me to him. This is not turning out as well as I expected.

I look up at a jowl-free jaw, Quink ink eyes, and a J. Crew catalog grin.