Letter from Paris (7 page)

“It means we can push her book online and through the media in the cooking blogs and programs as well as through the usual outlets. It’s a bonus. People who love baking as well as reading go crazy for her books and the book clubs love it.”

“So you get two bites of the cherry…literally as it were?”

“That’s funny.” He smiled. “And yes. You’ve got it.”

“So how could this involve me?”

“Luella always weaves in a message to her stories.
Sunlight in Winter
was about dealing with grief when you lose someone to cancer. We sold a ton of copies by doing joint promotions with cancer charities.”

“That sounds rather cynical if you don’t mind me saying,” India said, pausing as Henry stopped to give his wine order to the sommelier who was standing to the side of their table waiting for a lull in their conversation.

“Puligny Montrachet s’il vous plait,” he told him and then turned back to India. “Not cynical at all. It’s about finding your target market. It was a win-win. We sold more copies, they got a percentage of sales and the readers got inspiration. It’s cause-related marketing.”

“Okay. I can see it now that you’ve explained it. But how would that kind of promotion involve me?”

“You’re a teacher. And by the way, if teachers looked like you when I was younger, I wouldn’t have dropped out of school.”

“You should know that’s not an original line, Mr. Cowan, but I’ll take the compliment anyway.” India smiled.

“Actually I
didn’t
drop out of school,” he said.

“Very funny then. So how can I be of assistance?”

“We have a whole new potential market in online education. It’s not a market I’m familiar with. I think you could be helpful.”

“Go on,” India said, with a tilt of her head.

“Merci. Pas encore,” Henry said, politely waving away the waiter and then turning back to India. “I want to take a minute with this before we order if that’s okay.”

“Fine by me,” she said. “I’m intrigued.”

“We hire consultants with expertise in each market – advisors, experts, muses, whatever you want to call them. I may be wildly off base, but you did say you were at the end of your contract and if we could work something out, of course we’d pay you. If you agree in principle, then we’ll sit down and work out a proper basis for it.”

“I’m flattered,” India said, feeling an unexpected surge of adrenalin at the prospect of something new. “But isn’t this a bit sudden? I mean you haven’t even seen my resumé.”

“I think you may be forgetting a little thing called the Internet.” Henry laughed.

“Sorry? I don’t…”

“I Googled you of course and your guidebook for parents is an ebook, or have you forgotten that?”

India fiddled with her napkin. “No, but I do try to forget that I have an online profile.”

“Yes. Well you have quite the profile, I noticed, and you aren’t exactly a stranger to promotional events.”

“I assume you mean the Firewalk.” India laughed. “So what else do you know about me, Henry?”

“Shall we just say that I had my people make a few gentle probes and on the basis of my research, I am more than happy to discuss offering you a consultancy contract. We’re thinking big for this promotion. We’re talking about bringing this book alive. It’s already been sold into several international markets including the states.”

India said nothing for a moment. Play it cool, she told herself. Pretend this kind of offer comes around all the time. “Okay,” she said and took a sip of her wine. “This sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

“We’ve commissioned a fashion show in New York with one of the leading fashion colleges in the world. It’s accredited by FIDM. The students brainstormed and came up with the idea of exchanging research and creative ideas with LIFT – The London Institute of Fashion and Technology.”

“Oh yes. I know about LIFT. I sometimes wish I’d gone there myself. I’m a bit of a fashion junky. Tell me about the show.”

“It will profile the work of both colleges. We’ll be linking by satellite to compères here in Paris and also to Los Angeles.”

Henry’s voice faded into the background as India’s head teamed with possibilities – fashion, New York, Paris, international, muse. She was watching Henry’s lips move, but already she could see the runways and the flashing screens. Inès de la Fressange in the front row, pad in hand, taking notes. Georgia Jagger and Fifi Geldof cruising down the catwalk. Lady Gaga making a speech about creativity and then bringing home the finale with
Born This Way,
wearing a plastic bikini and a college cap and gown made from trash bags.

“How long are you staying in Paris?”

Henry’s face swam back into focus and India became aware that he had been waiting for an answer from her.

“I leave next Tuesday.”

“I have to get back to London in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday right? I lose track of the days. Tell you what. Why don’t you talk to Luella and read her book. Then call me next week when you’re back. Here’s my card,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Okay. Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

“So now let’s enjoy what Paris has to offer,” he said, lifting the menu. “They do wonderful scallops here and the oysters are by far the best in Paris.”

An altogether beautiful Sunday morning, India thought, setting off down the Rue Cassette to meet Luella for lunch. She was early but planned on taking her time. As she turned off the side street her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her pocket.

“Got your e-mail. Honestly India, I leave you on your own for a couple of days and the next thing you know you trip over one of the biggest selling authors of all time and get a job offer. I swear if you fell into a bucket of shit you’d come out smelling of roses.”

“Sarah, did you ever consider a career penning greeting card messages? You have such a lovely turn of phrase,” India quipped.

“That’s what hoisting old-age pensioners onto commodes all day long does for a girl. You get such a romantic perspective on life.”

India laughed. She knew her friend loved her new job at the nursing home. She doted on her elderly patients and from all the note cards and little presents, it was clear that their families appreciated Sarah too.

“Seriously though, it does sound like this job would be right up your alley. I’ve read quite a few of Luella Marchmont’s books. The last one was really moving, all about euthanasia. I’m looking after an old lady right now who’s begging me to give her an extra shot of morphine and put her out of her misery. We should be able to choose when we die.”

“I’ll put you out of your misery whenever you like. Would you rather die by asphyxiation or be drowned in the bath? Both can be arranged.” India laughed.

“I think I’d like to be found fully clothed. Leave a girl some dignity. Okay so here’s one for you. Would you rather be the richest person on the planet or immortal?”

“I’ll get back to you on that one.”

“Anyway,” Sarah said, “while you’re working that out, it does sound like you’re having a great time. I’m really happy for you.”

“Yes. Going away has been the right thing to do. I mean I only think about Adam every ten minutes or so, which is progress, don’t you think?”

“And you almost managed a whole conversation without mentioning his name. Did you talk to him yet?”

“Yes. We’re back on track, but I’m trying to play it cool.”

“Ha! I’ve seen your version of playing it cool.” Sarah laughed. “Anyway, great. Gotta go. I’m needed. See you next week. Enjoy the rest of the trip. Love you.”

Sarah clicked off and as India threw her phone into her purse, she became aware of the swell of an organ recital filling the Place Saint Sulpice. Almost involuntarily, she joined the crowd walking toward the entrance to the baroque cathedral and was drawn into the cavernous interior by the sheer power and strength of the music. It had been more than twenty years since India had been inside a Catholic church. She walked slowly past the Delacroix frescoes and paused at a side altar lit by flickering votives.

Ah! St. Jude, she thought, gazing at the statue of the monk. The patron saint of lost causes. I thought they’d abolished him, but maybe that was the patron saint of lost things, the one that used to help me find my car keys. Hard to keep up.

The organ reached a thunderous crescendo as India left the darkness of the church and came out blinking into the sunshine. She wandered in the direction of the Café de Flore. Luella was already squashed into a red leather banquette in front of the large mahogany mirrors when she arrived.

“Hey India,” she said, standing up briefly to greet her with a peck on both cheeks. “I’ve sacrificed my right to a cigarette for you, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate sitting at an outside table in the cold.”

“Thanks,” India said, pulling out a chair opposite her. “It’s busy here.”

“It is. It’s become a bit of a tourist trap. The toilet downstairs is in all the guidebooks for some reason I’ve never fathomed, but I still think they do the best croque madame in Paris. Deux Maggots is overrated don’t you think?”

“I have to admit I don’t know Paris all that well,” India said taking off her coat. “But this is lovely.”

“Let’s decide what we want quickly. They’ll be ages getting the order. Let’s have a nice glass of wine and we can talk properly.”

India glanced at the menu, delighted to see that unlike her hotel, they served Sancerre here by the glass.

“I hear you had a good old chat with Henry the other night,” Luella began after they had ordered their drinks. “By the way, I must apologize for my mood at dinner. I had one hell of a shock just before leaving London and between that, the weather and the fact that I have writer’s block about the new book…well…it hasn’t happened to me before. I usually spew them out, but for some reason I’m totally blocked, and the publishers are breathing down my neck for a synopsis. Anyway, it’s no excuse. I was rude to be so self-indulgent.”

“Not at all,” India said. “You were fine.”

“That’s kind of you to say. Either way I do want to thank you for taking an interest in my work, and I’d love for you to read it and see if it appeals to you.”

“I would be honored.” India smiled. “Henry told me the gist of it.”

“That’s good. This is my own copy. I won’t tell you which of the endings I used. I wrote three as you’ll see.”

“I like the sound of that. I often make up happy endings for books and films that are miserable.”

“Funny to think that Hemingway sat here in the Café de Flore and struggled with thirty-seven endings,” Luella mused. “Mind you, don’t get too excited.
Faux Fashion
is hardly the stuff of great literature, and it’s certainly not
A Farewell to Arms.
”

“I can’t wait to read it,” India said. “And no, don’t tell me which ending you favor. No spoilers. I think Hemingway was prone to excess. Three endings sound like more than enough to me.”

“I welcome your feedback,” Luella said, handing India the manuscript. “And now let’s get you something to eat. I’m actually not all that hungry, but you go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” India said putting the folder into her bag carefully. “I do rather fancy the croque monsieur.”

“Be my guest.” Luella smiled. “I’m not very high energy today, but I’m glad of your company. Go ahead.”

“My French isn’t so great, but I think I can manage to order croque monsieur,” India said, catching the waiter’s eye. “How about I get a side order of fries and you help me with them.”

“Bien sûr,” Luella answered.

India finished her meal quickly, sensing from Luella’s air of distraction that she needed to be alone.

“I’m going in that direction,” Luella told her as they were leaving the café. “Thanks so much, India. When are you going back to London?”

“Tomorrow evening, sadly. I can’t believe how quickly these last few days have gone.”

“Well I’ll see you there if we miss each other tomorrow.” She smiled. “À bientôt.”

Unsure what to do with the rest of the afternoon, India wandered down the street and spent some time in Librairie la Hune admiring the art books before taking tea at the downstairs café in Monoprix. A few hours later she strolled back to Hotel de l’Abbaye looking forward to settling down in front of the fire with Luella’s book. I have all the company I need for tonight’s
digestif
, she thought.

Luella walked along the stone-arched passageways of Rue de Rivoli slowly. At Le Meurice Hotel, she hesitated a moment before entering the foyer and taking in the opulent splendor of the reception area with its glistening Art Nouveau mirrors marble-tiled floor and gilt furniture. I would never stay in a place like this, she thought. It’s far too ostentatious.

“Bonsoir Madame. May I help you?”

A manager was at her side.

“Non Monsieur,” she answered. “Merci.”

What on earth am I doing here? she wondered, turning quickly to leave. Racing down the steps, she dashed across the street, heedless of the blaring horns as she dodged between cars. She steadied herself against the garden railings and caught her breath. I think I might be going mad, she thought. What on earth did I think I would achieve by going there?