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Authors: Desiree Cox
From Paris With Love
From Paris with Love
By
Desiree Cox
From Paris with Love
Copyright 2015 Desiree Cox
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.
First published 2015
Cover Photograph: Emily Cook
ISBN-13: 978-1517496371
ISBN-10: 1517496373
The Leaving
A Perfect Christmas
Non-fiction:
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for Secretaries
Rarely are stories completely new. Most evolve from life experiences, other people’s stories or maybe just memory enhanced with imagination. Yet memories are often distorted, sub-consciously, by our own perception, hopes and realities. And in this way, they are a part of the writer, attempting to share something of themselves and their personal history with others.
So I would like to thank those who have knowingly or unknowingly contributed to this story. The characters are fictitious and whilst this is a work of fiction, its roots are firmly planted in the past.
The research about Paris is accurate as far as the author can discern, however some of the stories are based on other people’s re-telling – just like in life. For any inaccuracies, the author apologises.
No-one ever really forgets their first love. It becomes a part of us and who we are as an individual. Falling in love for the first time is a powerful and an essential part of growing up. First love brings passion and intense feelings we have never before experienced and will never have again. It is a unique and compelling sensation that we can never recapture, a thread woven into the fabric of our being. And yet it is the ideal by which we judge all future relationships.
Our young and innocent hearts are untainted or unsullied by experience so our feelings for our first love develop powerfully, igniting a passion within us, fanning the flames of emotion. We develop self-confidence and grow through the experience of our first love and our first real relationship. We never forget the unique feeling of being totally loved by another person who is not a parent, who does not love through duty, family, or responsibility. First love offers us so much excitement and passion, yet we can never truly rekindle that feeling. It is unique, special and a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
And if our first love is not always our last love, it will always be perfect to us. It will always be in our memory, a youthful sensation to reminisce or a sentimental journey to take when life isn’t always treating us as well as we would like.
June 2015
Isabelle sighed as she surveyed the mountain of stuff surrounding her. An impulse to tidy out the loft had seemed such a brilliant idea last weekend. Thinking about their holiday, she had decided to do a boot to sell some of the ‘no-longer-used-but-kept-just-in-case’ things they had stored away for the day they would come in handy. Only, as everyone knows, they usually don’t come in handy, but just take up space. This was a task that was well overdue and definitely one she regretted starting!
There was so much stuff here – books from her childhood and her children’s; a sack of stuffed toys that once meant the world and were now just shabby memories. A tan leather briefcase gathered dust. She remembered when everyone used to carry a briefcase to work – they were a status symbol. This one had been her Dad’s, she thought fondly as she recalled watching him go off to work with his briefcase in hand. She opened it gingerly. Inside it was just the same, neat leather pockets, a couple of pens still in one. There were a few sheets of headed paper and a couple of business cards still there, forgotten for over ten years. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen someone carry a briefcase! Now they all seemed to have black rucksacks, or bags on wheels to nip at ankles on the trains.
A stack of jigsaws were piled in one corner – each Christmas she bought a new one, but how they had managed to accumulate quite so many she wasn’t sure! There would certainly be several trips to the local charity store once she had finished here. She felt momentarily sorry for the ladies who would be confronted with around fifteen Christmas jigsaws in the middle of summer. A rucksack, stuffed with a motley selection of camping stuff, left over from the girls’ Duke of Edinburgh expeditions. A quickly forgotten desire for hiking and camping once the Bronze awards had been achieved and sore feet decided they were not going for the Silver. A random chandelier with old-fashioned tasselled shades thick with dust toppled precariously to one side. A tea trolley that had been a wedding present, something Isabelle felt sure she couldn’t live without at the time and now, nearly thirty years later, just looked old-fashioned, like something her granny may have wheeled out. And certainly she didn’t remember ever using it herself. A plastic crate, covered in a spider web with a dead resident, yielded her husband’s collection of Scalectrix which hadn’t seen the light of day for more than twenty years and would probably still be here for another twenty years, untouched.
The Christmas decorations were the only boxes that were neatly stacked to one side. Another pile boasted several shabby cardboard boxes bursting at the seams and overloaded with old exercise books from school. Quite why they had kept them she wasn’t sure. Isabelle no longer knew whose they were. So much stuff to get rid of, and she didn’t think it would even fetch much at a boot sale! After all who would want Christmas jigsaws in June? Or someone else’s old exercise books or toys? There were no valuable items lurking here that would suddenly become a valuable find that could feature on Antiques Roadshow and would pay for the holiday.
Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle spied a forgotten chocolate box and leaning across a disused lampshade, she reached for it. She leaned back against one of the roof beams and smoothed her hand over the dusty surface of the old box to reveal the faded pattern. The box itself was golden-coloured. The cover was a sepia brown with a nostalgic picture of an old-fashioned globe, a yellowed parchment, a full-blown pink rose, an ancient heavy key and several old books. The corners of the box were frayed from frequent opening and closing many years ago. It had been years since she’d last opened the box or even thought about the contents. She probably wouldn’t have given it a thought even now, had she not decided to tidy the loft. She felt quite sentimental as she thought about the contents.
A quick glance at her watch showed that she had been up here for at least two hours and although the loft was no closer to being tidy, or empty, she had done enough to deserve a morning cup of coffee, chocolate biscuits and a glance through the chocolate box. Switching off the light, she climbed down the ladder, box securely under her arm, and headed down to the kitchen to make a coffee.
She had wiped the box clean of dust and washed her hands. A cup of coffee stood on a coaster on the kitchen table and she felt a frisson of anticipation as she paused for a moment before lifting the lid on the chocolate box and on her past. Almost reverently she placed the lid to one side and looking inside she saw the piles of blue envelopes with the once-familiar black ink scrawl – her maiden name and her parents’ address on most of the letters. Later ones had her college address. Each letter had been so special. She remembered waiting for the postman impatiently, angry if he didn’t arrive before she left for school in the morning. He knew her now too – knew what she was waiting for. The excitement when a letter arrived! Leafing through, Isabelle had forgotten how many of them there were, just how many times he had written to her, how many of the blue envelopes had winged across the Channel in the days before email and text. When people still wrote love letters instead of using electronic media like Facebook or text.
For a moment, she thought about these precious letters, an enduring memory of long-ago days, of a never-to-be-forgotten love affair. She felt sorry for the young people today. Love letters were a lost art; a tradition that was dying, if not already dead. Life may have been harder without email, text and cheap telephone calls, but they had always had letters. Today the young consigned their feelings to jargon zapped electronically and instantly from one device to another. In some ways it was so much easier; in others it was different. Texts and emails would not endure – quickly deleted when relationships failed, or the latest mobile phone came along. Letters lasted – a forever-souvenir for when the memory was no longer as sharp as it once had been.
Isabelle took out the envelope on top – one of the many that Etienne had written. She carefully pulled the letter out of the envelope and read through the words, indelibly scripted in black ink. And as she read the familiar French language, the memories came flooding back and she was once again a seventeen-year old girl in Paris and in love.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lundi 22 septembre 1980
Automne
Bonjour Mademoiselle Isabelle,
I want to reassure you, straightaway, I have not forgotten you yet! The French may have a bad reputation, but even they cannot forget someone like you quite so quickly!
Everything I said to you when you left Paris was true. It is true that I want to see you again. It is true that I love spending time with you. It is true that I love you. And here is the proof.
Next time I write to you, I will send you copies of the photos I took. I have some lovely ones, especially of you and also of Christina (although you would scold me if I said that to you!).
I apologise for writing in French, but really I cannot write in English and if I tried you certainly would not understand it!
I hope the return home and back to school went well. This last weekend I went to Normandy to visit with friends I met when I was having physiotherapy rehab after my accident. It is a lovely part of France and I like it very much. However, it rains a lot there – like in England! One day I hope I can take you there. I think you would like it too – it is very pretty and there is much to see. I went to visit the Mont St Michel which is an island reached by road only at low tide. It is a very small island with an abbey at the top. It is very quaint and I liked it very much. I think you would like it too.
Well now I leave you for today. I hope you were sincere when you said you enjoyed being in Paris and that you enjoyed being with me. It was a special time for me. I want you to smile, always. For me or for another. Too often in life there is reason to be sad, and we have to enjoy the good moments – OK?
Je t’embrasse tendrement.
Etienne