However, as like other things, it was far too late.
Minutes later, I pulled into Bea’s driveway. Checking my eyes in the mirror, I jumped when my phone rang.
It was Marty. He was running late to pick me up.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I think I’ll walk down to the New Farm shops, pick up a couple of travel books from Mary Ryans, and have a coffee while I wait. Pick me up when you’re ready.’
I didn’t miss the concern in his voice when he asked if I was okay.
‘Mmmm… just left the warehouse for the last time, that’s all. I’ll be fine,’ I lied.
Briskly stirring the satiny smooth latte on the table in front of me, regardless of my mood, I couldn’t help but revel in its pervasive aroma. I took a tentative sip, testing the temperature, and relaxed visibly. Making an effort to remove the world-has-come-to-an-end look from my face, I sat further back in the chair.
The New Farm Deli owner placed a cannoli, a favourite Italian sweet, on the table in front of me. ‘How are you Bella?’
I wondered if he too like the rest of the world, knew about my failed marriage, or was simply being polite. I attempted a smile and shrugged. ‘Fine thanks Vince.’ And then as an afterthought added, ‘Maria good?’ It was as much conversation as I could attempt.
Within our West End community, personal and professional, my humiliation had been great. There were days when I did not want to leave the house. Sometimes I had come over to New Farm to shop, grateful for the anonymity.
I flicked my long blow-styled locks behind one ear and absentmindedly fiddled with one of my earrings. The numbness I had felt since leaving was beginning to scare me. Shouldn’t I be crying, weeping and wailing? Yet I didn’t feel like hysterics. I felt devoid of everything
Swallowing hard, I attempted to distract myself. I smoothed my skirt, crossed my legs, and examined my impossibly high, black toe-peepers, bought all that time ago on the trip with Steve to Paris in a quaint little shop in rue St Honore. I had always loved the fact that as I walked the green sole could be seen from behind. Today, I was almost mesmerised by them, flexing my calf first one way and then the other.
The day I had bought them, I had been playing a game with myself. Again, if I found the right pair of shoes, everything in the world would be alright. I told myself later, they were definitely the right pair of shoes. Funny, I had chosen to wear them today.
*
Davis’s proposal, when it came, was always going to be our special little story, the one that we would bring out and tell our grandchildren. Steve and I had spent four days in London and were on day three in Paris for his conference. Tired after a day shopping, I casually lingered in the restaurant downstairs in the Hotel Meurice. The tea was wonderful, a refreshing blend of green tea and Moroccan mint, scented with bergamot. I must admit, it wasn’t just the shopping that had made me tired, my heart was heavy as well, and it took energy to put on a brave face each day, after I had spent the night crying into my pillow.
Steve called earlier to say that he would return to the hotel later than expected. Tonight we were free from the conference and I was looking forward to some fun, anything to take my mind off Davis. Even though I had said I was determined that if he didn’t want our relationship to move forward, it was over for us, in my heart I knew I would be devastated.
On our arrival at the hotel there had been a dozen red roses waiting in my room from him. But I didn’t call. What could I say? Thank you for the roses and it’s okay that after all of this time you’re not sure about me. The day before, a silver cake stand with delicate scented rose macaroons awaited me. Yes, from Davis. They almost had me at first bite, and although I faltered, I still didn’t call.
After I had drained the last of the tea from the silver teapot, with heavy feet and equally as heavy heart, I wearily crossed the grand foyer and made my way to my room. Immediately upon opening the door, my spirits lifted as my shopping, entailing different carrier bags with designer names emblazoned on the sides, had been placed by the concierge upon the pink brocade chair, in front of the ivory silk draped window overlooking the rue de Rivoli.
Kicking off my hot pink patent Pradas, I undid the gold buttons on my cream coloured Burberry trench coat and hung it in the wardrobe. As I closed the mirrored door, something on the bronze silk bedcover caught my eye. Another carrier bag! I swung around. It was not just any carrier bag, but a legendary Loius Vuitton carrier bag. I stopped in my tracks, narrowing my eyes. Surely it must be a mistake. Perhaps the concierge had delivered it to the wrong room.
Stealthily, I crept over to it, as if it might bite. I surveyed it for a few moments and then lifted the edge of the bag, peering inside. There sat the bag of my dreams… the gold mirror bag. I had been raving about this bag for months. Only this morning, I had visited the flagship store on the Champs Elysee, hoping that it was still available, only to be told that the last one had been sold earlier. This had to be it! Oh bother…
Seconds later, I picked the phone up, and dialled the concierge. ‘Bonjour, it is Peach Avanel speaking. I believe there has been an error. There is a shopping bag in my room that does not belong to me. I think it must have been delivered by mistake… Oh! … Is that right? … Are you sure? … Really? Merci boucoup.’
I hung the phone up. I couldn’t believe it. The concierge said that he had delivered it personally. The next moment the phone rang startling me. It was the concierge again. He told me that there had been an error, and asked if I could bring the bag downstairs.
I took the Louis Vuitton carrier bag, my room key and my mobile phone, in case Steve should ring, and lethargically retraced my steps from only minutes before, thinking that really if there was an error, the concierge should rectify it, not me.
Crossing the grand foyer, once again I admired the luxuriousness and beauty of the colour scheme, a harmony of beige marble, accented superbly by tones of red and black.
‘Oui Mademoiselle Avanel, have you opened the bag yet?’ the concierge asked, his voice heavily accented.
‘Well no, as it’s not mine. I did look inside but that’s all. I assure you…’
Firmly, he held his hand up. ‘Perhaps we should look together to make sure all is well.’
‘But I assure you, I haven’t touched it.’
‘Oui Mademoiselle.’ Removing the gold handbag from its wrappings, and placing it on the desk between us, he admired it. ‘It is tres magnifique.’
‘Oui, it is very beautiful,’ I agreed.
‘Would you like to try holding it for a moment?’
I opened my eyes wide at him. ‘I don’t think so…’ my tone carried an air of humour.
He smiled and narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Really Mademoiselle, you should, just to see how it looks.’ He pushed the bag towards me.
I glanced around, uncertain of his strange behaviour. I took the bag and placed it over my arm briefly. ‘Very nice!’ I returned it to the desk top.
‘Ah Mademoiselle,
