After four days in Paris, I felt that I would have to sell the apartment. In recent years, except for brief visits, I have left it neglected and unused; it's previous memories locked behind shuttered windows. Somehow, in order to decide, I had found the courage to return. Shall I sell it? or rent it to: flat-hungry tourists?
I bought the apartment when I was nineteen and newly married to Arthur. It was in 'The Sixties' and Jane Peters was a well-known name on the fashion catwalks. The spacious, eighteenth-century apartment, with its quaint lift and wonderful views of the Seine, captured my heart.
My main home is in London where I run a model agency. However, over the years my family: Arthur and our son Gordon spent many happy days in the apartment, which was filled with laughter and love. Now both Arthur and our blond, blue-eyed son are gone. Now all that remains is the apartment with its memories.
I sit by the window, watching the wind scuff ripples on the Seine. I will have to sell; the thought of strangers walking on my dreams is unbearable. Thank God, I am in harmony with the apartment; only when I venture out, the spectres from the past appear.
Only yesterday, when I walked to the chapel, Arthur appeared. He smiled at me, lit a candle, then vanished. Panicking, I rushed from the chapel and sought solace in our local park. There was no escape, my son, ten years old, stood by the ice-cream kiosk. He ran towards me and asked for an ice-cream cone. Everywhere it's the same: the street where I live, the parks, outside shops. For me, there is no escape from the apparitions of my husband and son and I am slowly going mad. In my tortured brain the flame, for 'The Unknown Soldier', burns for my son. Today I will try, once again, to lose these shadows and if I fail, for my sanity, I will sell the apartment.
I slip off my robe and inspect my naked body in the mirror. MMM! not too bad for forty-six; figures still trim, boobs OK; all right Jane if the light is kind, despite the horrors, I might pass for ten years younger; I am still quite pretty. I run a brush through my blond, stylishly cropped hair, throw on some sandals, grab a shoulder bag, slip into moccasins and make a promise, to myself, that today I will sport a smile.
Madame Lebrun, the concierge, is the first to catch my smile. A widow, she shares the entrance flat with six poodles. They create a cacophony of barks and yelps when anyone approaches. I have known Madame since I first took the apartment. When Arthur had his fatal heart attack, ten years ago, she was devastated "Poor Arturo, dear Jane, you will need all your strength". When I told her that Gordon had been killed, aged twenty-two, her reaction was silence. Gordon was special, because only he was allowed to feed her family and take them for walks. As I approached, her wrinkles formed a grin.
"Bonjour Jane, you take a promenade, that's good."
"Yes I'm taking a stroll; perhaps for the last time. I think I will sell the apartment."
"No! No! The apartment is part of your life." Then looking sad, "please don't sell it."
I laughed. "I seldom use it and It's a sin to leave it empty." One of the poodles got amorous with my moccasins. Madame pushed it aside with a varicose leg. The poodle slunk off in disgrace.
The old lady's eyes pleaded with me.
"Be patient Jane, you are still young; believe me, you will find happiness again in the apartment."
I kissed her and explained: I would prefer to stay but, for the moment, I could see no hope. Turning away from me, she picked up a broom.
"If it's God's will, you will stay."
I whispered: "au revoir." put on my smile and entered the tree-lined street.
Arthur was waiting on the pavement. He walked with me, for a short distance, then vanished. Before I reached the metro he appeared again. He was across the road holding Gordon's hand. They both waved to me; downcast I escaped my spectres, in the welcoming depths of the metro.
I left the tube, when the mood took me, and surfaced at the Boulevard St Michel. I ate something in a students' restaurant and roamed around for an hour. My smile was beginning to wilt and I lost it completely when I saw Arthur watching me from a shop doorway. Depressed, I slumped down at a table outside a cafe and ordered a double cognac.
Icy fingers stroked my spine. I became aware: that someone special sat opposite me. I saw the cover of a book, held by strong, masculine hands. Looking up, my son sat opposite me; he was twenty-two, his age when I lost him.
"Gordon!"-- excited, his name escaped my lips. Closing his book, the young man smiled.
"You spoke Madame?" Stammering, I apologised:
"I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone."
"No problem, it happens all the time."
Plodding on, I made matters worse.
"Please don't think, I'm trying to pick you up."
Laughing, the handsome stranger replied:
"Men are bound to flirt with you; they always flirt with attractive women."
"Thank you Gor'-------- sorry,--- excuse me."
Leaning forward, the young man's Nordic Eyes were serious.
"You thought I was Gordon?"
"Yes you are the image of him,-----of course it's crazy."
He asked me why it was crazy; he seemed friendly and before I knew it my story tumbled out.
"Gordon is my son. He took a sabbatical, from Oxford, to do aid work in Africa; delivering food to an out-lying village: guerillas attacked his land rover.------They killed my son. You look like him and my mind plays tricks on me."
Placing his hands over mine, the young man said:
"I think you are an English lady; is my assumption correct?"
"Yes, I'm from London"
He told me his name was Andre and he studied at the 'Sorbonne'.
Introducing myself, I explained it was only in Paris I was haunted with visitations from my husband and son.
Ordering more cognac, Andre, after listening to my woes, kept hold of my hands. Enjoying the feeling, I left them there.
Andre decided to tell me something about himself. When he was fourteen his mother died and for the following year he imagined every sympathetic woman was his mother. My father worried about me; but in time I straightened out. It was his opinion that now I was in Paris my hallucinations would stop. He was young and confident and I wanted to believe him.
Andre told me that his father was a doctor. His practice was in a village seventy kilometres from Paris. His father disguised his loneliness by working hard.
I asked: "Do you see him often?"
"He is supposed to take a week's vacation and visit me today. I have a problem with money he will help me with. If I don't pay my rent, by noon tomorrow, the landlord will evict me."
I replied: "Andre this is serious."
"No worries! my father will make it on time." Knocking back my second large cognac, I squeezed his hand.
"Let's go for a walk and some more drinks, Interested?"
"I'm interested but I'm broke."
"No problem, It's my treat, let's go."
We left the cafe and wandered the lively streets. I could only think of him as my son. He was a handsome boy who I was proud to be with. We visited a jazz club and various left-bank cafes. By now I was tipsy but felt warm and alive inside. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was after One. A.M.
"Good grief! how time flies; Andre I must hail a taxi."
He asked me where I lived, and when I told him, he suggested that we walk. We strolled, arm in arm, by the Seine; a full moon admiring itself in the river. Eventually we reached the apartment. Madame Lebrun had locked the solid front door. We stood together, outside the apartment, holding hands, gaining comfort from each other. Andre tenderly kissed me on the cheek.
"I'm pleased to have met you Jane; thanks for the drinks." I asked, as casually as I could:
"How much is your rent? your dad might not make it on time."
"One thousand francs, I spent the money buying a new guitar." Amused, I offered to loan him the rent money; Andre tried to object. Placing two fingers on his lips I whispered:
"Hush!" I told the surprised Andre to wait. I fished out my keys, opened the door and tiptoed to the lift. I felt like a cat burglar in my own block. The poodles were silent, except for one, who produced a soft whine then stopped. I fetched the money from my safe and returned to Andre. I pressed the money into his hands and said: "Pay the wicked landlord and don't worry I can afford it." Andre thanked me and asked if I had a card with my address and telephone number; flattered I produced one from my handbag.
"Thanks again Jane, I will return the money, this evening, about six; will that be OK?" Frankly, I didn't believe him. I kissed the likeness of my son, patted him on the back and after a final Au Revoir he faded into the night; with the brisk steps of a young man. I returned to the apartment, feeling as excited as a young girl after her first date. Contented, I fell into a deep sleep.
In the morning, full of zest, I walked to the local shops and purchased a baguette and some milk. I knew that Andre could easily have been a gigolo and the story about his family, a pack of lies. I didn't care, because I liked him and since our meeting, I felt he had chased away my phantoms, hopefully for good. A thousand francs, was a small price to pay for my liberation.
I never expected to see Andre again, but in case the unexpected happened, I took care to look nice. I brushed my hair till it shone, applied my make up and skilfully chose a dress that slimmed me. I wore my pearl necklace and earrings; although I realised it was probably a waste of time, I dabbed on my most expensive perfume.
Six-O'-Clock passed and I had given up hope, when Madame Lebrun, sounding excited, bleeped me from downstairs.
"Jane there is a gentleman asking for you. Can I send him up?" Thrilled, I answered:
"Send him up, he is expected."
I stood by the lift waiting for my guest to appear, I felt confident because I knew I looked good. The lift delivered: a tall, distinguished gentleman; I placed his age, around fifty. He wore a well-cut dark suit, expensive shirt, and a conservative tie. His leather shoes, advertised quality. Smiling, the elegant gentleman stepped towards me. The smile gave him away. Obviously, he was Andre's father. He offered his hand.
"I am Doctor Legrand, Andre's father. You must be the attractive Jane who impressed my son. Since meeting you, I can see why." Confronted, by this handsome Frenchman, I felt shy. Seating him on the sofa, I offered coffee and beat a retreat to my kitchen. A girl would have to be made of ice, not to find my unexpected visitor interesting. Coffee ready, I produced my best model's smile and glided into the room, my heart beating faster than normal.
I noticed money on the coffee table, which I ignored, and laid my tray beside it. The Doctor grinned and murmured: "Merci Jane." Sipping his coffee, he told me that he wished to return the money I lent his son. Picking up the notes I handed them back to him.
"This money is a gift from me to Andre. For you to return it would offend me." Flushed and confused, he fiddled with the money. We were both silent, lost for words; the way people are, when they have met someone who turns them on.
At last I spoke: "Doctor, what is your name?"
Relieved, his face lit up, he took his chance.
"My name is Philippe." He still played with the notes, but his eyes told me all I needed to know; Philippe had more than a passing interest in me. Putting his hat on the table, he looked at me.
"Have you ever had dinner on the 'Bateaux mooches'?" I lied,
"No, but Iv'e always wanted to."
"If you are not otherwise engaged, I would be honoured, if you would dine with me there tonight. We could put this unwanted money towards the bill." I agreed, I could think of nothing more pleasant, than dining with this charming man.
"Good, the boat departs at eight and I have my Citroen outside." I excused myself by saying: I would have to freshen up. As I had hoped, he complemented me, telling me, I was already dressed to perfection.
I thanked him; went through to my bedroom; fetched a coat, and put my brain into some sort of order.
The phone, in my bedroom, rang, it was Andre.
"Hello Jane. Did my father find you?"
"Yes, guess what Andre, he has invited me out to dinner."
"Fantastic, where are you going?"
"'The Bateaux Mooches'"
Andre whistled, "Romantic Jane, enjoy yourselves. I will keep in touch, bye, bye, for now."
I replaced the receiver, rejoined Phillipe, and we left the apartment.
The lift shuddered to the ground floor. Where madame lebrun, pretended to clean brasses.
As we passed, she grabbed my arm. Phillipe continued out to his car.
"Jane, where did you find this man? he's magnificent."
"He's a friend, of a friend, who has invited me out to dinner. Incidentally, I have decided not to sell the apartment." With both hands, the kind old lady, clutched her bosom.
"Wonderful news, I am so pleased. Enjoy yourself, you deserve it."
Pleased to have made, at least one person happy, I made for the door.
Madame called after me: "Only a Frenchman could have performed this miracle."
The dinner date was a success. Phillipe was a good listener and his manners were perfect. The next few days, I saw my new friend, many times; I loved being with him. Thanks to my chance meeting with Andre, I
had found a sensitive, and understanding, companion. Perhaps, in time, we might fall in love.
For business reasons, I had to return to London. Phillipe, with Andre, drove me to: 'Charles de Gaulle' airport. Entering the boarding area, I looked back at the two new men in my life. They both waved and Phillipe's eyes were moist from unshed tears. His last words were: "Please Jane come back soon." and I promised that I would. I now knew that the apartment would know happy times again.
I closed my eyes aboard the plane. Phillipe had his arm around me and I was back on the 'Bateau Mooches', the boat glided through the night. The lights on the river bank, throwing coloured patterns, into the still waters of the Seine.
Philip's Army is now available to purchase on the Amazon Kindle from multiple countries.
Book Number
ASIN: B008R7DD20
