The French for Christmas Read Online Free Page A

into their designer purses (carried by the males as well as females). As I cross the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the streetlamps come on and car headlights stream by in a dizzying rip-tide of motion. I continue walking until I reach the river and cross the quai so that I can lean against the parapet and watch the Seine flow by. Brightly lit bateaux mouches churn the water into choppy chaos as they pass. The wind is brisker here, slicing through my jacket like a knife, so I pull the zipper up to my chin and turn and follow along beside the river, picking up the pace. It feels invigorating, despite the chill, to stretch my journey-stiffened limbs and breathe the cold air deep into my lungs. A faint scent of French fries and hot sugar wafts on the breeze: there must be a snack food stall up ahead.
    As I round a corner, suddenly I find myself in a floodlit square. And Christmas ambushes me yet again!
    It’s a Breton market, colourful stalls selling laces and linens, crêpes and cider, waffles and vin chaud , and handcrafted wooden toys. Christmas lights are strung from stall to stall and French carols play from speakers hung amongst the twinkling fairy lights in the trees, filling the vanilla-and-spice-scented air with angelic music and the sound of sleigh bells. Families stroll and laugh, eating and drinking, and poring over the wares on offer. Buying toys for their children and lace-covered lavender bags for their grandmothers.
    And, out of nowhere, my sadness comes crashing down around my ears.
    I turn on my heel, stumbling against a woman pushing a baby in a stroller, apologising, panicking as the happy, festive crowd hems me in. I can’t breathe. The smell of deep-fried food makes me sick to my stomach. I push my way to the sidewalk, step into the road looking the wrong way and jump out of my skin as a car horn blares loudly. The driver swerves, his wing mirror catching my elbow with a dull thud as he sweeps by.
    A woman grabs me and pulls back to the safety of the sidewalk.
    ‘ Madame? Etes-vous blessée? ’ she enquires, concerned. People turn and stare, the woman with the stroller amongst them.
    Am I hurt? Yes, I guess you could say I’m hurt. But the pain in my elbow—I flex it gingerly: bruised, but not broken, luckily—is nothing compared to the pounding in my head and the desperate empty ache in my heart.
    ‘I’m okay. Merci .’ I catch my breath, trying to blank out the jumble of images in my mind, of brightly painted wooden toys, soft linens, a drawer full of tiny knitted bootees in pastel colours, a brand-new stroller, never used, leaning against the wall in the hallway at home.
    I manage to cross the street without getting myself killed and walk quickly back to the hotel. ‘ Stupid, stupid! ’ I berate myself. Thinking it was that easy for you to escape. Thinking you could outrun the sadness. Thinking a few hours in Paris would cure the heartache and let you forget.
    Still trembling, I collect my keys from the front desk of the hotel and climb the four flights of narrow stairs to my room. Up here, under the charcoal grey slates of the mansard roof, there’s a view across the rooftops to where the tip of the Eiffel Tower winks and glitters with its brilliant show of lights. Just as it did all those years ago. Only now it’s laughing at me, not with me. I cross quickly to the window and pull the curtains together, shutting it out. Then head to the bathroom, run water into a glass, swallow a couple of pills fast to dull the pain that’s too much to bear.
    Paris was a mistake. Too many memories. Too much risk of running headlong into Christmas just when you least expect it. I lie down on the bed in the darkened room, waiting for the fog of blessed, chemically induced numbness to descend. Tomorrow I’ll leave early, as soon as the worst of the rush-hour traffic has died down. Heading west and then south, to the blissful isolation of the deepest French countryside where I’ll be in control. No cars (my