Barbara Taylor Bradford - Where You Belong

Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.

It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment grief was held at bay.

Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well being, and if Jake happened to be present he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived here for the same reason as I did.

I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. ‘London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,’ he would remark, and wink at Jake.

I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times , the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lord’s, football at Wembley, and Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.

Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments ago, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses I walked on purposefully.

It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.

There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighing me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.

Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.

It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks which had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.

Destiny , I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character…and who and what he was as a man.

After crossing the Place Saint-Michel, I made my way towards the Rue de la Huchette, and walked down that narrow street, which long ago had been immortalized in a book by the American writer Elliot Paul, very aptly entitled A Narrow Street . After reading the book, I had been drawn to this particular area of Paris, and for the three years I was a student at the Sorbonne I had lived right here in a quaint little hotel called the Mont Blanc.

The hotel came into my line of vision almost immediately, and as I strolled past I glanced up at the room which had been mine, and remembered those days in a swirl of unexpected nostalgia.

Thirteen years ago now. Not so long really. But in certain ways they seemed far, far away, light years away, those youthful days when things had been infinitely simpler in my life.

So much had happened to me in the intervening years; I had lived a lifetime in them, and I had become a woman. A grown-up woman, mature and experienced.

Glancing across the street, I eyed the El Djazier, the North African restaurant which had once been my local hangout…what an habitueé I had been o that strange little nightspot full of colourful characters.

Sandy Lonsdale, an English writer who had lived in the hotel at the same time as me, had constantly predicted I would disappear one night, never to be seen again, whipped off to some disreputable brothel in Casablanca or Tangier by one of the seedy blokes who lurked in the restaurant most nights.

But of course that had never happened, the seedy blokes being perfectly innocuous in reality, and I had taken enormous pleasure in teasing Sandy about his vivid imagination and its tendency to work overtime. ‘You’ll make a great novelist,’ I used to tell him, and he had merely grinned at me and retorted, ‘You’d better be right about that.’

On numerous occasions I had taken Tony and Jake there, and they had enjoyed it as much as me, their taste buds tantalized by the couscous and other piquant Moroccan dishes, not to mention the erotic belly dancers in their flimsy costumes and tinkling ankle bracelets.

On these evenings, when we were back in Paris for a bit of relaxation and rest from covering wars, Jake would usually invite us to one of the jazz joints after dinner at the El Djazier. There were several spots on the Rue de la Huchette, where many of the greats of American jazz came to play or listen to others play.

Jake was a jazz aficionado and could happily spend long hours in these smoke-filled places, sipping a cognac and tapping his foot, lost in the music, lost to the world for a short while.

I ambled up the street, and glanced around as I walked. I never tired of wandering around this particular part of Paris, which I knew so well from my student days. It was full of picturesque cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, Greek and North African restaurants, art galleries and small shops selling colourful wares from some of the most exotic places in the world. Aside from anything else, it brought back memories of the time I had attended the Sorbonne, such a happy time for me, perhaps the happiest of my life.

My grandfather Andrew Denning had been alive when I decided I wanted to study in Paris. Later, he had often come here to visit me, defying my mother, who had forbidden any contact between us once I had made the decision. My mother was angry with me because I had chosen to study in France, although I never understood her attitude, since she had been indifferent to me from the day I was born. So why did it matter where I studied?

Grandfather Denning didn’t have much time for his daughter-in-law; in fact he privately thought she was a cold, unfeeling woman, and he had never paid any attention to what she said. He had reminded her that I was the only daughter of his only son, and his only female grandchild, and he was damned if he would let anyone stand in the way of his visiting me whenever he wished to do so. As an afterthought, he had added in no uncertain terms, that no one told him what to do or how to spend his money, least of all his son’s wife. And that had been that apparently. Grandfather had told me all about it later; we kept no secrets from each other. I thought of him as being more like a pal than a grandfather, perhaps because he was so young in appearance and had the most youthful of spirits.