Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 8

Prior to our trip, on our trip and on arrival, Stuart kept constantly repeating and trying to reinforce the one key sentence that he was insistent I learn. Knowing my ineptitude with language, it was the only French he truly wanted me to grasp.

Je suis désolé que c’est trop cher et je ne peux pas se permettre que les.

Yes, I did indeed fully grasp that he wanted me to convey on as many occasions as possible, especially in Paris, that. no, I was sorry, it was simply too expensive and I couldn’t possibly afford it. It worked. On no occasion did I buy anything expensive — so much so that it was on our first trip that I learnt the word solde. If there is a single word that a woman will learn in any language, surely it is the word for ‘sale’?

In fact, what became a recurring feature of all our trips to France was my ability to fly at high speed around my favourite shop, Etam, in forty minutes. The first time was in Paris and, like men the world over, Stuart drummed his heels relentlessly on Rue de Passy. I have re-enacted this scene a few times now and there is little variation on the theme: race up the stairs, identify racks of what I’m searching for, usually pantalons and your classic French T-shirts and jackets, and pile my arms as high as is feasible. I then frantically try on as many items as possible in as short a time as possible.

The first time this happened, thrilled with my collection of fabulous French bargains, I queued with all the other eager women at the sale and waited and waited. Solde season is an international temptation. Time was ticking; time in Paris was precious and I knew Stuart would be waiting impatiently. Finally, voilà, it was my turn. Then, to my utter dismay — and due to my inability to read the prominently displayed sign — it was cash only. Naturally I only had my credit card on me and Stuart had all the cash. I was determined not to abandon the first French clothes that I was ever about to buy. Absolutely not.

So I had to pile my precious clothes on the counter, hoping my ploy would work and that they didn’t assume I was abandoning them. I flew down the stairs, frantically searched for Stuart, gasped my request for cash, flew upstairs again … and queued again. Fortunately I still love my hard-won first French clothes.

However, who was it on our very first day in Paris at Porte de Clignancourt, the enormous antique market, that bought a vintage leather motorbike jacket? It certainly wasn’t me.