Catriona
The loud persistence of my mobile’s alarm, on top of the clattering of pans from the café below my flat in Paris made me miss my long, leisurely lie-ins in my queen bed back home in Scotland.
After a few minutes of lying awake just staring at the popcorn ceiling, I eventually shifted in my narrow bed and heard the crinkling of papers. I had fallen asleep reading again, but the weight of my book felt oddly comforting. What if the spell that books put us under made its way into reality? And could the reader have the same effect on the characters just as the characters affect the reader?”
After I graduated from university, I waited a whole year to go from intern to editorial assistant and another two years to now be considered for an assistant editor position. To many, this wouldn’t seem like much of a difference, but in the publishing world, this was a big deal, especially for someone only aged twenty-four. More than anything I needed this promotion to prove my father wrong. To prove that dreams could fit into the practicality of making a decent living.
As I clamored out into the Parisian streets, I tried to focus on the trees that lined the pavement, which consisted of leaves with the faintest shades of red, yellow, and orange, slightly muted against the green that still dominated—still clinging to the warm memories of summer. Yet nothing could dispel my nerves at the promise of a promotion at B&P Livre Publishers. I breathed in and out the crisp autumn air.
I still wasn’t used to wearing heels as my ankles wobbled all the way to the nearest metro, avoiding the eyes of the people who quietly sat on benches and read the morning paper or a novel at their leisure under the multi-colored trees that protected them from the streams of the morning’s sun with the shade they still provided.
That bright view that could be captured by any competent painter, like my boyfriend, Henri, was quickly replaced by the dull, darkness, and monochromatic colors of the metro.
My time of romantic observations was over, and I automatically converted into the mindless commuter—only focused on getting to work with as little to no contact with the world around me. Just like the prior morning. And the one before that.
***
When I finally retrieved my mobile from my oversized bag, the screen read, “Mum.” I sighed in disappointment but regained a happier demeanor as I answered. “Hi Mum!” I held my free hand to my ear to drown out the street noise of a typical Saturday morning in Paris.
“Hi honey, how did your meeting go yesterday? Did you get the promotion?” My heart swelled with pride and excitement as everything I had achieved resounded in my memory.
“Yes! I got it!”
“That’s my girl! Oh, I’m so proud of you, honey. I knew you could do it!”
“Yeah, I was just looking for your Dad. He can’t come to the phone right now, but he says he’s really proud of you.”
My heart sank just a bit. There was always something off between me and my father. We were close in the way family had to be on the outside. Even together, there was no animosity or ill-word spoken, just an imaginary wall that had been built until “dad” was just a familial description. We loved each other; I just wasn’t sure we liked one another. He certainly didn’t approve of my move to Paris. Maybe that’s when the wall finally cemented.
No wonder he wasn’t overly pleased by my promotion. Promotion was final, a sign my life would be here from now on. I think he secretly wished I’d fail or that the editorial assistant position would be only temporary, and I would have to come crawling back to Crieff and get a job at our local pub—just to have the inward satisfaction of being right but lamenting for everyone else’s sake how horrible it was.
“Catriona, are you okay?” Damn, mothers can pick up on everything, and with that, my façade began to crumble, but I didn’t want to break down in front of Tiffany’s on the Champs-Élysées. This wasn’t Breakfast at Tiffany’s, no way I could get away with crying in front of total strangers like Audrey Hepburn.
