Tuttle - Paris or die: A Memoir

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.

PRAISE FOR PARIS OR DIE

By turns madcap and heart-breaking, Paris or Die is a witty and wise reflection on the power of cities to help us become ourselves. I devoured it and I cant wait to read more from my new favorite writer. Lauren Elkin, author of Flneuse: Women Walk the City

A vivid memoir of damage, grace and healing which manages to be funny, irreverent and moving all at once. Luke Davies, author of Candy, Totem, script writer of Lion

Jayne Tuttles writing is a delicious delight. Christos Tsiolkas, author of Merciless Gods, Barracuda, The Slap

An electric rollercoaster ride through the streets of Paris, this is also a moving memoir of love, exploration and loss at times utterly joyful, at times gut-wrenching and always fierce and beautifully written. Jemma Birrell, artistic director of Sydney Writers Festival, 20122016

I was entranced from start to finish. A tantalising tour through the life of a young, spontaneous, in love, in lust, foreigner whose inimitable joie de vivre opens her to a Paris that yields its local charms, its particular customs and its unexpected dangers Martine Murray, author of The Last Summer of Ada Bloom, How to Make a Bird

A riveting, moving, funny and at times shocking memoir about a young Australian woman whose dream journey to the city of light turns into a nightmare. I loved it. Jennifer Higgie, writer and editor Frieze magazine

Moving, raw and more than a little bit sexy, I practically inhaled this book about a woman determined to grab on to art, love and life with everything shes got in the worlds most romantic city. Rachel Power, author of The Divided Heart: Art and Motherhood

Joyous, sexy and compelling a wonderful read. Paddy OReilly, author of Peripheral Vision, The Wonders

Published in 2019 by Hardie Grant Books, an imprint of Hardie Grant Publishing

Hardie Grant Books (Melbourne)

Building 1, 658 Church Street

Richmond, Victoria 3121

Hardie Grant Books (London)

5th & 6th Floors

5254 Southwark Street

London SE1 1UN

hardiegrantbooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Some names and identifying features have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Copyright text Jayne Tuttle 2019

Paris or Die

eISBN 9781743586563

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Niela, Lyn and Frankie

Contents

I T WAS JANUARY. Paris was dark. Short sharp days bookended with long black night. Black in the apartment as my alarm went off, black in the stairwell as I fumbled for the light switch, indigo down the rue de la Chine, past the glow of the already buzzing boulangerie. Mahogany beneath my eyelids as I rattled through the underworld. Grey past the Panthon to French class and all its subjunctives and conditionals and whatevers-it-took to keep my visa. Then black again: five pm in the Adrienless apartment, his absence thick in the damp winter air. I sat in the shadows thinking, Now what?

Come at six oclock, said Sophie in her delicate French. I missed you, she continued into the phone, which surprised and flattered me. We hadnt known each other long, and she had only been gone a week or two. I had forgotten I existed, let alone to new friends like her. I suddenly couldnt wait to see her. And Lou, her mini Frida Kahlo.

Five-fifteen. Some shopping on the rue des Pyrnes. A few pieces of fruit and three stinky cheeses. Two pear-and-chocolate gourmandises for Sophie and Lou. Turn back: one for me. The Christmas lights were still twinkling in the bare trees. As I was crossing the street admiring them, a man nearly collected me on his scooter. Pardooon, his voice trailed behind him. It was a close call but I didnt bother protesting. He was well and truly gone. Anyway, it was my own fault for trusting the walk sign.

Five forty-five. My kitchen window was frozen shut but I managed to lift it and place the cheeses out on the ledge too stinky for the fridge.

Five-fifty. On my way out the door I turned back, threw off my sneakers, and put on the boots with the heel. A slash of lipstick. The girl in the mirror said, There you are.

I went down to the courtyard to get my bike. Luc, the owner of the restaurant on the ground floor, was there emptying a bottle bin. He told me I must come in soon and taste his new wine. With pleasure, I smiled, and pushed through the foyer and out into the dark, damp street.

It started to rain as I rode down the rue de la Chine. Its crying, I thought to myself, remembering how Adrien had found it cute that I confused words like pleurer (cry) and pleuvoir (rain). It began to cry hard as I hit the boulevard, and straps of hair plastered my face as I wove through the traffics never-ending insanity. An ambulance blared up the wrong side of the street. I sped through the intersection so as not to block it. By the time I locked up my bike in the rue Pelleport the rain had stopped, leaving the street a pool of coloured reflections.

Six oclock, on the dot. I punched in Sophies door code and pushed open the heavy glass door to enter her striking Art Deco foyer, with its diamond mirrors and chequered floors. Her building was so authentic. The ornate lift stood empty on the ground floor behind its intricate ironwork gate, but I didnt take it because I had a rule: under three, use your knees. Besides, it was a small building and the staircase was easy to climb, winding around the open lift shaft, within which the cabin moved freely up and down, its cables and pulleys invisible in the darkness. The protective banister was low, built for petite, mid-century French people, not tall, late-century Australians.

I paid no attention whatsoever to the lift or the liftwell or the low banister. The carpeted stairs felt lush beneath my feet. I took them two at a time.

There was no answer at Sophies door. I pushed the gold nipple again. The desire to see them seared in me. Where were they?

Were just arriving, Sophie apologised into the phone, mumbling something about Lous hands being dirty.

The big glass door downstairs clicked and banged shut, followed by the chatter of female voices, a man saying bonsoir.

Maman, said Lous tiny voice, is Jayne already at our place?

The padding of damp feet up the stairs. I moved a few steps down from the second-floor landing so I could see them. Lou! Up here!

She looked up from the bottom of the staircase, dark eyes beneath their sweet monobrow searching for me as I peered down from on high. I could see her so clearly, pale skin glowing in the dim stairwell light, but she couldnt see me. Sophie murmured something and they continued walking up.