A Parisian Taste from the Book “Her Mother’s Loves” by Ravit Lifshitz Zion

Emma Klein is turning fifty. She is a career woman, an art curator, and the mother of a teenage son and daughter. She knows how to dress and is still beautiful, but she no longer feels that way: in her eyes, her toned body has withered, her glow has dimmed, and her self-worth has evaporated. Years of marriage in which passion and excitement have gathered dust, dreams forgotten, a boss who is aggravating her, and a daily struggle for survival have brought her to a point of no return.

A chance meeting with an English man at the airport leads her on a whirlwind adventure. Could she have been given a second chance at love and passion? Will she love herself and recognize her abilities again, reinvent herself in her professional and personal life? Or will she see in a new light what she already has?

A husband, a wife, and a man sweep us into a fiery and fascinating love triangle, moving between Tel Aviv, Paris, and London. About choices between the familiar and the safe and the new and the exciting, about self-discovery and the powers within us, and about how at every age we need time for happiness.

the journalist

I woke up to a beautiful day. I pulled out the chart and chose what I would wear: a narrow black pantsuit, a yellow sweater, a silk scarf with touches of yellow and flowers, the famous camel coat, long and warm, and to complete the look: black boots. My light hair pulled back with a comb decorated with a camellia, around my neck the children's thin gold necklace, light and fresh makeup, I smiled for a few selfies for the record and headed out. I was all excited in anticipation of conquering the city and discovering its charm. To touch Saint Laurent and Chanel, to drink wine on a street corner, to get lost in an Armani boutique hotel, to close my eyes to the divine and mellow taste of chestnut puree at Café Angelina. I am alone and I will do everything alone, I will not give in to fears. In Paris as in Paris, I am Carrie Bradshaw.
I smiled at the couple at the reception. “Bonjour Jacques and Evelyn, good morning,” I said and they smiled back at me broadly.
“You look good today, Miss Emma.” Jacques and Evelyn weren’t married, but I thought there was something between them. I held half a baguette with goat cheese in my hand, and in my bag there was an apple and mineral water. I was ready.
“Good morning Miss Emma.”
“Yannick?” I stopped, “We made plans for tonight, right? To check out jazz clubs, or am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right, I just don’t like Miss Emma traveling alone.”
I looked at him and wondered if he was a little crazy or if he was my guardian angel. “Bon, take me to Petit Palais. But then I’ll go on my own. If I wanted a partner, I’d bring one from home. Come on, today is short, my mother.”
“It’s okay, you’re not inMetro. I'll take it. Then we'll meet in the evening. There's a great club. Exclusive. Music you like, jazz from America and France. Not a dangerous place. A little expensive, but good.”
“Yannick,” I said to him as I closed the taxi door. “I want to play without anyone noticing me. A simple place. Dark. Just to feel on stage.”
“When did you stand on stage, Miss Emma?”
“Emma, ​​I told you. No miss.” He smiled at me with his teeth showing against his dark skin and laughing eyes. “Look at the road please, I’m stressed. They drive like crazy here. When was the last time? When I was twenty-five. Half my age now.”
“Miss Emma is laughing at me. Again.”
He continued to chatter. My thoughts wandered. What a wonderful morning. The weather is ideal and my plan is in order. A morning without organizing, tidying, comforting, encouraging, calming. Without Alex's yelling and complaining. I don't have to look for one white sock that matches the other, I don't have to make five different sandwiches, two fruits and an energy bar for my talented, beautiful, genius children, the souls of a mother. I don't have to look for a notebook that disappeared and check that Ben-Ben's shave came out perfectly smooth until he's satisfied and not have to slalom through traffic jams to get the kids to school by eight. It's just wonderful!
I stared at the view from the taxi window. A couple in love, the pregnant woman, on the “Bridge of Beaux Arts.” They looked at the river, then at each other, then kissed. The bridge was full of locks. Thousands of locks. How romantic. Beginnings are wonderful. It seemed to me that I saw a couple kissing on every corner. When I finally got pregnant with the twins, I became a queen, perhaps for the last time. I especially remember a day of sewing with a top seamstress, who worked for my mother, Tirzah, on the maternity wardrobe. I brought patterns and patterns, fabrics and accessories, and my mother’s beautiful and talented friends sat around the table and worked on hand-sewing the finishing touches. The refreshments, the chatter, and me – the star of the day. Like today, I remember her looking at my belly while measuring and saying: “Oh, you really are pregnant,” and the women bursting into laughter.

A moment to rest. I stopped walking for memories. I sipped a glass of Sauvignon Blanc at the Café du Remi on Faubourg Saint Honore, near the luxurious Hotel Le Royal Monceau , a five-minute walk from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysées. My legs gave out and I could barely stand. The Hermès jewelry exhibition at the Petit Palais and the photographs by Jeff Koons were an entrance to a land full of miracles and wonders. A beauty that is difficult to digest. I left the Petit Palais and went up the Pont Alexandre III, the most ornate and extravagant of the bridges in Paris, Art Nouveau at its peak, with its cherubs, nymphs and winged horses. It too, like the Petit Palais and the Grand Palais, was built in nineteen hundred for the World's Fair. I breathed in the gardens of the Palais Royal and, like a former stewardess whose powers are limitless, I boarded a bus to the cold Sacré-Cœur and flew to Montmartre. Three people argued over who would paint me. “Friends, Mes amis,” I told them, there’s room for everyone. I paid them and received three wonderful paintings, each one different in character. I skipped, smiling and, lacking physical fitness, also panting, all the way from the metro and sang Nathalie, me and Gilbert’s empty red square in the line.

https://youtu.be/7ZwUZ3F_qQc

I was almost alone in the cafe, except for a few locals. I bought a flattering dress in a bright bottle green that matched this hotel that screams luxury but still classic. I ordered another glass of Sauvignon Blanc and thought I saw this actress, I forgot her name. An old street musician took up position in front of the cafe and played the melody Under the Sky of Paris on his violin that reminded me of Yves Montaigne’s performance. The trees on the avenue were magnificent. The fall was colored in shades of red, orange, purple, fire and earth. Nature was celebrating. Autumn is not the end. The expression “the autumn of her life,” which signifies the end, is not correct. Nature is bustling and full of life. One more small sip, I decided, and I will walk to the hotel. They say it looks like a palace.
“I see you still have the coat.” The wine that sent my throat down with pleasure burst out in the most inelegant way. It was a good thing the glass was still in my hand. James Edward Grant towered over me again this time, in a neatly tailored and pressed charcoal suit. His eyes were an even deeper shade of blue than I remembered, his white shirt was buttoned and a black bow tie was tied around his neck. His shiny black hair was combed back in a deliberate carelessness. “You didn’t call me,” his voice echoed in my skin tonight and I gathered myself, clearing my throat, feeling the usual blush rise in my cheeks.
“I haven’t lost anything yet,” I smiled apologetically.
“You look beautiful in yellow,” he smiled and looked at me with an amused look, touching the scarf and lightly stroking it.
“Thank you,” I lowered my eyes, almost saying my sentence “There were times,” but this time I managed to stop the usual nonsense and accept the compliment. “You don’t look bad at all, either,” I said and took a sip of wine to calm down and our eyes met. “The paintings!” I stood up in a panic, trying to stop the portraits from flying in the playful wind, but he caught up to me and managed to pick them up.
“That’s interesting,” he observed one of them, “innocence and sophistication.” I smiled and felt the blush spread to my cheeks again.
“I was looking for you and here you are outside. They’re waiting for you.” The sound of bells came from the direction of a beautiful girl with flowing, black, smooth hair and clear blue eyes. She was wearing a flowing, blue-toned silk dress and thin, navy-colored heels. I looked over and was amazed. She looked maybe twenty-three years old and I had a hard time hiding my reaction.
“I’m sorry, they’re waiting for me.” I nodded, trying to keep a smile. “Keep having fun. Use the ticket!” he said almost commandingly, taking my hand to his lips and gently kissing the back of it the way my Viennese grandfather had kissed Maria Callas a hundred years ago. “Shall we go?” her voice came.
After a few seconds during which I didn't say a word and probably didn't breathe, he slowly withdrew his hand, and arm in arm they disappeared toward the hotel without looking back.
Suddenly the brightness of the beautiful autumn weather dimmed and became a little blustery. The fallen leaves began to arrange themselves before my eyes in shapes. I paid and walked towards the hotel too.
“To meet?” asked a guard at the entrance.
“Of course, I’m a journalist,” I replied with the confidence of a Palme d’Or winner. A sixth sense told me he was there. Without asking for a certificate, he stepped back and guided me inside.

I entered through the revolving door and my breath caught. It would be an understatement this year to describe the lobby as magnificent in its beauty. The minimalist and classic style of Philippe Starck and the explosive color of Karim Rashid, two of today's most prominent designers, created a hotel that is a grandiose and magical work of art. Despite its enormous size, I felt the place closing in on me and I fought myself to observe and admire. White, mustard, turquoise and gold created a dramatic play of contrasts. The design conveyed coolness and warmth, like a palace that is also a home, but my eyes were drawn to the huge crystal chandeliers approaching me as if threatening to fall from the high ceiling. The art gallery and the giant pictures that adorn the walls moved in sharp movements. Classic and modern, traditional and futuristic. Funny, I briefly jumped into Hoshen – an auction house, twelve years as an art curator and director of the Judaica and Contemporary Israeli Art departments. These kinds of descriptions were my daily existence, in contrast to my daily, bleak experience.

The meeting! I found the right door and quietly entered. On the stage stood a short, balding emcee dressed in a luxurious suit, calling the guest of honor and keynote speaker to come up and deliver his speech. It took a few seconds before I noticed well-known celebrities. A huge sign “Launch of the new Paris Dreams perfume by Anik” hung on the stage in bright light, and below it: “All proceeds from tonight’s ticket sales, donations, and raffles go to the fight against AIDS in Africa.” The men were effortlessly dapper in Freida and Boss suits and bow ties, and the women flaunted cocktail and maxi dresses from Dior, Lanvin, and Balenciaga. I had to take a picture for the blog.
Grant, a ladies' man and lover of minors, confidently and elegantly carried his long, athletic body and took the stage. I huddled at the back so that I wouldn't be noticed and kicked out. I already realized that somehow I had entered a first-class celebrity launch without any problems. Potential to be the blog's scumbag of the year. The value of the jewelry in this hall alone would save Africa without a ball.
Grant, with his dominant appearance, made it hard for me to breathe. He began to speak like a saint surrounded by a halo while Lolita waited for him downstairs. He began with a sentence I didn't catch, spoken in a rough, sexy voice. The audience cheered with laughter. He continued in fluent French. Every now and then he added a sentence or phrase in English. I was mesmerized. I understood that he was a global businessman who devoted his time and fortune to philanthropy and research. It was time for questions. The press gallery erupted and overflowed.
Everyone tried to ask, to be first. This is an opportunity. I snuck into the newsroom with the intention of voting. There's no chance anyway, there's more than a hundred here. Who would turn to an unknown journalist?
“The lady with the yellow scarf, please,” I heard his voice and knew I was lost.

Did you like this Parisian episode?

You are welcome to purchase the book at this link or here.

A few words about Ravit Lifshitz Zion

Ravit Lifshitz Zion is a hopeless romantic, musician-pianist, opera and jazz addict, social media addict and camera lover. After almost a decade as an El Al flight attendant, advanced degrees in art, music and business administration between Tel Aviv and New York, and seventeen years of managing marketing communications, advertising and public relations, she embarked on a new path and has since become “The Writer – Words of Style and Inspiration,” expressing in her blogs her passions and loves regarding everything innovative in the world of literature, fashion, design, art and culture.

Ravit is married and the mother of seventeen-year-old twins who continue her artistic and musical path. She lives in Ganei Tikva but remains a Tel Avivian at heart.

“Her Mother’s Loves” is her debut novel.