Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  “No, we’re good here.” Jerry’s voice has a defensive edge. “You can go.”

  A crowd of people has stopped to watch.

  “No, you’re the one who needs to step away and cool off. I’ll stay right here until you do.” Darcy doesn’t budge, nor does he stop glowering at Jerry, who is clenching his fists and muttering a string of choice words under his breath.

  “I don’t need this,” Jerry says. “Come on, Frances.”

  I worry about Jerry’s wife, that she will bear the brunt of her husband’s misplaced anger. I’m opening my mouth to say as much, but Darcy beats me to it.

  “Lady, you don’t have to go with him.”

  Frances raises her chin a notch. “I’m fine.” She sounds annoyed. “I can handle myself.”

  She directs the words at me. Like my mother, sometimes people don’t know how to accept help when it’s offered, much less ask for it.

  “Frances, I’m here for you if you need anything.”

  Her eyes flick from me to Jerry, who is already walking away. She hesitates, and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll defect. Then she turns and follows her husband.

  “Yeah, your boss is definitely going to hear from me,” Jerry bellows over his shoulder as he moves down North Parade Passage, then disappears around the corner.

  I need to call Emma before he does.

  But first, I turn to Darcy, unsure of what to say.

  Because what do you say in a moment like this?

  Thanks, but I didn’t need to be saved?

  What might’ve happened if he hadn’t intervened?

  Most of the onlookers have started to disperse, but I’m painfully aware of the handful of stragglers who are still watching curiously, some from the bay window of the Sally Lunn dining room.

  I decide on the polite response. “Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re American.” His tone is lighter, but his unwavering gaze is still as intense as it was when it was fixed on Jerry. Less angry, more…

  More what? I don’t know.

  “That I am.” After Jerry’s performance, I brace myself for him to tack on a barb about loud, ugly tourists.

  “What exactly happened there?” he says. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  His tartan scarf is tucked inside his navy peacoat. His dark hair is disheveled and on the longish side but in a sexy way that makes me wonder what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning. I blink away the forward thought.

  “I’m a tour guide. It’s the last day of our tour. He took issue with others talking during my spiels and the way I handled it. Apparently, he thought I could’ve done a better job. He’s off to inform my boss. Which means I need to call her before he does.”

  I’m caught in the tractor beam of his gaze. Ridiculous, but it totally takes away my breath. My heart thuds against my ribs like a bird trying to break free and soar.

  He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he shakes his head.

  “Right, you’d best make that call.” He glances at his watch. “And I’d best be on my way or I’ll miss my train.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Happy to be of service. Take good care of yourself.”

  That voice. It’s as rich as butterscotch and twice as sweet. As I watch him walk away, I’m thinking I could curl up in that brogue and live a happy life.

  That’s when I realize I didn’t even ask his name.

  I open my mouth to call after him, but he’s already too far away.

  A light snow starts to fall as he’s swallowed up by crowds of revelers peering into shop-front windows brimming with holly and ivy and the last of the holiday cheer.

  If the Fitzwillings wanted to find Mr. Darcy on this trip, they missed their chance. I want to smile at the thought, but more pressing matters consume me.

  Before going back inside, I call Emma, but I get her voicemail. “Em, it’s Hannah. I have a situation. It’s not life-or-death, just… an incident that happened a moment ago. Call me when you get a chance.”

  In the meantime, I go back inside and apologize to the manager of the Sally Lunn House for the spectacle in the dining room.

  I realize that I should make a contingency plan just in case Jerry shows up at Thermae Bath Spa and tries to cause trouble for the ladies. Guys like that are usually all bark, so he probably won’t. But you never know. Before Jerry, I’d never had a person on my tour stomp away in a huff.

  Heads turn as I walk back to the table, but I focus my energies on my remaining ten charges.

  “I’m sorry about that, folks.”

  “Oh, Hannah!” Tears flood Lucy’s eyes. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go that way. We were only having fun. What in the world is wrong with that man?”

  “It’s okay. It was his choice to leave. Please don’t worry.” What else can I say?

  As if by divine intervention, my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

  “I apologize, but I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”

  I answer before I get outside so Emma’s call doesn’t sail over to voicemail.

  “Hey, Em, thanks for getting back to me so fast. Hold on a moment while I go outside. I’m in Sally Lunn’s.”

  The silence on the other end of the line lasts long enough for me to wonder if the call has been disconnected.

  And then I wish it had been.

  “No, Hannah, it’s not Emma. This is your mother. Why haven’t you called me back? I’m in London at Heathrow Airport and I need you to come pick me up.”

  February 1927

  London, England

  Dear Diary,

  Mum popped in for a visit today.

  She made no pretense of what she thought of my new Eton crop hairdo.

  In true Constance Braithwaite fashion, she gasped and grabbed a hunk of my hair, going on and on about how I’d ruined my beauty. How no man would want me now because I looked like a boy.

  I wanted to tell her the Eton crop was a statement about a woman’s self-confidence, and that confidence, in turn, accentuated femininity.

  Instead, I murmured that it was just hair. It would grow back.

  Lorgnette in hand, Mum moved her disapproving eyes to my chemise, which I’d made myself out of remnant fabric my boss let me take home. I love the loose, straight drop-waist skirt that falls just below my knees. I’d paired it with stockings and laced-up oxford shoes.

  The look was inspired by a Coco Chanel design I saw in Vogue magazine.

  As Mum inspected me, I did a twirl and asked her if she liked my frock. A cheeky move, I know, but I refused to stand there and let her berate me. Her nostrils flared as if she smelled something bad.

  Her reaction made me wish I’d worn the golf knickers and tie I had finished sewing last week. Paired with argyle socks, the unfeminine ensemble would’ve made Mum apoplectic.

  I would have wasted my breath if I’d tried to explain that Chanel has liberated women by taking inspiration from men’s clothing, which is so much more comfortable and convenient than the restraining styles of the past. Instead, I told her that wealthy women these days pay a lot of money to dress down, and soon, I intend to capitalize on it.

  Money is a language she understands.

  All she did was shake her head and say she knew my move from Bristol to London would lead to my ruin. The way I looked today was proof.

  Then she announced that Allister Hutcheon, the widower undertaker back home, was looking for a wife and had been asking about me.

  When I pointed out that Allister Hutcheon was closer to Dad’s age than mine, Mum sucked her teeth. She said I was too old for this nonsense. It was time to leave this foolishness behind and return to Bristol while my face was still fair and my virtue was intact. In other words, while I was still marriageable.

  I don’t need a husband to take care of me and certainly not old Allister Hutcheon. I was so incensed I removed myself to the kitchen and started brewing tea to give myself a moment to
calm down.

  Everything considered, I’ve done well for myself. I’ve made good decisions and enough money to support myself. I’ve even managed to stash a little under the mattress.

  I’d planned to tell Mum during her visit today that I was indeed leaving London, but not to return to Bristol. The way our talk was going, it was clear that I needed to break the news sooner rather than later.

  When the tea was ready, I brought it out and blurted the news before my courage could escape me. I informed her I was moving to Paris with my friend Helen to apprentice in the atelier of Coco Chanel.

  Mum scooted her chair away from the table. I’ll never forget the shriek of wood scraping wood. Nor the way she looked at me with fury in her blue eyes. She gathered her handbag and told me that unless I returned to Bristol with her, I needn’t come home ever again. I would not be welcome.

  Once she left and her ultimatum settled in, a future life in Bristol flashed before my eyes—the regret of not going to Paris as I wasted away in spinsterhood or, I shudder to think, marriage to Allister Hutcheon.

  With that, my choice was crystal clear.

  Two

  December 31, 2018—5:00 p.m.

  Bath Spa railway station

  Two hours later, I’ve deposited the group at Thermae Bath Spa. There was no sign of Jerry and Frances. When I spoke to Emma, she hadn’t heard from them, either.

  I’d wager that Jerry will simmer all the way back to Wisconsin, where he will fire off a nasty letter to Emma. He may ask for a refund, but that will likely be the end of it.

  A cold wind whips around me as I make my way to the Bath train station. British weather is so different from what I grew up with in Florida. Not only does it get much colder in the UK, but there’s also fog that descends from out of nowhere and seeps into your bones. Lit by the streetlamps, the misty air shimmers as it couples with the darkness that has fallen around me. It cloaks the evening in a melancholy blue that transports me back to my childhood.

  When I was a little girl, “the blue hour” made me wistful and homesick for my mother, who was never there, even on the rare occasion that she was present.

  The icy wind cuts through me, and I’m transported back to those nights when I felt hollow and abandoned.

  Marla, why are you in London?

  When we spoke earlier, she didn’t get a chance to explain because Emma beeped in. I told Marla I had to take the call. I did manage to say that I couldn’t pick her up. I was out of town working. Because I am.

  I didn’t mention that I’d be home tonight.

  To buy myself some time, I texted that she should check in at the Holiday Inn at Camden Lock until we can meet up. It’s affordable and an easy five-minute walk to my flat.

  The thought of having her that close, even for a holiday, gives me pause.

  Without the Atlantic between us, there is no buffer to keep us from colliding. Just Marla and me, face-to-face, forced to figure out what to do with each other before she inevitably floats out of my life like a balloon let loose from its tether.

  But for whatever reason, she’s here, and there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  As I settle into my seat on the train, all I want to do is sleep during the hour-and-forty-five-minute trip from Bath to Paddington station. But my watch buzzes a text alert.

  In the split second before I look, I decide that if it’s my mother, I will take off the watch and stash it in my purse.

  But it’s not her; it’s a group text from my flatmates Cressida and Tallulah.

  Cressida: What time will you be home, Han?

  Me: On the train now. Should be home 7:30-ish.

  Cressida: I have a man for you tonight…

  I can virtually hear her voice singing those frightful words.

  Me: No thank you.

  Cressida: Come on, Han. Zed wants to meet you.

  Cressida’s blind date track record is horrendous, and a guy with a name like Zed doesn’t bode well for improvement. Thank goodness Tallulah chimes in.

  Tallulah: What are you wearing to Jemma’s party?

  Me: Flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks.

  Tallulah: Sexy.

  Cressida: Not sexy. Don’t encourage her. I refuse to let her end the year wearing fuzzy socks. She’d probably stoop to binge-watching Love Island if we left her to her own devices.

  Tallulah: Right. We will save her from herself.

  Me: What’s wrong with Love Island?

  Cressida: We will leave her in Zed’s very capable, very large hands.

  Me: Hello? Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.

  Cressida: Okay then. We’ll leave you in Zed’s care. Did I mention his large hands?

  Me: Zed? What kind of guy is named Zed? Sounds like a movie villain.

  Cressida: No, he’s hot. You want to meet him.

  Me: Introduce him to Tallulah.

  Tallulah: Tallulah already has a date.

  Cressida: Oops g2g. Doorbell.

  Cressida’s skills for fixing me up on blind dates can be summed up in three words—well, six, really: The Quitter, The Sniffer, and The Stiffer. In order of appearance and offending record.

  The Quitter took me to play tennis and then got mad when I beat him.

  The Sniffer had a foot fetish.

  I kid you not. A foot fetish.

  I should’ve caught on earlier than I did because this dude knew way too much about women’s shoes than is acceptable for a straight guy. After I excused myself to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine, I caught him sniffing my black pump.

  Surely that kind of lightning couldn’t strike twice. Could it?

  Oh yes, it could.

  Matt was an emergency room doctor whom Cressida met when she thought she’d broken her ankle. Since she was dating someone, she couldn’t wait to introduce us.

  Everything started out fine. Matt was prompt and courteous. He’d made a reservation for us at Lumiere and ordered a nice bottle of wine and an array of appetizers for us to share, insisting that I hadn’t lived until I’d tried caviar on toast points.

  The conversation was flowing—as was the wine—and I thought, Good job, good taste, no obvious anger issues, not a single mention of ladies’ shoes. I could like this guy.

  As he finished his entree—he’d ordered filet and lobster for our mains—he got a call on his cell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he left the table. “It’s the hospital. I have to take this.”

  Five minutes later, he texted.

  Listen, love, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve been called out on an emergency. Time is of the essence. If you could take care of the tab, I’ll make it up to you.

  Even before I saw the bottom line on the bill, I knew my one nearly maxed-out credit card couldn’t handle the damage we’d racked up.

  I swallowed my pride and texted him back.

  Matt, I’m sorry, but I didn’t bring enough money to cover the bill. I’m happy to pay for my part, but could you call the restaurant and give them a credit card number for your half?

  He didn’t respond. To make a long, ugly story short, Cressida had to come bail me out. She insisted on paying the entire bill and buying me a drink at the Gilded Lion, a pub down the street from Lumiere, to make up for it.

  As we elbowed our way through the crowd, who did I see bellied up to the bar holding court with a pint and twin blondes? Dr. Matthew Brewer. There’s no way he could’ve made it across town in London traffic, tended to his emergency, and gotten back to the pub in that amount of time.

  The part I’m most ashamed of—more than a blind date stiffing me with the check—is that I said nothing to him. I didn’t present him with the $468.37 bill. I didn’t grab his pint and pour it over his head and caution the twins who were hanging on his every word, even though I wanted to, because the thought of causing a scene paralyzed me.

  Instead, I said to Cressida before she could spot him, “It’s crowded in here. Let’s go somewhere else where we can breathe.”
>
  Did I mention I’m not big on confrontation?

  March 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  Helen and I arrived at the tiny flat we rented on the rue du Cardinal Lemoine. I’m sad to say it is not at all what we expected. It’s horrible.

  In the dark, we climbed a set of rickety wooden steps outside the main house to the top floor. After ducking through a small door, we had to ignite a kerosene lantern for light. A rodent—or perhaps it was a feral cat—hissed at us as it ran for cover. I wanted to leave, but we had no other place to go. We looked around and saw that the space amounted to nothing more than a small attic room about a quarter of the size of the flat we’d rented in London. This place was drafty and damp and smelled foul—of frying onions and the remnants of an animal that might have died in the walls or under the creaky floorboards. Possibly of relation to the one who greeted us? There was no kitchen, no running water. Just two twin-sized straw-stuffed mattresses atop rusty frames, pushed against separate walls, and a dresser. The landlord has passed off a closet as a loo, but in reality, it’s no more than an espace de rangement with a bucket.

  By the time our ferry crossed from Dover to Calais and the train carried us to Paris, it was after midnight when we knocked on the door of our landlord, Monsieur Arpin. His wife directed us to the apartment and said her husband would call on us tomorrow to collect the rent and make sure we were comfortable.

  Comfortable we are not, but I’m happy we don’t have to discuss terms tonight. I’m at once bone-weary and a bundle of nerves over my interview at Mademoiselle Chanel’s atelier in the morning.

  I will write tomorrow, hopefully with good news and a clearer vision of what the future holds. Now, sleep.

  Three

  December 31, 2018—7:30 p.m.

  London, England

  After the train pulls into Paddington station, it takes me another thirty minutes via bus and a short walk from the Camden station stop to get home. I find the flat lit up like the West End.