“You have to go,” T says. “It’s Paris, Hannah. I’ll go if you don’t want to.”
I wonder how long it would take for Tallulah to get to know the real Marla, the one standing there smacking on Cressida’s cookies. The one who would probably try to stick her with the hotel bill if they got over there and discovered this magical apartment was uninhabitable or, more likely, a myth.
Because what is the likelihood that an apartment that has been sitting vacant for a while is move-in ready?
Or even ours.
It crosses my mind to take Tallulah up on the offer to go in my stead, but I say, “She just sprung this on me. I haven’t even had time to digest the situation. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight anyway. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s right,” Cressida says. “And we have a party to get to. Marla, are you coming?”
“No!” I say before she can answer.
Three heads swivel in my direction.
“I love parties,” says Marla.
“You can’t go,” I say, determined to nip that in the bud. “You weren’t invited. You can’t just show up.”
“Hannah, this is Jemma,” says Cressida. “There’s no invitation list. There will be so many people there she won’t care as long as Marla brings a bottle of something.”
“Ha! She doesn’t have a bottle to bring.”
And a recovering alcoholic doesn’t need to be around a bunch of drunks at a party.
“We picked up plenty,” says T. “Even something for you so you couldn’t use that as an excuse not to go.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I’ve had a long week. I want to have a quiet night.”
“Well, girls,” says Marla. “Let her stay home if she’s going to be like that. We know how to have fun.”
Visions of Marla dancing on tables with her bottle of something snap me back to reality.
Shit.
London was the birthplace of her days as a groupie following around the punk band The Squelching Wellies. I have a sinking feeling that coming here might tempt her to relive her glory days. I need to make sure she doesn’t do something stupid.
Babysitting my mother was not how I envisioned spending my vacation… or ringing in the New Year. But one of us needs to take responsibility.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go.”
Cressida claps her hands. “Zed will be so happy.”
Ugh. That’s right. Okay, fine. I’ll meet Zed. It doesn’t mean I have to go out with him.
Cressida looks at her watch. “I have to start getting ready.”
As she and T leave the room, they’re discussing wardrobe choices. I contemplate what people would do if I did show up in my flannels and fuzzy socks.
Hi, Zed; I’m Hannah.
That would fix the situation.
“Shall I shower first, or do you want to?” Marla asks.
“Go ahead,” I say. “But wash your champagne glass, please. The washing liquid is in that stainless steel pump container to the right of the sink.”
“It’s not dirty,” Marla says.
“Didn’t you drink champagne with T and Cressida?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have any. I told you I’m on the wagon.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s good.”
“I’m starting over, Hannah. If I keep doing what I’ve been doing, I’ll keep getting what I’ve been getting. I’m tired of it.”
“Fair enough,” I say, wanting to believe her but remembering the sting of too many broken promises and sullied declarations in the past.
“So, what about Paris?” she asks. “Are you coming with me?”
March 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
When I entered the garret after my disastrous appointment, I met our landlord, Monsieur Arpin. One glance and I realized he took no more pride in his personal hygiene than he did in the flat’s cleanliness.
He needed a shave. He wore grey, grease-spotted trousers and a dirty white sleeveless shirt that was yellowed under the armpits. He smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and whiskey-soaked cabbage.
I held my breath as I brushed past him to stand next to Helen. He leered at us and licked his lips. Muttering, his gaze dropped to Helen’s bosom and he had the nerve to say she was the prettier of us, but I would do.
I would do?
At first, I had no idea what he meant, but then he laughed and gave a lascivious wink. It sent a shiver down my spine.
I walked to the door and asked him to leave.
He refused, insisting we settle on the rent. He wanted two months’ rent in advance rather than the one month’s we had agreed upon in our correspondence.
With a pursed-lip shrug, he claimed circumstances had changed. If we wanted the place, we needed to hand over the money.
He kept muttering in French and holding up two hairy-knuckled fingers with filthy nails. By this time his odeur had filled the flat, threatening to gag me.
We tried to reason with him, saying we needed to work to earn the rest. Once we had the money, we would pay.
He refused to budge.
Helen shot me a glance as if telling me to play along.
Her tone changed to something more coquettish and she started proposing… alternate arrangements. If I didn’t know her so well, I might’ve worried about what she was getting us in for. Alas, my friend is an actress. She takes on personas and uses them to her advantage. I’ve seen her do it before, but never in such a dangerous situation.
But it worked. Monsieur Arpin, slack jawed, murmuring about Helen’s amiable nature, said he might be persuaded to accommodate us if she was agreeable to certain terms.
I was sick to my stomach as I watched Helen cozy up to the wretch, teasing him with smoldering eyes and a sultry purr.
The Helen that I knew would never trade her body for rent. It was… prostitution. I had to keep reminding myself it was just a role. Arpin was fully under her spell.
When he tried to touch her, she sidestepped him, informing him she would dictate the terms of their new arrangement; he was to go away for two days and anticipate the pleasures to come.
When he insisted on sampling the new terms immediately, Helen twisted his arm and lifted her knee to his groin and scolded him.
He was a short, stocky bull of a man, half-crazed with lust. I was afraid if she pushed him too far, he would turn the tables and take what he wanted.
Helen was playing with fire. All he needed to do was push her backward and he could dominate her. But instead, he whimpered in submission.
She held up two fingers and told him that during his two-day wait, he was not to talk to us. If he did, the wait would reset. She would punish him by making him wait another two days.
Then she gave him a shove toward the door, telling him to leave.
Before he could utter another word, Helen shut the door in his face and locked it. I was mesmerized by the power she held over this swine, and petrified by the way she wound him up only to push him out.
Finally, Helen broke character and bowed. Then she made a face and pretended to gag.
I declared her performance award-worthy, telling her that for a moment she had me convinced she meant to deliver on her promise.
What if he called to collect early? He’d already changed the rules on us once. What if he barged in on us in the middle of the night?
Frowning as if she hadn’t considered the possibility, Helen said we would find another flat within the next two days. In the meantime, we would move the dresser in front of the door. That way he wouldn’t be able to surprise us.
It didn’t make me feel better. But Helen sat on one of the beds, applying bloodred lipstick to her mouth, blotting her lips together, and studying her reflection in the compact she’d pulled from her purse as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
She turned to me and lifted her left brow in that worldly, knowing way of hers, telling me that since we were in Paris, I needed to understand
that men would be men and if we don’t outsmart them, they would devour us.
With no security and no money, I was suddenly and shamefully homesick.
Those feelings weren’t only spurred because I felt I’d fallen into waters too deep. It wasn’t even noon, and Helen was urging me to go to a bar with her. She said we were to meet new friends at a place called Dingo Bar. After all that transpired, I don’t understand why Helen was so insistent on going to a bar midmorning.
Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember why moving to Paris had ever seemed like a good idea.
Five
December 31, 2018—10:00 p.m.
London, England
By the time we make it across town to Jemma’s flat in Chelsea, the party is in full swing. Festive jazz plays over the sound system. The lounge and kitchen are so crammed that people are spilling out into the back garden.
“The key is to invite everyone on the block,” Jemma says from her post behind the makeshift bar in the lounge. One thin, tapered hand holds a cigarette; there’s a highball glass in the other. “Half the time they don’t come, but then at least they don’t mind if you have a proper soirée.”
She parks her cigarette between her lips, adds ice to a glass, fills it with vodka and a splash of cranberry, and hands it to me. “Drink up, lovie. It’s bad luck to ring in the New Year sober.”
I touch the glass to hers and take a sip, recalling that Marla said something similar about New Year’s luck.
Speaking of the devil, I look around for her, but it appears she’s been swallowed up by the party. I wonder if she’s having trouble around all this free-flowing liquor.
I throw back the drink and shoulder my way through the bottleneck in the hallway. I finally make my way through a cloud of smoke and strong perfume into the crisp air of the patio, which is slightly warmed by tall heat lamps and decorated with strings of blinking Christmas lights and randomly placed bunches of mistletoe.
Cressida is out here talking to Danny, a guy she’s had an on-again, off-again relationship with for the better part of this year and whom I’ve never formally met for some reason. She looks posh in her short black dress. With all those beads at the neckline, it has to be expensive. Well, if it’s in Cressida’s closet, of course it’s expensive.
Danny’s leather jacket is draped over her shoulders. She’s facing him, and his hands are parked on her ass.
Underneath the Christmas lights, the sprayed silver glitter in her blonde hair makes it look iridescent platinum.
“Happy New Year,” I say to Danny. He answers with a nod, then turns his chin upward and blows a series of white smoke rings into the inky sky. Danny works in computers and wears horn-rimmed glasses. It’s hard to tell if his silence stems from shyness or judgment.
“Have you seen Marla?” I ask my roommate. A jazzy rendition of “Let It Snow” starts to play over the outdoor speakers.
“I saw her earlier.” Cressida looks around the patio and teeters a little. Danny pulls her against him. I turn to go.
“Oh, Hannah, by the way, Zed is here. Let’s go find him.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “No hurry.”
“I’ll be right back, love,” she says to Danny. “I have someone I want Hannah to meet. Be a doll and refresh my drink?”
She dangles her champagne glass between two perfectly manicured fingers. Danny takes it, leans in, and whispers something in her ear. Cressida laughs, and Danny kisses her.
He’d have to be a fool not to want Cressida. She’s smart, funny, rich, and gorgeous. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t need a man in her life, which means nearly every man she meets falls in love with her.
Cressida is lost in the kiss, giving me a chance to slip away and avoid the awkward introduction to Zed, who’s probably equally unenthusiastic about meeting me. I turn around to make my getaway.
And who do I run into—literally, like, in a breast-to-chest collision?
It’s Brooding Darcy from Sally Lunn’s house in Bath. Or his identical twin.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. My palms are pressed flat against his pecs and his arm is steadying my waist. “I need to watch where I’m going.”
Then he scowls at me, and I know it’s him because I’m struck by the same thunderbolt that hit me when I first saw him sitting at Sally Lunn’s. I feel myself coming undone again. The same way I felt earlier today.
“It’s nice to run into you again. Any more problems with your tour patron?”
And there’s that lovely accent.
The scowl wrinkles his forehead and I wonder if that’s his normal expression. The male version of resting bitch face.
“No, you must’ve scared him off. But you left before I could get your name.”
“Zed, there you are.” Cressida has come up for air and Danny is nowhere to be found. “Hannah, this is Zed. The guy I wanted you to meet.”
This is Zed?
Cressida’s gaze dips and I realize his arm is still around my waist. In that instant, he pulls away and we both reclaim our personal space.
“I see you two are already… acquainted. You didn’t need me. You found each other.”
She claps her hands like a child who has gotten a pony for her birthday. “I knew you’d hit it off. Zed, ask Hannah. I have a knack for matchmaking.”
I laugh out loud thinking about her three disastrous attempts at fixing me up before. But now is not the time to bring that up.
“This is the strangest thing,” I say. “Zed, is it?”
He nods. “Actually, it’s Aiden Zedrick. Some call me Zed for short.”
“Aiden was in Bath earlier today at the Sally Lunn House, where I took my tour group for tea. He helped me with a… a situation.”
“Aye, it was nothing, really.” He shifts from one foot to another, looking uncomfortable being the center of attention.
“I thought it was something,” I say. “Thanks again.”
“It wasn’t a problem.”
His scowl gives way to bemusement, and my stomach flips.
“You two are adorable,” Cressida gushes. “I knew you’d be perfect for each other.”
Danny appears behind her with two flutes of champagne.
“Danny, look,” she says, leaning into him. “It’s Zed and Hannah. Aren’t they cute together?”
He doesn’t answer, just hands me the other champagne and sweeps Cressida away.
“How do you know Cressida?” I ask Aiden, whom I refuse to call Zed.
“I don’t know her very well. I met her through Jemma. I live just down the street. A couple of weeks ago she and Cressida came into my restaurant for dinner.”
“You own a restaurant?”
He shrugs sheepishly.
“Not exactly. I’m the executive chef at Lemon and Lavender.”
I sip my champagne.
“If you’re the executive chef, how did you manage to get New Year’s Eve off? Isn’t it one of the busiest nights of the year?”
“The restaurant is closed from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day. We reopen January second.”
“Were you playing tourist in Bath on your time off?”
“No. I was working. I was on a reconnaissance mission. The owner wants to start offering high tea on Sundays. I made a list of places to check out and Sally Lunn was one of them.”
“So you’re not really on vacation, then?”
“Eating is not exactly hard work. Especially when someone else cooks.”
It’s amazingly easy to talk to Aiden. The night passes in a flash and before I know it, the crowd at the party is raucously counting down the end of the year. The music changes to a rockabilly version of “Auld Lang Syne.” Those who aren’t kissing are blowing noisemakers and yelling “Happy New Year!”
Someone launches a confetti cannon and bits of metallic and rainbow-colored paper float down around us.
Aiden brushes a piece off my forehead, leans in, and kisses me.
It’s more than a friendly pe
ck, but it’s not exactly the prelude to a hookup. Still, as his lips brush mine, I wonder how a casual New Year’s kiss can be so intoxicating. I’m suddenly aware of my hands on his back, of the solid, muscled flesh under his shirt. I want to know him better so I can have more.
But I can’t have more right now.
The timing is all wrong.
“Come to the restaurant sometime,” he says. “I’ll treat you to dinner.”
My stomach flips. This sounds promising.
“That would be lovely.”
I want to see him again. I want to kiss him again.
“Why don’t you, Jem, and Cressida come in tomorrow night? It’s officially January first. I’m meaning January second. When we reopen.”
“I wish I could, but my mother is in town.”
“Bring her.”
Hell no.
“It’s nice of you to offer, but she and I might be going out of town in the next couple of days.”
“Where are you going?”
“Paris.”
“Sounds like fun.”
I shrug. “It’s actually a business trip.” Sort of.
As we talk, I realize his scowl and his dark features are the only resemblance he bears to Fitzwilliam Darcy. Maybe one of the hazards of my job is reducing everything to a Jane Austen plot.
More proof of how desperately I need a proper vacation.
Alone.
Or at least one without Marla, who seems to be navigating this party fine on her own. I hear her laugh and spy her sitting on an outdoor sectional at the far corner of the patio under a heat lamp.
She’s wearing her sunglasses and holding court with a handful of guys. I know one of them. His name is Jesse. He’s sitting next to her with his arm casually draped over the back of the sofa, around her, but not on her.
There’s enough room that he could lead Marla to believe he’s man-stretching, but I know for a fact that’s not what he’s doing. This is the warm-up to putting the moves on her.
Ew. She could be his mother. Okay, maybe his older sister. But still.
At one time or another, Jesse has tried with varying degrees of success to sleep with most of the women I know at this party. T hooked up with him a couple of times, and he even tried to put the moves on me once. So I know how he operates.
Lost in Paris Page 5