“Come in when you get back from Paris,” Aiden says. “It’s a standing invitation.”
He smiles and my insides melt. I’d better get home before I do something regrettable.
I glance over at Marla. Now Jesse’s arm is around her, his hand dangerously close to her breast.
Oh geez, Marla. Really?
“That sounds fabulous,” I say. “I’d love to.”
“Let me see your phone,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
I hand it to him and he punches in some numbers. His own phone rings.
“I called my phone with your phone. Now we have each other’s numbers.”
He ensured this isn’t one-sided, that either of us could get in touch with the other. It makes me inordinately happy.
“Hannah! Come here!” Marla calls over the music, waving her arms and ruining the moment. “I want you to meet Jesse.”
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Aiden.
I don’t want him to meet Marla. Not yet. Probably not ever.
I glare at Jesse as I walk over. “Jesse, I see you’ve met my mother. Marla, I’m ready to go home. Come on.”
“No, I’m not letting her go.” Jesse puts both arms around her and pulls her against him. I don’t know if he’s high or drunk or a combination of both, but he’s clearly plastered.
“Go ahead without me,” Marla says. “I promised Jesse I’d drive him to his house in his car. He’s in no condition to get behind the wheel.”
“And how are you going to get home?” I ask.
“Hannah, don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m a big girl. I can manage.”
She sounds like she’s sober.
“Remember, they drive on the opposite side of the road here,” I say. “Maybe someone else should take Jesse home.”
She waves me off. “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”
I glance at Aiden, still standing where I left him. He smiles at me when our eyes meet.
“Okay, Marla,” I say. “Whatever you want to do. I’m leaving.”
I return to Aiden to say good night and leave Marla to fend for herself.
March 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
On the way to Dingo Bar, Helen told me she met her new men friends after I’d left for my appointment at the Chanel atelier. She’d gone in search of coffee, made their acquaintance, and they’d invited us to meet them at Dingo.
Helen thinks it’s chic to go to a bar in the morning, but I kept wondering what kind of establishment would be open at that hour and what its clientele would be like.
Don’t these people have jobs?
Obviously, I’m not the only unemployed wretch in Paris. At least the outing diverted my thoughts from the dreadful Chanel debacle. But it made more glaring the fact that Helen hadn’t inquired about the interview. Sometimes she can be so consumed with herself.
She can also be unrelenting when it comes to getting what she wants. For example, after I balked at the outing, she plopped her red cloche hat on my head—she knows how I covet it. She said I could have it if I went with her. She pulled it into place, tugging my hair forward over my cheeks. How could I resist? With that, she grabbed my hand and yanked me out the door. I could’ve said no, of course, but… the hat.
It was a long walk from rue du Cardinal Lemoine to Dingo Bar on rue Delambre in Montparnasse. By the time we’d reached the Jardin du Luxembourg, the fresh air and Helen’s effervescence had lifted me out of my mood and I was properly enjoying the mild day and the bright-blue sky. It was such a contrast to the smelly little hovel and the disastrous morning.
Dingo Bar was situated on the ground floor of a white stucco building with shuttered windows and a red awning. Inside, the place was crowded and loud. A jazz quartet played a lively tune. People were dancing, smoking, and drinking as if they were the only things to do at this hour of the morning. The place smelled of sweat, perfume, and stale liquor, which I quickly associated with the aroma of people having a good time. I wondered how many had been there since the night before.
The moment we arrived, Helen spotted one of her fellows seated at a crowded table. He was dark and handsome with intense eyes and an engaging smile.
As we approached, he stood, planted a double kiss on Helen’s cheeks, and sculpted enough room for us in the shoulder-to-shoulder seating arrangement.
His name was Pablo. He was a painter from Spain who lived in Paris. Talking over the music, he announced we had just arrived from London, that Helen was an actress, and I was une créatrice de mode.
I started to correct him and tell him that, at this point, I was merely a seamstress, but he was already regaling everyone with the story of how he had stopped Helen on the street that morning and told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met—the muse he’d been searching for his entire life. His soul would be tormented until she allowed him to paint her.
I think he was drunk.
Everyone was talking all at once, mostly speaking English, much to my great relief. Even though I could only catch snippets of conversation, the familiar hum was soothing. The thought of being able to sit here and just listen was a respite. Until Pablo pointed out a smart-looking woman across the table, hanging on every word of the handsome man who sat next to her. Her name was Pauline. Pablo said she was a correspondent for Vogue, and she had even discovered new fashion talent and had given them their big break by featuring them in the magazine.
She was someone I needed to know.
Her black bob fell just above her chin. Her bangs cut a sharp line across her forehead, showcasing wide-set eyes. Everything about her—from her flawless makeup to her expensive suit to the emerald earrings swinging from her earlobes—seemed effortlessly stylish.
After I made it down to Pauline’s end of the table, her handsome man found a chair for me. He placed it between them.
Pauline introduced him as Ernest, but she called him Hem. She started talking about me as if I weren’t there, saying I was pretty—just Hem’s type.
It made me uncomfortable, but not as much as when he agreed.
I was relieved when Pauline told him to fetch us a bottle of champagne and he complied.
Then Pauline began asking about my work. I almost couldn’t contain myself when she said she’d look at my sketches.
I asked her when she was available, but before she could respond, Hem returned with the champagne. He popped the cork, spewing the liquid at me. People cheered, except for Pauline, who rolled her eyes and handed me a napkin. She told me to ignore Hem, that he was celebrating a newly published book. It had been well received and he was quite full of himself.
As she berated him for making a spectacle of himself and wasting good champagne, it only seemed to egg him on.
He grabbed my hand, pulled me into his arms, and began tangoing with me, weaving us through the tables, pressing his body to mine. I wanted to disappear. I couldn’t look at Pauline, but I could feel her eyes burning a hole in my back.
I knew I had to gracefully dance away from Hem or risk losing my connection to Vogue, but just when I thought I was free, Hem reeled me in and dipped me back. I turned my head to the side just in time for his sloppy, openmouthed kiss to land between my neck and collarbone.
When he righted me, the world was spinning.
Six
January 1, 2019—11:00 a.m.
London, England
The next morning, the sun smiles at me through the window of my upstairs bedroom, bestowing the promise of a brand-new year. A brand-new decade.
And the promise of Aiden.
Cressida could totally redeem herself with him. He doesn’t seem to bear any resemblance to The Stiffer, The Sniffer, or The Quitter. Then again, technically, I found him first. Maybe she shouldn’t get credit.
A quick glance at the alarm clock informs me that it’s a few minutes past 11:00. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shove my feet into fleece-lined slippers b
efore pulling on my robe.
The rest of the house is quiet and probably will be until well into the afternoon, given how much fun Cressida and T seemed to be having when I left the party.
I make my way downstairs thinking Marla might have slept on the couch since she got in late, but there’s no sign of her or any indication she’s been home. My pulse thuds as at least a dozen grim possibilities of where she ended up pop into my mind. Jail? Dumpster? Jesse’s bed?
But she does have her cell phone. She could’ve called.
Did she call? Did I sleep through it?
I speed walk up the stairs to my bedroom and fish my phone out of my purse. There are two texts: one from Marla and one from Aiden.
I look at Aiden’s message first.
Happy New Year. Text me when you get back from Paris. I want to see you.
My stomach flips. Before I can overthink it, I text back.
Happy New Year to you. Still firming up Paris plans. More soon.
I type an xo, but I delete it before sending and move on to Marla’s message, which completely deflates my good mood.
Happy New Year, Hannah. Just wanted you to know that I won’t be home tonight. It’s not what you think. M.
It’s not what you think.
Okay.
What am I supposed to think when Jesse was all over her last night at the party playing grab-a-boob?
On second thought, I don’t want to know.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
At least she’s okay. She let me know she wouldn’t be home. She stepped out of her own little world long enough to consider that I might worry if she didn’t show up. Part of me is happy I didn’t have to share a bed with her after all.
She’s a grown woman who can do what she wants.
A grown woman who has slept with a lot of men.
But until now, none of them were my friends.
It’s embarrassing when your mother’s indiscretions are ripe for post-party gossip.
I should’ve insisted that she and I stay home.
Then again, if I hadn’t gone to the party, I wouldn’t have run into Aiden.
I go downstairs and make a cup of coffee, which I take into the bathroom with me, setting it on the vanity next to my phone while I turn on the shower tap.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge with wet hair wrapped in a towel. I’ve pulled on a cozy exercise outfit, though no exercise is on today’s agenda. I have more important matters to tend to, such as finding Marla a place to stay tonight.
What if she wants to stay with Jesse?
I suppose the remedy to that is to get her to Paris to check out this apartment as soon as possible. Maybe this has all been some sick exercise in reverse psychology. I wouldn’t put it past her.
As I’m heading toward the kitchen, she startles me with an exuberant “Good morning,” and I almost scream.
I press my finger to my lips to silence her and say, “Shhhhh, Cressida and T are still sleeping.”
Her mouth forms a perfect O and she covers it with her hand. “Sorry,” she stage-whispers.
“You didn’t come home last night. How did you get in the flat this morning?”
“The front door was unlocked.”
“What? Why was it unlocked?” I demand.
“Shhhh,” she says. “People are sleeping. I wasn’t the one who left it unlocked. Don’t yell at me.”
I make a mental note to remind C and T to be more careful.
Marla opens the refrigerator and peruses the contents. “Do you have any cream?”
She’s wearing those ridiculous glasses again this morning. I can’t see her eyes, and her curly auburn hair is frizzy. She looks rumpled and pale after her walk of shame.
I imagine it’s a snapshot into her Squelching Wellies days.
“Cream? In the little blue-and-yellow pitcher.”
“It’s empty.”
“Well, then we must be out. There might be some skim milk in there.”
She tsks her disappointment. “Why bother? All skim does is water down your coffee.” She makes herself a cup and leaves it black, then opens the cupboard and helps herself to the rest of Cressida’s Biscoff cookies.
I’m not even trying to hide how annoyed I am that she doesn’t have the good grace to look contrite about sleeping with Jesse.
Per usual, she’s oblivious.
“Do you have to wear your sunglasses in the house?”
“Why does it bother you so much?” She pulls them off and flings them onto the island. “You are cranky this morning. Did things not work out with that guy?”
I blink at her non sequitur, though I know she’s talking about Aiden.
“What are you talking about?”
“The guy you were with last night. The one you kissed at midnight.”
She saw us kiss?
I don’t want to share details about Aiden with Marla.
Right now, it still feels magical, full of possibility, and I want to savor that feeling for as long as it lasts. Because with my dating history, it usually doesn’t.
It would probably be wise for me to get through this Paris ordeal with my mother before I even think of seeing him again.
If he was serious about seeing me again. All I know about him at this point is that he was born and raised in Edinburgh and came to London to attend culinary school.
If I put off calling him, I hope time doesn’t turn him into The Ghoster.
Or would that make me The Ghoster since I’d be the one who didn’t call?
I don’t know.
Should dating be this complicated?
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with him,” Marla says as she pulls out a stool and sits at the island. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. It wasn’t a date.”
“But you kissed him! Oh God—was he bad in bed? Because life is too short for—”
“No! I didn’t sleep with him. Unlike you, I don’t sleep with every man I meet.”
She flinches like I’ve slapped her in the face, and I’m glad for it. A woman who was sleeping with so many men that she doesn’t even know who fathered her child has no right to act injured. I turn my back on her and put another pod in the Nespresso machine.
“I’m not like that anymore, Hannah.”
I turn around and face her. For once, she looks me in the eyes. Her bruise is fading, but it still overrides my common sense and makes me feel sorry for her.
“I made a vow when I left for Paris—when I left Don—that this would be a time for me. A brand-new start. You know, a chance to get my life together. And maybe even right a few wrongs.”
I wonder if she’s talking about our relationship, but I don’t ask. I’m not that needy. She should know. It’s one of the few things she taught me. Don’t make yourself vulnerable and you won’t get hurt.
“And you lasted, what? Twenty-four hours?” I say. “Or was it even that long? Let’s see—what time did your flight leave Orlando?”
“That’s rude.” She looks offended, but I know her game.
“Marla, I want to believe that you’re serious about making a fresh start in Paris, but it’s hard when you spend the night with a guy you met on your first night in London.”
She’s staring into her coffee like it’s whiskey and she’s drowning her sorrows.
Good. She should look remorseful. What kind of a mother shows up unannounced, invites herself to a party with her daughter’s friends, and then stays out all night with a guy who is half her age?
My mother—that’s who. She will never change.
Marla laughs, but it’s dry and humorless. “You think I slept with Jesse, don’t you? Is that what this is all about?” She clucks and rolls her eyes. “Oh, Hannah. Give me a little credit. Jesse could be my son.”
“Look, I don’t care. You do you, Marla, but don’t look me in the eyes and tell me you’re changing your ways when you’re doing exactly what you’ve always done.”
/> “It must be nice to be so perfect,” Marla mutters.
“I never claimed to be perfect. I just don’t put on pretenses and turn around and do exactly what I swore off.”
Marla sits up ramrod straight in her chair, lifts her chin a notch, and purses her lips, which are rimmed with the stain of last night’s lipstick and liner.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
This is another one of Marla’s go-to tactics. If you can’t snow them, guilt them.
“Jesse just broke up with his girlfriend,” she says.
I laugh. “Is that what he told you? Jesse doesn’t have girlfriends. He’s a player, Marla. He sold you a load of BS to get you into bed.”
“Nope. He was hurting. His girlfriend was at the party with another guy.”
“Okay. Whatever. I don’t care.”
I turn away from her and take out bread for toast. I’m not hungry, but I need something to do.
“Maybe I’m saying it wrong,” Marla says. “She wasn’t exactly Jesse’s girlfriend, but he had been seeing someone and he’d really fallen for her. It’s someone you know, as a matter of fact. He had feelings for her, but she didn’t feel the same. He was crushed and he needed someone to talk to. So, yes, I was at his apartment last night, and we stayed up talking until five a.m., but then we fell asleep on the couch. With our clothes on.”
My mother stays out all night and the next morning she’s trying to justify it like a teenager attempting to convince a parent there were no boys at the sleepover. I have no idea if what she’s saying is true. I don’t care. Well, I do, but I don’t want to.
I push two slices of bread into the toaster. “I know her? This woman who supposedly crushed Jesse’s soul?”
Marla lifts her chin again, smiling as if daring me to speculate.
I know I’m playing right into her hand, but I ask, “Who is it?”
She nods, and her eyes sparkle as she leans forward, resting her chin on her fist. “Guess.”
Lost in Paris Page 6