“Oh, I don’t know. Probably not. More likely, he was wondering who the two crazy chicks were prowling around outside his house. He probably didn’t like it that we were playing around with the intercom button. I never could resist a dare, though.”
Marla smiles at me.
“Okay then, I dare you to go back and talk to him,” says Cressida. “Better yet, I dare you to sleep with him.”
Marla laughs and stands. She takes her teacup to the sink.
“That might be tough, because it looks like Marla and I are moving to Paris,” I intervene, hoping to steer Marla away from temptation. “At least temporarily.”
Cressida gapes at me.
“Are you moving into the apartment?” Cressida asks.
I nod. “Em is letting me start an expat art-and-literary tour in Paris.”
“That’s wonderful,” cries Marla. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I know,” I say. “We were preoccupied with creeping on Martin Gaynor.”
“Hannah, I’m so proud of you,” Marla says. “That’s a promotion for you, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.”
“And it’s a long time coming and so well deserved,” says Cressida. “Brava!”
Marla and I bring her up to speed on the apartment, the diaries, and the manuscript.
Cressida gasps and claps and peppers us with questions, which, at this point, we’re not prepared to answer, because there are still a lot of things we don’t know.
“I will continue to pay rent here, of course. I won’t leave you high and dry.”
“You’re such a love, Hannah, but that won’t be necessary. You’ll have enough on your plate getting yourself moved and settled in Paris and starting the tour there.”
“Yeah, but I’d like to keep this place as a safety net until I’m sure the Paris tour works out. If it doesn’t, I’ll be back.”
Makeup-free, with her blonde hair piled high in a messy bun on top of her head, Cressida sighs. “Not to worry. T and I won’t be in the market for a new flatmate anytime soon. How could we ever replace you?”
A lump forms in my throat as I think about starting over. Sure, the tour is a good opportunity, but it seems the older I get, the more difficult it is to make new friends like Tallu and Cressida. The three of us came together so naturally it’s difficult to imagine that happening again in Paris, especially given the language barrier and my new workload.
“We should have a dinner party,” says Cressida.
“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” I say. Even though my schedule is a bit freeform right now, I have a lot of work ahead of me and I don’t want to take advantage of Cressida’s and T’s good natures by imposing a fourth roommate on them for more than a night.
“Well, then, we shouldn’t waste any time. Let’s do it tonight.”
This. This spontaneity right here is one of the things I’ll miss the most about living with my girls.
“Okay. If you’re sure. I think a dinner party sounds fun,” I say. “What can I do?”
“You leave it all up to me,” says Cressida. “You and Marla will be the guests of honor as we celebrate your new Paris adventure. I’ll text Tallu. We’ll get it sorted while you two make yourself scarce and come back at…” She looks at her Cartier Tank watch. “Be back at six o’clock sharp, ready to celebrate.”
I go into my room and pack some things to take to Paris since I’ll be there for the foreseeable future. I’ll have the rest of my belongings shipped after I know the new tour will work out. But really, what I want to do right now is go back to the office and talk more with Em about the venture.
I hate to leave Marla on her own, but she’ll be unsupervised after we move in together and I’m at work so she might as well get used to it. I find her in the living room reading a magazine. “Han, if you don’t mind, I have an errand to run. I’ll see you back here at six, okay?”
Problem solved.
I take a dress, boots, and my makeup bag with me to the office because Cressida gives fair warning that we will not be allowed back in the house until six o’clock as we are the guests of honor and she wants to surprise us.
Then I grab the bus to the office.
It’s cold outside and the windows are fogging up. Still, as the bus rattles to a stop to pick up more passengers, I know that Aiden’s restaurant, Lemon and Lavender, is located down the street on the next block.
I wonder if Cressida will invite him tonight. It’s such short notice; he’s probably working. I revisit my dilemma of whether or not I should ring him now that I know that I’ll be living in Paris. I mean, really, what’s the point?
Even so, I use the sleeve of my coat to wipe off the condensation on the window to get a better look. It’s a gray, misty day and I see what I expected: knots of people gathered on the corner waiting for the signal to cross. Others are chancing a jaywalk. One man wearing a black hoodie sprints toward the bus.
If I squint my eyes, I can pretend it’s Aiden. That he makes it just in time. Our eyes meet as he climbs the steps, breathing heavily after his run. He smiles and claims the empty seat next to me, saying, “We must stop meeting like this.”
But when the straggler enters the bus, I see it’s not a man. It’s a rather surly-looking woman. She grunts at the driver and takes a seat toward the front. As we pull away from the stop, the seat next to me is still empty and so are any Lemon and Lavender hopes of seeing Aiden again.
July 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
Tuesday afternoon, when I got home from my first day at the boulangerie, a bouquet of the most beautiful peonies I’ve ever seen was waiting for me with a note that said Andres would call on me Friday at 7:00.
For the past three days, the minutes masqueraded as hours, the days lingered like months, as I passed the time until I could see him again. I had no idea where we were going or what we would be doing, but I didn’t care. I would go anywhere with him… or I could be content doing nothing at all. As long as we are together.
Since I didn’t have the money to whip up a new dress for the occasion, I decided to distract myself by jazzing up one of my old frocks, embroidering beaded flowers on the collar and cuffs. It’s tedious work, but it occupies my mind and keeps my hands busy.
When Helen saw how I’d transformed the garment, she proclaimed the dress looked brand-new, as if I’d paid a fortune for it.
She said I should march myself back to Mademoiselle Chanel’s and show my work to Madame Jeanneau. Helen was sure the old crone would beg me to come work for her.
Helen’s sweet belief in me made me smile. I think I will be perfectly happy working my shift at the boulangerie and furthering my own designs for now. Perhaps someday I will give Chanel a run for her money.
Finally, Friday arrived! When Andres knocked at my door, he regarded me with that same dreamy smile that swept me off my feet the first time I saw him at Miss Stein’s salon.
It turned out he was taking me to another salon. This one was at the home of an American poet, Natalie Barney, who lives on rue Jacob.
I hesitated, hoping that he had not misunderstood who I am. I told him I am not a writer or an artist in the traditional sense of the word. I attended Miss Stein’s salon as Pierre’s guest.
Andres made a sound deep in his throat at the mention of Pierre’s name.
To lighten the mood, I asked him if Miss Barney would exile me to the women’s table like Miss Stein. He laughed and assured me Miss Barney’s gatherings were very welcoming to ladies.
When we arrived, Zelda Fitzgerald was the first person to greet us. Just as she had at Dingo Bar, she rose up on tiptoes and kissed Andres on both cheeks, gushing about what a handsome devil he was. Then she smiled at me and commented that Andres and I were becoming an item.
Zelda Fitzgerald is a flirt, but I rather like her. Despite her spirited ways, she’s obviously devoted to Scott. When the two are together, they light up the room. I can’t take my eyes off them, and wh
at’s more is the lengths to which they go to capture the other’s attention. I still can’t decide if it is a beautiful, elaborate display of love or sheer madness.
Probably both.
I am beginning to believe that an otherwise sane and thoughtful person can become intoxicated and seduced by Paris simply by breathing her air.
That’s my excuse, anyway.
When Scott joined our little circle, he greeted us and immediately fell into conversation with Andres. Zelda said usually Scott doesn’t deign himself to attend Natalie Barney’s salon, but tonight a special reading would take place. She pointed out that all the men were there. Except for Hemingway, because he was much too manly a man to join what was usually a ladies’ salon.
I felt comfortable enough to ask what she meant by Ernest not wanting to attend this salon. He was a regular at Miss Stein’s.
Zelda threw back her head and laughed, explaining that Gertrude Stein might have all the female parts, but she was more of a man than most of the boys in Paris and that’s why Hem is so friendly with her.
Apparently Ernest and Pauline are married now. I can’t help but think of that day at Dingo Bar when he’d pulled me away from Pauline and danced me around the place. I still believe he would’ve kissed me on the lips had I not turned my head. I’m sure it was all a game to him. Just as flirting seems to be for Zelda.
I am starting to believe it is the national pastime of Paris.
The biggest surprise of the night—and certainly the sweetest treat—was when Andres recited some of his own writing. I’d never read his work, but now I can’t wait to dive into the small book of French poetry he’d read from at the salon and given to me at the end of the evening.
My heart is full. I have slipped under his spell.
Seventeen
January 8, 2019—5:45 p.m.
London, England
I leave the Heart to Heart office with a game plan.
We will call the Paris tour Les Années Folles. It means “the crazy years,” a term coined to describe the rich social, artistic, and cultural changes happening in Paris in the 1920s. Even though I haven’t yet read through all of Ivy’s diary entries, I am certain they will come in handy.
Borrowing a page from the Tenement Museum in New York City, I will make Ivy the central figure and tour guests will follow her as she grows from British immigrant to bohemian woman living the expatriate life in Paris, rubbing elbows with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, and Sylvia Beach.
I’ll keep the itinerary a short two days at first, during which we’ll visit as many of the Lost Generation haunts as we can, such as Dingo Bar, Gertrude Stein’s home, Shakespeare and Company, Café de Flore, and the Ritz.
I have my work cut out for me, but for now, I’m excited to press pause and enjoy my going-away party.
At the office, I changed into the dress I brought, touched up my makeup, and hailed a cab so I wouldn’t have to endure the long, lumbering bus ride home. It’s a little splurge I feel I owe myself as I embark on this new path.
When I arrive at the flat, night has already settled over Albert Street. The golden light glowing in the front windows reminds me of New Year’s Eve when I got home and discovered Marla here. It’s hard to believe how things have changed in a week. It feels like years.
Which reminds me: I wonder if Marla is home yet.
The moment I open the door, I’m greeted by the aroma of something delicious—garlicky, savory, utterly divine. My stomach growls in appreciation as I shut the door behind me. I shrug out of my coat and hang it in the hall closet before I enter the living room.
Édith Piaf is crooning “La Vie en Rose” from the speakers. I see that Cressida and T have decorated with dozens of tiny twinkling Eiffel Tower lights strung from one corner of the dining room to the other, crossing in the middle. I have no idea where they found them on such short order, but they are fabulous.
I breathe through a sudden, unexpected pang of premature homesickness.
I hear muffled conversation, the sound of a champagne cork popping, and a wave of laughter. I move to the kitchen and stand in the doorway. For a few beats, I see my friends—Cressida, Jemma, and Tallu—before they see me. Cressida has invited Danny, but there’s no sign of Jesse, much to my relief.
I know I’m not saying goodbye to this place or these people forever, but I want to imprint this moment on my memory forever—the convivial sounds, the delicious aromas, the good energy that flows like the champagne they’re pouring.
Then Aiden comes out of the pantry carrying a bag of onions, and my heart lurches. Dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, he’s even cuter than I remember. His longish dark hair and pale skin give him the appeal of a bad boy, only he’s anything but.
He’s the first to spy me.
“There she is,” he says, his Scottish brogue making the words sound as rich as foie gras and a hundred times more delectable. Cressida, Jemma, and T turn and greet me with gusto augmented by multiple flutes of bubbly.
“Here’s your going-away present,” Cressida says, gesturing to Aiden like a game show model. “Aiden has agreed to cook dinner. Isn’t that fabulous?”
The butterflies in my stomach are borderline painful.
He sets down the onions and brushes off his hands, but he doesn’t move to close the distance between us. Of course, there’s also a kitchen island and four people blocking the way. Still, I notice something a little reserved in his eyes.
Maybe I should’ve told him I was in town before Cressida and T broke the news. But I assumed he’d be at Lemon and Lavender tonight, and I’m leaving tomorrow to return to Paris indefinitely.
“I figured since I couldn’t get you to come to the restaurant anytime soon, I’d better bring the feast to you. A moveable feast seems fitting since you’re leaving us for Paris.”
The butterflies swarm.
“That’s clever, Aiden. Thank you.”
He smiles and begins peeling an onion.
“Is Marla back yet?” I ask.
“Oh, I thought maybe she met you at the office after doing her errand?” Cressida says.
I shake my head. “No, I was there all afternoon. She didn’t stop by.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” T says. She hands me a glass of champagne. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us, Han.”
I’m overcome by a sudden rush of shyness as I feel Aiden’s gaze on me. Then Jemma gets up from her seat at the island and offers him one of two shots of tequila she’s poured, which he waves off. She proceeds to down both and whispers something in his ear.
She looks pretty tonight, rocking a 1920s vibe with her jet-black hair cut into a sleek bob with bangs. Her flawless porcelain skin is the perfect canvas for her smoky eyes and bloodred lipstick.
He’s at least a foot taller than Jemma. She looks tiny standing next to him as he smiles down at her. He offers her a taste of whatever it is that smells so good on the stove. She puts one hand on his bicep and the other over her heart, closes her eyes, and moans.
“Oh, Aiden. Oh my God. Mmmmm… What is this? It’s better than sex.”
Everyone laughs, clearly eager to have what Jemma’s having, but Cressida quips, “Jemma, obviously you’re sleeping with the wrong people.”
Jemma holds onto Aiden’s arm with both hands and gazes up at him. “That’s just occurring to me.”
Puh-lease. I have no right to be bothered by Jemma’s innuendo, but I can’t help it.
“It’s just simple beef bourguignon.” Aiden slants a glance at me and looks a little embarrassed for Jemma. “I figured a good, hearty French stew would be the perfect dinner on this cold night before we send Hannah off to Paris.”
Jemma is Cressida’s friend. T and I have gotten to know her through Cres, but we’ve always found her to be somewhat of an enigma. Nice enough, but distant.
As Jemma and Aiden stand together at the stove, it’s clear they would make a beautiful couple.
&n
bsp; I have this premonition of getting an invitation to their wedding.
Just like what happened with Charlie. Only this time, the talk would be about how Jemma and Aiden had been friends and neighbors until that night that changed everything. Jemma would coo from her place at the bridal table, “It was his beef bourguignon. One taste and I knew I couldn’t live without him. Just think, if he hadn’t cooked that going-away dinner for Hannah, I might never have tasted true love.”
The guests would sigh and clap and tap their champagne flutes with silverware until the couple kissed.
Then Aiden would tut. “We would’ve found our way to each other eventually. Nothing can stop true love, but here’s to Hannah for speeding things up, and here’s to Cressida for getting the matchmaking wrong again.”
It occurs to me that I’ve never given Charlie a name for the Date From Hell Hall of Fame. He was more long-term than the others, but he still deserves the dubious honor. Let’s go with The Heartbreaker, since he broke up with me out of the blue after we’d been together for three years and then disappeared from my life until a save-the-date card arrived in the mail six months later.
What would Aiden’s Hall of Fame name be? Not The Ghoster, since he’s here tonight. The Chef? Hard to say since he hasn’t really done anything wrong.
“I’m here. I’m here. So sorry I’m late.” Marla’s words yank me out of my thoughts. She rushes into the kitchen at a half jog, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. Her red curls look wind tousled and her cheeks are flushed.
“I meant to be back an hour ago, but, well… you know how it goes.”
I’ve never been so happy to see her in my life. It’s such a strange feeling, but she’s a welcome distraction from what’s cooking between Aiden and Jemma. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what kept her, but she’s going on about the London traffic with the group, and really, it’s not my business where she’s been or what she was doing. Just like Jemma and Aiden aren’t my concern.
Still, I wish I understood what changed between them over the past week. On New Year’s Eve, Cressida was certain that Aiden Zedrick was my soul mate, and I was open to the possibility. Now Jemma is all but humping his leg. I mean, it’s fine, but I don’t get it. If Jemma had prior claim—if something had been brewing between the two of them—I wish Cressida would’ve told me. Even better, I wish she wouldn’t have invited him here tonight.
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