Then Jemma leans in and whispers in Aiden’s ear again.
This sucks.
I turn my back on them—literally—and try to fall into the conversation about traffic that’s still somehow going strong. If I’d been wistful about leaving London to relocate to Paris twenty minutes ago, I’m not now.
* * *
THE DINNER IS DELICIOUS.
We start with a mesclun salad with goat cheese, pumpkin seeds, yellow beets, and a traditional vinaigrette, then move to French onion soup followed by the beef bourguignon with plenty of crusty French bread that Aiden baked himself. Of course, the wine is flowing and everyone has had too much.
Jemma is seated to Aiden’s left, and I’m on his right. Earlier, I caught her switching the place cards that Cressida had set out.
T had originally been in the place that Jemma claimed.
I’m surprised Jem didn’t move me, which makes me wonder if she’s aware of the plans that Cressida had for Aiden and me. If she didn’t know, that would make things slightly more forgivable, but still disappointing.
Since I sat toward the center of the table, I was drawn into many different conversations and mercifully didn’t have to rely on small talk with Aiden.
To be honest, I was too busy talking and eating to notice whether Jemma clung to him during dinner or if she spoke to anyone else.
Even though it’s after eleven by the time we finish dinner, we decide to go to a club called Fugue and dance. I’m not in the mood, but everyone else is so enthusiastic I don’t have the heart to be the lone stick-in-the-mud. This is the last time in a long while that I’ll be able to go out with my friends, so I might as well make the most of it.
When we go out en masse, everyone dances in a big group. It’s fun—cathartic, really.
We tumble onto the dance floor and move with abandon. The DJ is playing remixed eighties pop. Tallu and Marla are dancing with their arms over their heads. Cressida is twirling like a dervish, miraculously not bumping into anyone—or if she does, they don’t seem to mind. Danny is doing a hipster dance with economic, but effective movements.
And surprise, surprise, Jemma is hanging all over Aiden, looking quite unsteady on her feet.
She stumbles back a few steps off the dance floor and knocks into a blonde girl, making her spill her drink.
The blonde looks pissed—in the American sense of the word.
Aiden leans into my ear. “I’m going to buy that woman another drink. Will you look after Jemma? She’s tanked up. I’ll get her some water while I’m at it. Would you like something?”
What I’d really like is to know what’s going on with you and Jemma.
“Some water would be great, thanks.”
He disappears into the crowd, and Jemma starts to trail after him. Taking my babysitting job seriously, I redirect her to an empty banquette.
We’re all pretty lit, but that’s when I notice how wasted Jemma is.
Her eyes are unfocused and she’s swaying in her seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, touching her arm to steady her.
“I want to go home,” she moans.
She starts to stand but flops right back down on the banquette.
“My legs don’t work,” she slurs. “Watch.”
Again, she tries to stand with the same result. This time she puts her head in her hands.
“Jemma, are you okay?” She doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“I can’t tell. The room is spinning too fast. I don’t think I can find the loo.”
I try to help her to her feet, intending to walk her to the bathroom, but she’s deadweight. I know we’ll never make it.
“Ugh—oh no—” she moans.
I know what’s about to happen. “I need your bucket,” I shout to a group of guys at the table next to us.
I can’t wait for them to comprehend my request, so I grab the bucket full of ice that’s been cooling multiple bottles of beer. I’m barely able to dump the remaining bottles and ice on the floor amidst their angry protests before I shove the bucket in front of Jemma’s face—just in the nick of time.
The owners of the beer go from gripes to gasps of awe and delighted disgust.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll get you a clean ice bucket.”
“No problem,” says one of the guys, watching Jemma sit with her head over the sullied one. “Bloody fast reflexes.”
“It would’ve been down Stu’s back,” says another.
“We’ll get ourselves a fresh one,” says the guy named Stu. “You’ve got your hands full.”
A moment later, Aiden delivers the drink to the blonde and returns with two waters.
“Someone needs to take her home,” I say, accepting the cold bottle.
“I will,” Aiden says. “I live near her, and I need to go anyway. I have an early meeting.”
“Do you need help?” I ask, not sure what I’m offering. Maybe just a chance to have some time with him.
“Thanks, but I’ll grab a cab, get her settled in, and then I’ll walk home from her place. It’s not far. Only a few blocks.”
We stand there, the awkwardness pulsing between us as strong as the electronic music.
“Thanks for the dinner, Aiden. It was delicious.”
“My pleasure. I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together.”
I nod.
“Good luck with your new venture, Hannah. I’ll call you.”
Right. I wish he hadn’t said that as I watch him walk away—probably forever—with Jemma draped all over him.
July 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
Andres was waiting for me when I got off work today. He said he wanted to take me somewhere special. He was so exuberant that I had to argue with him before he would give me a moment to fix my hair and my face and put on a clean dress after my shift at the boulangerie.
Before I knew it, he had whisked me away to the most delightful little bookshop on rue de l’Odéon. It is called Shakespeare and Company and it sells English books. I felt as if I had fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in London.
It was magnificent.
The shop window showcased dozens of volumes of Andres’s book, Un Homme de Parole, and I could hardly tear myself away from the beauty of the display to enter the shop. It suddenly hit me that he was someone important.
I kept saying, “Andres, that is you. That is your novel.”
He nodded proudly and said that both he and James Joyce, among others, owed their start to the generous woman inside the shop whom he was most anxious for me to meet.
We entered the stuffy shop and a thin American woman with dense, wavy brown hair the color of a mink stood and greeted us.
Andres introduced her as Sylvia Beach, the shop’s proprietress, and she greeted me so warmly I at once felt at home and as if I had made a new friend.
The shop was as warm as she was with its stately wooden furniture and shelves upon shelves of books. In the rare place a bookshelf did not claim a wall, beguiling paintings and drawings decorated the space.
Before I could look around much, Sylvia asked me what I enjoyed reading. I must admit being put on the spot like that caused my mind to go blank. I couldn’t recall a single author I had recently enjoyed. All I could think of was Vogue magazine. That seemed so plebeian. So common. Not that I should pretend to be someone I am not. But I want to be worthy of Andres and I feared such an answer might embarrass not only me, but him as well.
Then I recalled Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby and told her I was dying to read it. Before I knew it, Sylvia was pressing a copy into my hands, telling me to take it with me. I hesitated because I had not thought to bring money with me; I had been in such a rush to leave the apartment with Andres.
However, when I tried to hand the book back to her, she wouldn’t take it. She told me I could borrow it. If I liked it and wanted to own it, I could pay her later. If I didn’t think it worthy of my libr
ary, I could simply return it at no cost. No questions asked.
I must remember to embroider a bookmark for her to express my gratitude.
I can’t wait to dig into Gatsby so I have something to talk to Zelda about next time I see her.
Eighteen
January 9, 2019—10:30 a.m.
Paris, France
It’s a glorious day for January. Chilly enough for a jacket but pleasant enough for a good long walk. It’s as if Paris has donned her finest to welcome us back.
Armed with a guidebook and a list of points of interest based on Ivy’s diaries, we head to the left bank. Starting at Shakespeare and Company bookstore, we walk to 20 rue Jacob, the home of the American playwright, poet, and novelist Natalie Clifford Barney, who used to hold salons in the same vein as Gertrude Stein’s. From there, we find our way to Stein’s own famous residence at 27 rue de Fleurus. Along the way, we pass by rue de Buci in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, a buzzy place with cafés and open markets where vendors sell everything from boutique clothing and flowers to cheese and meats, fruits, vegetables, and olives. We stop by Dingo Bar, La Closerie des Lilas, and the brasserie Les Deux Magots—one of Ivy’s favorite lunch spots.
I try to imagine my great-grandmother walking these streets, making Paris her own. What I wouldn’t give for her to be here now, giving us this tour. More than that, I wish I understood why she thought she had to keep this part of her life a secret from Marla and Gram.
On the way home, we walk along the left bank of the Seine, through the part that is crowded with merchants who sell used and antiquarian books. I’ve recently learned they’re called bouquinistes.
“I think I should bring them here,” I say, gesturing to the stalls. “The green boxes on the walls with all the books have UNESCO status.”
Marla answers me with a blank stare. It dawns on me that she’s a good person to bounce my ideas off of because if she gets it or is entertained, then the average person probably would be, too.
That’s not meant as a slight to her. I fully own the fact that I am a book nerd. Not everyone gets excited about bouquinistes or UNESCO World Heritage designations, and I want this tour to be interesting for everyone.
“Do you know what that means?” I ask.
She shrugs and focuses even more intently on the souvenirs laid out before her in one of the stalls.
“I’m not judging you,” I say in my most nonjudgmental voice.
“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t. But go ahead. What is so great about these bookanistas? Are they the nerdy sisters of the fashionistas?”
She snickers at her own joke, picks up an old book, and thumbs through it.
“It’s not bookanista. It’s pronounced boo-kee-neest,” I enunciate.
“And you said you’re not judging me.” Marla snorts. “I see.”
She returns the book and moves on down the line of vendors.
“I want to know if you understand,” I say as I trail after her. “I need to know if the content for this tour makes sense. I’m asking for your opinion.”
She turns to me and her face softens. “Okay, try me.”
“Really?” I ask.
She nods.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “I read last night that these bookstalls have been here for more than five hundred years. There are about nine hundred of these green boxes in the designated areas on both sides of the river.” I rap on the top of one, which is raised to create a canopy. Behind it, I can see Notre-Dame Cathedral.
Marla lifts a brow. “Hmm. That’s interesting. That’s a long time.”
“Exactly! Think about it. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and Pound used to walk right where we’re walking and look at the wares like we are right now, searching for books of other authors or maybe even their own work.”
“That works,” Marla says. “Especially if you drive home the fact that the writers used to come here. You could tell them to squint their eyes and pretend like it’s 1927.”
“That’s a great idea.”
For a moment, Marla and I stand side by side, squinting at the people milling about. Some are bartering with the vendors; others have their noses in a book.
“You might want to explain the Costco thing a little better,” she says.
“The what?”
“You said they had some kind of Costco designation.”
It takes everything I have not to laugh. I put my hand over my mouth. Marla looks confused.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s UNESCO, not Costco. That means the United Nations designated this area and its green boxes as a World Heritage site. This area is considered a protected landmark.”
Marla raises her brows. I’m determined to keep her interested.
“Someone, I don’t know who, said the Seine is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.”
“That’s cute. I think your tour people would be interested in knowing that. But just a little bit of constructive input? You might want to enunciate a little better. I could’ve sworn you said Costco.”
Or maybe she wasn’t listening.
“Look, I’m just saying.” Marla crosses her arms. “I’m not suggesting you dumb it down, but don’t make people feel stupid by using hoity-toity terms like booka… booka—”
“Boo-kee-neest.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
I say, “There’s nothing wrong with not knowing something as long as you’re open to learning.”
She stays quiet.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t know any of this until I started researching it for the tour.”
“Hmm.” She’s flipping through a stack of vintage postcards. “Maybe it’s not so much what you say, Hannah, but how you say it.”
It’s a bitter pill, but I pause to swallow it.
Before I can respond, Marla holds up a small blue box that she’s picked up from one of the stalls.
“Look at this,” she says.
The picture on the front of the package looks like a daily desk calendar. The type you rip the pages off every day to reveal something new.
Marla takes the plastic tray out of the box and begins thumbing through and laughing to herself.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s a French phrase-a-day calendar.” She flips another page. “I was thinking it might be a good way to learn to speak French. We could make a point of working the phrases into our daily conversation. You might even share a French phrase with your tour. Like this one: Le trajet en voiture ne prend que trente minutes. It means, ‘The trip by car only takes thirty minutes.’ ”
“How does telling them they could see everything by car in thirty minutes help my business when it’s a walking tour that will last two days?”
“Oh, Hannah, you’re missing the point.” She turns to the woman tending the bookstall and reads from the calendar, “Voulez-vous un peu plus de fromage?”
The woman frowns and looks at Marla like she’s said something vulgar. I’m not quite sure she hasn’t, because her accent is more Central Florida than French.
“What did you say to her?”
“Would you like more cheese?” She holds up the calendar and points, looking proud of herself. “That’s what it says right here.”
“Souhaitez-vous acheter le calendrier, madame?” asks the bookstall woman.
Marla’s head swivels toward me. “What did she say?”
“I think she asked you if you would like to purchase the calendar.”
Marla turns to the vendor and smiles. “Yes, please. I would love to buy it.”
After she completes the transaction, we walk along the quay. Marla is like a kid with a new toy, flipping through and trying out random phrases.
“Veuillez double cliquer pour accéder au menu. That means, ‘Please double-click to access the menu.’ ”
She laughs, clearly delighted. “Voilà
une belle salade de tomates,” she says with a flourish. “Here is a beautiful tomato salad.”
I laugh at the absurdity. I can’t help it.
“Oh wait—look. Here’s one that really would be useful for you: N’oubliez pas de donner un pourboire au guide touristique.”
“I have no idea what you just said. Your accent is incredibly terrible.”
“I said, ‘Don’t forget to tip the tour guide.’ ”
“Okay, that one was good.”
She cocks her head to the side and holds her finger in the air like a know-it-all. Then she shoves the little calendar back into its box and tucks it away in her purse.
We walk along in silence for a few minutes.
“I’ll need to get a job since I’m moving here.”
“You might want to talk to Monsieur Levesque about that. I’m not sure what’s involved in getting a visa.”
“How did you do it?” she asks. “It seems like you’re not having to jump through any hoops to work here.”
“That’s the beauty of working for Emma. Her tour company is well established. She cut through the red tape so I could work in England, and she’ll do the same thing here in Paris.”
“Well, why couldn’t she pull some strings for me? Think about it, Hannah. Couldn’t you use an assistant? It will be hard for you to run a one-woman office, coordinating and running the tours. Who’s going to answer the phones? I could be your Violet.”
“We have the original Violet in the London home office for that. She can do a lot for me remotely.”
“Okay, but there will be lots of other things to do here. Why do you always think you have to do everything yourself? It’s okay to ask for help.”
As much as I hate to admit it, her words strike a nerve. She all but designed me not to ask for help. She was the one who made me believe that I couldn’t trust anyone. The one who made me afraid to rely on anyone but myself. And, okay, Gram. I could always rely on Gram.
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