Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  He turns and walks away and I follow him.

  As we make our way down the halls, we are intercepted by a pretty brunette dressed in a tight navy blue pencil skirt and white blouse. Her hair is swept up into a French twist. Her lips, which are painted candy red, curve into a smile as Gabriel says something to her in French and hands off the phone.

  Ophelia, I presume. Before Gabriel can introduce her, she disappears obediently down another hallway.

  I follow him in the opposite direction. “Here we are.”

  He stops in front of a paneled mahogany door and gestures for me to enter first.

  His corner office is larger than the whole la Bruyère apartment. It smells of furniture polish and old money. The floors are marble. The decor echoes the cordovan leather and wood of the reception area, but the pieces are antique, not of the matchy-matchy offices-to-go variety. I’m drawn to the window to check out this vantage point.

  “Why is your desk arranged so that your back is to the view?”

  I turn around and see that Gabriel is standing at a credenza, pouring something that looks like Scotch or cognac from a decanter into two lowball glasses.

  He shrugs. “I am so rarely at my desk. When I am, I must concentrate on my work, not the landscape. When I want to enjoy the view, that is when I take the elevator to the observation deck at the top of the building. Take your coat off. It is warm in here. You’ll get overheated.”

  It is a tad warm. As I shrug out of my coat, I wonder if I’ll ever get so used to Paris that the landscape, as he calls it, will become a bore. I hope not. I want the city to keep its magic.

  He crosses the room, hands me one of the glasses, and takes my coat and purse. Since I don’t have my phone, I’m not sure what time it is, but as the saying goes, it’s five o’clock somewhere. When in France, do as the Frenchman with the expensive liqueur does.

  “Let’s sit over here,” Gabriel says. “Le canapé… er, how do you say… the couch takes advantage of the view. I do think you will like it.”

  He drapes my coat over the back of the sofa, sets my purse on top of it, and gestures for me to take a seat.

  I don’t love his use of takes advantage. It reminds me of the night he took advantage of his wife’s absence and almost took advantage of me.

  But this is different. This is his office. Ophelia should be back any minute with the copies and my phone. I realize I feel a little unarmed without the latter.

  Rather than sitting, I stay at the window, admiring the Eiffel Tower in the golden late-afternoon light.

  Gabriel stands beside me, a little too close.

  I take a small step away, pretending to zoom in on something in the distance.

  I rack my brain for a banal touristy question to ask him to keep things friendly, but before I can get the words out, he smooths a strand of hair off my face, trailing his fingers across my cheekbone.

  I flinch, sloshing my drink. “What are you doing?”

  “You are so beautiful, Hannah,” he says.

  I step away to put some space between us. “And you are married, Gabriel. I thought I made myself clear. I’m not interested in married men.”

  He laughs. “You American women do love to play the virtuous good girl, don’t you? Hannah, you don’t need to pretend with me. We both know we want this.”

  He grabs the collar of my blouse and pulls me toward him. The fabric rips.

  In the split second before his lips land on mine, I toss my drink in his face.

  “Fuck!” He backhands my glass and it shatters on the marble floor. “You bitch. Why did you do that?”

  He swipes at the cognac, wiping it off his face, out of his eyes. He blinks rapidly like I’ve blinded him and curses me with guttural French.

  I don’t wait to see what happens next. I grab my coat and purse from the couch, leave the office, and speed-walk down the hallway in the direction of Ophelia. I grab my phone from her without explanation.

  I was hoping the Metro ride home would give me time to collect myself. But after leaving Gabriel’s office, a storm moved in. As I wait for the train, bitter cold seeps into my bones and no matter how tightly I pull my coat around myself, I can’t stop shivering.

  Back at the apartment, Marla takes one look at me and gasps.

  “What happened to your blouse? It’s torn.”

  The smell of simmering chili permeates the air. I feel sick to my stomach as I tell her what happened and brace myself for the onslaught of I told you so’s.

  But they don’t come. Instead, she hugs me and tells me it’s not my fault.

  “From now on,” she says, “we will not communicate with Gabriel Cerny. I don’t care if he is the only person on earth who can get this manuscript authenticated. If that smug son of a bitch so much as looks at you again, I swear a glass of liquor in the face is going to seem like a facial compared to what I’ll throw at him. In fact, I think we should go to the police.”

  I shake my head.

  “He assaulted you, Hannah.”

  “It’s just a torn blouse. He didn’t hurt me—” A sob escapes my throat and I hate myself for being so weak—for so stupidly trusting him. I hate myself even more because I fear that if I do file a police report, the firm will drop us and come collecting with fury. If that happens, we will be forced to sell the apartment to settle.

  If there’s a silver lining to all this, though, for the first time in my life I know without a doubt that my mother has my back.

  I can’t say it’s worth being assaulted, but it’s worth something.

  November 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  After the scene with Pierre and Andres last night, I barely slept a wink, hoping that Andres would come to my door and tell me all was well.

  He did not show up.

  After work today, I was ready to scour the city for him and throw myself at his mercy, because I now know I cannot bear to live without him.

  However, when I entered the apartment after my shift, the first thing I saw was the six portraits Pierre had painted of me lined up along the wall.

  I was utterly confused and more than a little frightened. I wanted to hide them before anyone else could see.

  But the note on the table distracted me.

  My love,

  I purchased the paintings. They are my gift to you. If I have any say, you will never find yourself in the predicament of working for such an insufferable man again. Do I have a say, Ivy?

  Love,

  Andres

  Twenty

  January 11, 2019—7:00 p.m.

  Paris, France

  The day after the incident with Gabriel, I spoke to Monsieur Levesque and told him what had happened. I tossed and turned the night before, feeling sick to my stomach as I debated how much to reveal, but it finally hit me that I am not the guilty party. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

  I told Levesque I would not take the matter to the authorities as long as he assured me that Gabriel Cerny would no longer handle any of our business with the firm.

  He promised he would do one better: we would not be billed for any hours we had worked with Cerny. Levesque also promised to take the issue to the partners.

  Within an hour Levesque called me back with Dr. Campbell’s contact information, and now, a day later, Marla is on a train barreling its way toward London to bring him a copy of the manuscript. We’d ended up biting the bullet and printing photos of each page ourselves at a local print shop.

  Really, we could’ve mailed the copy, but Marla insisted on going in person. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get away for a few days.

  More selfishly, I’d been looking forward to some time by myself. The apartment is beginning to feel like home. There are reminders of Granny Ivy everywhere. It’s nice to be able to sit in stillness surrounded by her belongings and meditate on what she must have been like as a young woman.

  I have settled onto the couch with the 1929 diary when my phone rings. I answe
r it without even looking at the number because I am expecting an update from Marla. She should be arriving at St. Pancras station in London right about now.

  “Hannah, thank God. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Gooseflesh forms on my arms at the sound of the Scottish accent.

  “Aiden, hello. I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. It’s been…” I don’t quite know what to say. It’s been weird. I’ve been busy with work and fending off randy Frenchmen. You’re in London; I’m in Paris—oh, and how’s Jemma?

  “I’m in Paris on business. I know how busy you are, but I hope you have time to see a friend.”

  A friend. I’m not sure if that makes things better or worse.

  “Of course. I’d love to see you. How long are you here?”

  “Just tonight. Are you free for dinner? There’s a fun event I think you might enjoy.”

  We make plans for him to come by the apartment at 7:00 p.m. He was cryptic about the dinner, but it’s something work related and I am to dress in all black. Nothing too fancy, but it must be all black. Head to toe.

  We chat for a while. Long enough for me to pique his curiosity about the apartment. I can’t blame him. I’m still discovering new treasures in this trove.

  Soon, it’s time to get ready.

  After I shower, I can’t find my brush, which I need to blow-dry my hair. It’s odd because I don’t remember removing it from the bathroom. I end up using my fingers because I’ve wasted so much time looking for it that I’m cutting it dangerously close to not being ready when Aiden arrives.

  When I go to brush my teeth, I can’t find my toothbrush.

  My favorite lipstick is missing, too.

  One thing might be misplaced, but three things missing? That’s weird.

  I shoot Marla a quick text.

  Can’t find my hairbrush, toothbrush, and lipstick. Have you seen them?

  No one else has been in the apartment. Maybe she moved them?

  While I’ve been working, she’s done a good job keeping things picked up. We have to be neat since we’re living in such close quarters. I’m surprised by her level of tidiness.

  I wait for her reply, but nothing comes.

  Aiden will be here in ten minutes. I resort to the old toothpaste-on-the-finger trick and gargle with mouthwash.

  As I dress, taking underwear from the dresser, I see the sexy undies I bought in the Galeries Lafayette before dinner with Gabriel. It feels triggering. I push them to the back of the drawer in favor of a pair of granny panties, as Marla lovingly calls my French-cut cotton briefs.

  What does it say about you when your mother’s lingerie drawer whispers boudoir and yours screams big-box store?

  It doesn’t really matter, I think, as I pull on Marla’s little black dress—the same one I wore to Gabriel’s—because I’m not in the habit of showing off my drawers to friends.

  I fish another tube of lipstick out of the bottom of my purse. It’s not my usual color, but it will have to do. I’m swiping it on as Aiden knocks on the door.

  My heartbeat kicks up and I almost smudge.

  Other than the attorneys, photographer, and the cleaning crew, Aiden is my first official guest at the apartment. When I answer the door and see him standing there in all his dark, smoldering glory, I have the same visceral reaction I had the first time I saw him. My heart is still beating like crazy. My mouth goes dry, but my hands get a little damp. I wipe them on the skirt of my dress, a motion that I hope looks like I’m smoothing it into place.

  “Aiden,” I say. “Welcome to Paris.”

  He greets me with a kiss on the cheek and I remember New Year’s Eve… the kiss we shared that seemed like so much more than a friendly peck… the party at Jemma’s house… the way drunk Jemma was all over him at my going-away dinner.

  He wouldn’t call me if something was going on between them, would he?

  Then again, Gabriel was married, and that didn’t stop him.

  “Come in.” I step back and motion for him to enter.

  He smells good. A mixture of soap and leather with notes of green grass and cedar. I breathe in deeply as the sleeve of his jacket brushes my arm, conjuring the goose bumps all over again.

  Where is my resolve to not go all weak-kneed over this friend?

  “You can hang your jacket on the coat tree.”

  As he slips out of it, I say, “See the coat hanging there? It was here when we first opened the apartment doors. You should’ve seen it. It was covered with cobwebs and dust. We sent it out to have it cleaned and then returned it to its original place. It seemed only right to keep things as my great-grandmother left them.”

  Aiden shakes his head, clearly still astounded. “Quite a story you’ve got here.”

  “Well, Marla and I are still piecing things together, but I suppose it’s not every day that you discover an apartment in Paris that’s been in your family for generations that you never knew about.”

  He smiles and follows me into the living room.

  When we stop in the middle of the room, he looks around and whistles.

  “Wow. This is amazing. And it’s all yours?”

  “Well, mine and Marla’s. I have photos of what the place looked like when we first arrived, before we had it cleaned. Would you like to see?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Have a seat.”

  As he settles himself onto the sofa, I go to the desk and pull out the large manila envelope that holds copies of the before-and-after photos.

  The difference is astounding.

  “Is it all right if I sit here? I feel like I’m in a museum. Like I shouldn’t touch anything.”

  “I know; I still feel that way and we’ve been here awhile. Here we go. Before and after.”

  I hand him the photos. Even though the shot of the apartment before it was cleaned is a color photograph, it almost looks black-and-white on account of the ash and dust. It looks like something out of a movie set—Sleeping Beauty or a film about an abandoned and long-forgotten house.

  Only this is real life.

  “I guess you don’t really need the photos that were taken after the cleaning crew worked its magic since you’re sitting right here. Why don’t you let me give you a tour?”

  I show him through the rooms—the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and the living room and foyer, which he’s already seen. It doesn’t take us very long, but he listens reverently as I point out the apartment’s finer features. I note that the only change Marla and I have made is swapping out the old mattress for two air mattresses, which we then replaced with twin beds after we returned from London.

  “It’s challenging sharing a bedroom with my mother, but this is how it will be until we figure things out.”

  “That’s a lot of togetherness.”

  I exaggerate a nod.

  “Speaking of, where is Marla?”

  I tell him about the manuscript and Marla insisting on heading up that mission.

  “Wow. I’d say you do have a couple of things going on in your life. Are you going to announce the find to the public? It could bring a lot of attention to your new tour.”

  “I suppose we will when we have some concrete answers. But right now, there’s too much happening to factor in the curious public. By the way, what kind of business brings you to Paris?” I ask, worried I’ve been rambling.

  “Food business, of course. And the dinner we’re going to have tonight.”

  “It’s the food capital of the world.” Wait, is it? I should stick with subjects I know. “How did things turn out with Jemma?”

  He seems puzzled by the non sequitur.

  “The night I was in town. After the dinner you cooked and we all went out dancing.”

  “Oh.” He shrugs noncommittally. “I’m guessing she was spectacularly hungover the next day.”

  “You haven’t spoken to her since?”

  “No. Why? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m guessing it is. I just though
t…”

  I feel ridiculous having brought it up.

  He laughs. “What is it?”

  “She seemed a little… how do I say it?”

  “I don’t know, Hannah. Maybe you should just say it?”

  “Interested in you.”

  “Interested in me?”

  “Never mind. Would you like something to drink?”

  “You can’t say ‘never mind’ when clearly something is on your mind.”

  “Okay. The way she acted made me wonder if you two are seeing each other. Or if she was interested in seeing you. It’s fine if you are. I don’t want to get in the middle of things. She and Cressida are good friends. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Not really. I’m a wee bit confused. Why would you think Jemma and I are dating when I thought I made it clear that I’m interested in you?”

  “You are?”

  “I am. Is that okay with you?”

  I nod.

  “I’m glad, because it’s good to see you, Hannah.”

  My head is spinning. It feels like a lot. When I thought Jemma was in the picture—that I’d lost him to her—I resigned myself to not having a chance. But now…

  “Of course, we can take things slowly,” he says.

  “Slow would be good.”

  My mind flashes back to Charlie telling me he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to marry. I’ve spent the last few years convincing myself that relationships and me, we weren’t meant to be.

  You give your heart to someone. You lose yourself in them body and soul. Then one day three years later, you wake up to an empty bed and realize their foot was only ever halfway in the door. It can do a number on you. You start to believe that nothing in life is permanent, that you can’t take anyone or anything at face value.

  As if I needed a reminder.

  Other than Gram, no one in my life has actually been who they seemed.

  My mother had better things to do than raise me, and now here she is trying to make up for lost time.

  My father was never in the picture.

  Charlie was a bust.

  And even Granny Ivy had a secret life.

  “You’re not married, are you?” I blurt out.

  He laughs quizzically and it’s a sound that touches me to the core of my soul. “Nope.”