Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  “Just checking.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I think you’re going to like this dinner.”

  “Sounds fun,” I say. “If we have time afterward, I’ll give you a supersecret sneak preview of the brand-new Années Folles tour.”

  “Années Folles?”

  “ ‘The crazy years.’ It’s what the interwar period in Paris was called, and it’s the name I’m giving my new tour. Are you up for a little bit of crazy, Aiden?”

  February 1929

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  Today is my birthday! Never have I seen such a romantic gesture as the effort Andres made.

  No, it’s not a proposal. He still doesn’t believe in marriage. Monogamy, yes. He vows I am the only woman for him and he doesn’t need a certificate forcing him to be true.

  One would think we’d reached an impasse, but listen to this…

  This evening, he rented a horse and carriage and after he took me to Maxim’s for dinner, we set out with a bottle of champagne and what looked like a box that would hold a small cake, for what I thought would be a nighttime tour of the city. That would’ve been the sweetest gift in itself, but there was so much more.

  His gift to me even overshadowed my birthday dinner, and you know how I’ve longed to dine at Maxim’s.

  I thought it curious when the coach veered deeper into the right bank’s more residential neighborhoods. Usually, the sleepy streets aren’t our idea of fun, but I was happy to be with him and it was interesting to see this side of Paris—with its tree-lined streets and handsome homes.

  Suddenly, the carriage stopped in front of a pretty building that was set back off the road. A stately wrought-iron fence surrounded it and the sweetest little garden. A lone stone bench sat waiting off the main walkway.

  Andres hopped out of the carriage and helped me down.

  He used a key to unlock the gate.

  I followed, peppering him with questions.

  He pressed his index finger to his lips and said I would understand soon enough.

  Another key let us inside the double front doors to a reception area with marble floors. He led me up the grand staircase. Finally, we stood in front of a polished wooden door, which he unlocked. Before I knew what was happening, he scooped me into his arms and carried me over the threshold.

  Inside the apartment, a banner hung over the fireplace. It read “Happy Birthday, My Love! Welcome Home!”

  Then he handed me the keys and said he thought I could use an apartment of my own since Helen is traveling so much after winning a spot in the Ballets Russes.

  I glanced at the stately floor-to-ceiling windows and the regal crown molding. At the sofa that commanded the center of the room and the delicate writing desk, which graced the wall between the tall windows.

  I told him it was a lovely place, and so nice of him to find and furnish it for me, but I could not afford it. I could barely afford my current apartment, and that place wasn’t nearly as grand as this one.

  Then he said the most curious thing. I would find the new place much more affordable than my current rental because this place was paid for in full. He had set up a fund to cover the taxes and utilities. I would find my new home had everything I needed: a modern kitchen, the latest in indoor plumbing, and a soaking tub.

  He teased that I might find the commute to the boulangerie a bit longer, but I could always quit and focus on my clothing creations.

  I was at a loss for words. It was a lovely gift, but how could I accept it? It dawned on me that perhaps this was a way of tricking me to move in with him.

  I thanked him again but reminded him I had no intentions of being a kept woman.

  Then he really shocked me. He said he didn’t understand how I could consider myself a kept woman since I owned the place. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope.

  Tucked inside was the deed to the apartment—with my name on it. The place is mine to do with as I please. It belongs to me, even if I decide to kick him out of my life tomorrow or sell the place and move back to Bristol. Those last words were his, not mine. How could I throw him out when I love him so very much?

  I was sure there had to be a catch, but I could not find one.

  Soon, my full heart overflowed and I could not contain the tears. I threw my arms around him.

  He scooped me up and carried me into the bedroom and made love to me until the moon was high in the inky sky.

  We did take a break to eat the birthday cake and drink the champagne he’d brought. He lit the candles and sang the birthday song—wearing nothing more than his own birthday suit.

  It was one of those rare instances in life when everything seemed right and good and, dare I say, perfect. Right now, as I write, he is softly snoring beside me.

  I want to live in this moment forever. However, reality elbows its way in, deflating my bliss. I must contact my parents.

  Before I left London, I gave my mother the address of the rue du Cardinal Lemoine apartment. However, given my mother’s propensity for showing up unannounced at the most inopportune moments, I dared not tell her the first apartment was such a disaster that Helen and I had been forced to move. I never sent her the address of the second apartment because she was likely to show up simply to wag her finger in my face and remind me of how I’d failed. She would have delighted in being right and rubbing my nose in the fact that I was not clever enough nor talented enough to secure a position in the atelier of Mademoiselle Chanel.

  If she had learned of my work for Pierre… I shudder to imagine what might have happened.

  Still, the fact remains my own mother threw me out. She made it clear I was no longer welcome in her home. If she had changed her mind—if she had cared one iota—she could have found me in Paris, but she didn’t.

  But, dear diary, I refuse to dwell on that sad truth because for the first time since moving to Paris, I am settled and deeply happy. I am finally in the position to write and tell my parents I am doing well.

  I shall post a note home tomorrow.

  Twenty-One

  January 14, 2019—3:00 p.m.

  Paris, France

  Marla was gone for four days. By the time she returned, Aiden has come and gone and I don’t have to try to explain something I don’t yet understand myself.

  I needed the time to sort things out without her demanding to know why I’ve been so distracted.

  I didn’t want to talk about it, which would’ve made her all the more determined to pry it out of me.

  The truth is, I think I may have royally screwed things up with Aiden.

  It started off as a beautiful night. The dinner was a fundraiser planned by the food industry to raise scholarship money for those who want to study the culinary arts but can’t afford tuition. It was called Dîner Dans le Noir—Dinner in the Black—which had a double meaning because we were all dressed in black and the scholarships would keep students from going into debt. The event was held in a mansion in the seventh arrondissement called Maison des Polytechniciens. Built in 1703, over the years, it has been the private residence of several different wealthy families. Currently, it’s owned by the Association of Friends of Polytechnicians, which lends it out for private events.

  Everyone was dressed in black and the place was lit by candlelight. The food was delicious. Aiden was… well, he was Aiden.

  After we left the dinner, I was regretting not wearing my lingerie because I was tempted to ask him to come over. Especially after we took a detour and he kissed me on the quay of the Seine.

  He’d said he’d always wanted to do that.

  I was thinking, Please don’t let this one be too good to be true.

  As we walked and talked, getting closer to the apartment, I was pointing out potential stops for the tour. He offered to fly in and orchestrate a dinner for the end of the first day of the inaugural tour. He said we could call it the “moveable feast.”

  At first, I t
hought he was kidding. I mean, how would that even work?

  So I brushed it off—okay, maybe I kind of laughed it off. Not in a mean way. Or at least I didn’t intend for it to come across that way. But let’s just say that by the time we got to my door, the mood was different.

  He lightly kissed me good night and went back to his hotel, and now I feel weird.

  I’m not sure if I hurt his feelings by rebuffing his dinner idea. But you know what? It’s my tour. I don’t tell him how to run his restaurant.

  I have a lot riding on making this tour a success, and I need to stick to what I know.

  It’s only been a few days, but I haven’t heard from him since he got back to London. Maybe I won’t. Who knows? Maybe he’ll enter the Date From Hell Hall of Fame as The Egotist.

  Then again, maybe that’s harsh. Especially when he’s never been a date from hell, and this time it was just as much my fault as anyone’s. I’ve been pretending to be too busy to call or text him, and now Marla’s home and that’s my current excuse for not reaching out.

  “I spoke to Emma while I was in London,” Marla says from the bedroom where she is unpacking her bag. “She is going to call you, but she said if you’re willing to let me be your assistant, she sees no reason why y’all can’t hire me. She also thinks it’s absurd that you always try to be such an island, Hannah. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

  I’m sitting at the desk in the living room, finalizing the tour route and pretending like I’m not wallowing over Aiden. I set down my pen.

  “I’m not afraid to ask for help, and I don’t appreciate you talking about me to my boss. Why would you do that?”

  This is a prime example of why working and living together isn’t a good idea. It makes me furious to think that Marla would zero in on what might be considered a professional weakness and use it against me.

  Marla walks into the living room and stands by the desk. Her hands are on her hips and she’s wearing that look that I’ve learned means, I see your challenge, and I’m upping the ante.

  “Talking about you? This isn’t even about you, Hannah. It’s about me getting a job in Paris so I can support myself.”

  She sticks out her bottom lip like a child who is about to throw a tantrum.

  “You’re right. It’s not about me. It’s never been about me, Marla. My entire life it’s always been about you. You couldn’t raise me because you got pregnant too young. You couldn’t tell me about my father because you slept with too many men. You’d take me from Gram when you were ready for me. Then you’d give me back when you had something else you’d rather do. We’re selling Gram’s house because you need the money. Now you’re here because there’s a cool apartment in Paris that gives you the chance to start over and you want me to give you a job so you can stay—”

  My voice catches. My throat is burning, and I’m afraid that if I say another word, I’m going to cry.

  I sit there frozen, barely breathing, willing myself to get a grip.

  She stands there looking shell-shocked.

  Finally, I find my voice. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go for a walk.”

  I get up and go into the bedroom to get my coat. Marla follows me.

  “We need to talk about this, Hannah. We’re not going to solve anything if you keep running away.”

  “If I keep running away? Says the woman who, once upon a time, couldn’t stand to live in the same house as her only daughter. That’s rich, Marla, coming from a woman who cherished her freedom above all else. Well, you might think all we need to do is talk about things, and poof, everything will be perfect. But that’s not working for me. It’s not that simple.”

  She shrugs, then swipes at the moisture that’s collecting in her eyes. “You’re right. I was a lousy mother. There’s no taking it back because I can’t change the past, but what I thought I could do was make it up to you by being there for you going forward.”

  I want to scream at her, but the fury is stuck in my throat.

  Instead, the words come out a whisper. “What makes you think I need you now? You think you can fall into my life because you’re finally ready and we can pick up like nothing ever happened? I’m a grown woman. This whole bonding exercise has been an interesting experiment, but I have my own life that I’ve designed without you. I don’t have room for you, and I certainly don’t need you.”

  I hate myself—not for saying I don’t need her, but for feeling bad for saying it.

  As I walk into the foyer, I shrug into my coat and pull my gloves out of the pockets.

  “Hannah, we are all the family you and I have left. I realized this after Gram died. I didn’t get a chance to make amends with her. But there’s still a chance for us. I’m sorry I was a horrible mother. There are a lot of things you don’t know. I wish we could start over and you would give me a chance to make it up to you.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  She doesn’t answer me.

  A moment ago, she sounded so earnest. So serious. As if it would be that easy to let go of all the hurt and betrayal. When really, it’s more of a fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me for hitching my life to the Marla carnival train when I knew better. Because I know exactly what she’s all about.

  I should let it go. Yet I hear myself saying, “If you think it will help, tell me what I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

  She does that thing where she opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and clams up.

  “What if it wouldn’t necessarily make everything better?” she finally says.

  “What does that even mean? Why do you always talk in riddles?”

  “I don’t mean to confuse you, Hannah. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “Well, don’t say anything, then. I’m going for a walk.”

  “No, Hannah; I’ll go. You were working. The only reason you were going out was to get away from me. Let me go.”

  She reaches for her purse, which is on the table in the foyer. The strap buckles, spilling the contents onto the floor.

  “That’s my hairbrush! Why is it in your purse?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I was in such a hurry to catch the train that I grabbed it by mistake.”

  “I texted you and asked if you had it. Why didn’t you tell me you did? Would you happen to have my toothbrush and lipstick, too?”

  She drops down onto the floor and picks up her purse, then pulls out a plastic bag with a zip closure and hands it to me.

  My toothbrush.

  “Well, that’s gross,” I say. “How could you mistake my toothbrush for yours?”

  She digs deeper into her bag and pulls out my missing lipstick.

  “Really?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’m close to boiling again. “I really need to take a walk before I say something I’ll regret. When I get back, we need to have a talk.”

  We need to set some boundaries, put up some metaphorical walls in this one-bedroom. Because our future depends on it.

  * * *

  I STAY OUT LONG enough to put things into perspective and cool off.

  I’m irritated that Marla helped herself to my things and went to Emma behind my back, but the rational part of me also feels bad about not giving her a chance.

  The bottom line is she needs a job or all the expenses will fall to me.

  It would be selfish if I stood in her way.

  On the other hand, I know how Marla is. I haven’t even hired her and she already steamrolled me to get to Emma. I worry that if she worked for me, she wouldn’t respect my authority.

  An idea hits me. What if we put her in charge of sales? It would give me more time to focus on the tour content and operations. Marla would be good at sales. Look at how she has me questioning my better judgment right now.

  As further incentive, we could make the pay commission based. That way she has to work.

  I sit on the bench in the courtyard of our apartment and
call Emma. I’m relieved when she answers.

  “Is there room in the budget for a small office?” I ask. Because there is no way I can live and work with Marla in the confines of this small apartment.

  “We can probably swing it,” Emma says.

  “If we can lease that separate space, I’ll hire Marla on a probationary basis. What would you think of putting her in charge of sales? She could work on commission and receive a percentage for each seat she books.”

  Emma loves the idea. I promise her I will supervise Marla and keep on top of the bookings to make sure we’re running in the black. With that, it’s done. The only thing left is to tell Marla.

  I let myself into the apartment. Marla is in the kitchen running water. She shuts off the tap and sings, “Hellooo? Hannah, is that you?”

  Her voice sounds perfectly normal. Like a mother in the kitchen making her child an after-school snack. At least that’s what I imagine it would be like.

  Gram was always working at the library when I got out of school. I would go there and hang out and do my homework and eat the snack I packed for myself in my lunch box that morning.

  But sometimes I’d go to my friend Marcy’s house after school. Her mom didn’t work and always had some kind of food ready for us—like pizza rolls or cheese and crackers or PB&J sandwiches. It was such a foreign world, and I loved it.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I say.

  Marla comes into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

  “You okay?” she asks tentatively.

  I nod.

  Silence hangs between us like a stanchion.

  “Do you want some tea?” she asks. “I just put the kettle on and I was going to brew a cup. I brought back some Biscoff cookies—the ones Cressida likes.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m cold and her busying herself in the kitchen will buy me some time to figure out what I want to say. How to say it.

  By the time she returns with tea and all the fixings on a tray, I have three thoughts lined up.

  “First, we absolutely need to set some boundaries. I’m usually happy to share, but you have to ask before you help yourself to my stuff.”