by C. J. Duggan
Cathy’s eyes shifted over my shoulder, a familiar glimmer of fear flashing in them as she quickly moved back to fuss over the breakfast bar. I turned, already prepared for what would face me, and sure enough, there he was, as if we had summoned him by some form of magic, all smart casual with a pin-striped blue shirt, a navy jacket and tan pants. He was dressed like he might be chartering a vessel to sail the Mediterranean; it was surely a different look for him, and much to my own horror, I was disappointed to find myself thinking he looked really handsome, as if he had stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue.
Louis didn’t wait to be seated, he just chose an empty two-seater table on the border between the restaurant and the lounge, the farthest away from the whispering tourists who were trying to pinpoint who he was. Then it registered on their faces. Just like Louis, I paid them no attention as I weaved my way through the tables, aiming to treat him just like anyone else.
‘Coffee?’ I asked, holding up the pot.
Louis’s eyes shifted from the pot in my hand to my face. He seemed to be tossing up whether it might be poisoned or not. But he nodded his head and moved his arm away from his empty cup as I poured.
‘Milk?’ I asked.
‘No, I take it black.’
Like your soul. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ I can also make it with the tears of our kitchen staff.
He looked annoyed, but then again, he always did. ‘Are you ready for tonight?’ He spoke as if I knew what he was referring to; naturally I had no idea.
‘Are people getting fitted for uniforms tonight?’ I asked as if it didn’t really bother me whether I knew the answer or not. Maybe the interior decorator was stopping by, or the new staff member he organised to replace Philippe, or perhaps he was working on rejigging the menu? Whatever it was, clearing my calendar for the event at his request just made me even more curious, though I would never let on.
‘Well, yes, they are but that is not why I am looking forward to tonight.’ His blue eyes twinkled up at me as he blew on his coffee then sipped it. I could tell he really wanted me to ask more, but I stood my ground. I am not taking the bait.
I cleared my throat. ‘Did you want some breakfast?’ Or are you still full from sucking the life force from people? I tried to keep a straight face as he deliberated, looking into the depths of his black coffee.
‘I think I will pass.’
I looked at the breakfast guests who were tucking into their plates, before turning my attention back to Louis, lowering my voice. ‘It’s not that bad.’
He breathed out a laugh. ‘Do you always see things through rose-coloured glasses, Claire?’
There it was again, my name spoken like a caress, although I think it was just the accent that made everything sound sexier than it was. Gaspard could probably even make my name sound exotic. Then again, his sentences were usually finished with a hacking smoker’s cough, so maybe not.
‘I guess I am just an eternal optimist.’
Louis smiled, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee cup. ‘Maybe you’re right then.’
This time I would take the bait. ‘About what?’
He tilted his head back, swallowing the last of his coffee, putting the cup down and pushing his chair out. He stood, towering over me in his usual display of power.
‘We don’t have anything in common.’
‘Said the pessimist,’ I mused.
Louis shook his head, stepped around his chair and pushed it back in place.
‘Said the realist.’ And just like he had appeared in the restaurant, he was suddenly gone and I was still none the wiser as to what the day would bring.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cecile fanned out the navy blue fabric on top of the reception counter.
‘Très magnifique,’ she cooed, brushing out the creases with her hands. ‘Is it not the most beautiful colour?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I agreed, running my hand over the soft fabric. The staff were going to look so sophisticated in their new uniforms and the ill-fitting burgundy uniforms would happily be cast aside. It felt strange getting excited over such a thing. I didn’t even know if I was a part of the process of getting fitted for a uniform – I still in no way felt like an official staff member, more of a buffer to save them from the crazed outbursts of Louis.
On cue, I heard his voice as he walked through reception, yelling into his mobile in French before ending the call rather abruptly. He paused when his gaze landed on us. His eyes shifted to the fabric and he approached the counter, reaching out to feel it between his thumb and forefinger, a frown pinched at the bridge of his nose.
‘Très bien,’ he said under his breath.
‘All you need to do is match the awnings outside and it will look amazing,’ I said.
Louis turned, looking at me as if I was speaking a completely different language. Even Cecile seemed confused. Sometimes I really needed to just shut up.
‘It’s just that,’ I babbled, ‘the outside awnings and sign are a burgundy that matched the current uniforms.’
I had thought myself quite innovative and forward thinking; Louis’s deadpan expression, on the other hand, said it all.
Cecile tried her best to lighten the moment. ‘With hotels, once you create a clean spot it just snowballs to the next and to the next.’ Her laughter was nervous.
But I was over his lordship’s attitude. ‘Don’t you agree, Louis? That it makes sense to be cohesive?’ I pressed, just wanting him to respond. In order for him to agree it would mean admitting that I’d had a good idea, and I couldn’t see he would admit to that so freely. I waited for a reply.
‘Is that before or after we refurbish the rooms, lounge, reception, restaurant and kitchen?’ he asked, folding up the length of fabric.
Now I was the one who had nothing to say.
Louis turned to Cecile, handing her the fabric. ‘Philippe’s replacement will be here soon; perhaps Claire can cover reception while you take some time to speak with her.’
‘Wait, what?’ I squeaked. Reception – was he mad? I knew jack about reception, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to speak any form of coherent French for any enquiries; guests were better left with the desk bell.
‘Surely reception would be no problem for such an experienced maître d’ as yourself?’ he said. It infuriated me: the way he was always trying to catch people out.
I lifted my chin, feigning confidence. ‘Take your time, Cecile, everything is under control.’
I was not in control, not in the slightest. While Cecile conducted a getting-to-know-you session in the office with Amelie – the tall, elegant Philippe replacement Louis had organised from his long list of connections; I was knocking over pen holders and wrestling with phone cords as I answered the reception phone.
‘Bonjour, Hotel Trocadéro.’ I tried to keep my voice from sounding manic. I closed my eyes, relieved by the sound of a thick American accent on the other end of the line.
‘Oui, monsieur, I will have fresh towels sent up right away, your room number please?’
I scrawled ‘room 12’ on a scrap of paper and bid the caller a good day.
Okay, so that didn’t kill me.
‘Psst, Gaston,’ I whispered, waving my arms theatrically, hoping to catch his attention, far too afraid to walk the dozen steps to ask him a question.
Gaston turned on my fifth wave, looking surprised as he left his post at the door and came to the desk.
‘Room twelve wants fresh towels, what do I—’
‘Leave it with me.’ Gaston winked, picking up the phone and dialling a number so fast I barely had time to process it, then speaking even faster to the other person on the line in French before hanging up.
He beamed. ‘All done.’
‘Merci.’ I sighed. ‘Can you stand by in case I have a French-speaking emergency?’
Gaston laughed. ‘I will be by the door keeping watch, call out if you need me.’
Mercifully Louis had an errand to run and would
n’t be witness to my potential meltdown at reception. The longer he stayed away the better; soon Cecile would return with her new protégé and all would be well with the world.
By the third enquiry I started to feel kind of badass about how I was rocking reception. Maybe I had missed my calling in life. I could be warm, welcoming and friendly. I could solve any guest’s problem. On cue, the phone rang. I scooped it up in a timely fashion; bubbly and cheerful I ran through my spiel.
‘Bonjour, Hotel Trocadéro, how may I help you?’ I asked in a quasi-French accent that had me smiling to myself.
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘Ah, yes, could you please put me through to Claire Shorten’s room?’
All triumph, all certainty was wiped away as my mind struggled to adjust to what I’d heard as I blinked and looked at the receiver. I slowly pressed it against my ear again.
‘Liam?’
‘Claire?’
‘What you doing ringing here?’
‘What are you doing answering the phone?’
My mouth gaped, stopping myself from telling him I worked here. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. So far Hotel Trocadéro had been a kind of rehab for my broken heart, my sanctuary from the dealings of reality, and despite the lunacy and uncertainty of my situation, I felt alive; I felt like I was finding my way. Now I could sense myself unravelling, and it had only taken this phone call, that familiar voice. My stomach twisted with nausea, my mouth went dry and my legs began to tremble.
‘What are you doing, Claire? Come home.’
‘To what?’ I scoffed. ‘Have you managed to box up my things already?’
‘Claire, please, it doesn’t have to be like this. Come home and we can sit down and talk about it.’
‘There is nothing to talk about, not any more.’
‘Well, you can’t stay in Paris forever. What are you doing for money?’
A darkness settled over me. Despite our relationship, his money had been his and mine had been mine. Other than the bills, there was nothing we really shared, not even our interests. It’s amazing how hindsight can make you see so clearly.
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Well, what am I supposed to tell your parents? I spoke to Sammi; she’s worried about you.’
I wasn’t ready for our break-up to become common knowledge, to be bombarded with endless questions and a new pressure to come home to Australia. I wanted none of it, and I certainly didn’t need the likes of Liam guilt-tripping me into doing anything any more. I could feel the walls closing in, my sanctuary dissolving and worry and paranoia setting in.
‘Go and water your pot plants, Liam, or maybe you don’t need to do that any more. Has she moved in yet?’
Liam sighed wearily.
‘Or are you going to open up both apartments into one big house? Oh, that sounds like a profitable venture,’ I said, the words almost getting lodged in my throat as a mixture of anger and hurt raged inside me.
I heard Gaston cough behind me. ‘Pardon, Claire?’
I held up my hand, now was not the time. I was on a roll of self-destruction as I turned from Gaston and stood further away, lowering my voice. ‘Why did you call me, Liam?’
Had he changed his mind? Been lost without me? Was he kicking himself for ruining a good thing, dread filling up every ounce of his being? Perhaps he wanted nothing more than for me to come home and completely forget about that one time in Paris. I held my breath, waiting on him to answer with any one of those excellent reasons.
‘Because I’m worried about you.’
I breathed out a laugh.
‘Claire,’ Gaston said softly again, but I couldn’t acknowledge him, not now.
‘Aside from that, why are you calling?’
There was a long, drawn-out silence, one that made the thundering of my heart pounding violently against my rib cage seem almost deafening.
‘Liam?’
‘I’m not doing this, not on the phone, Claire. Come home.’
Home sounded so intimate, so familiar, and yet didn’t seem to apply, not to me, not any more.
‘Liam, you broke up with me underneath the Eiffel Tower, there is nothing you could do that could top that.’
More silence.
Growing weary, if not more intrigued, I sighed, rubbing my eyes and trying to ignore Gaston’s presence behind me.
‘Liam, seriously just tell—’
‘Veronica’s pregnant.’
My world dropped away. The solid ground underneath my feet seemed like it was magnetised, wanting to swirl me into a soundless, black vortex of shock, disbelief and then anger. I didn’t hear Liam continue, the receiver had dropped from my ear, and the muted sounds of my name being called made no sense. Inside I was shifting, turning, until I found a new strength by gripping the phone and crashing the receiver down violently, over and over again as I burst into tears.
‘Fucking lying son of a bitch,’ I wept, letting the phone fall off the hook to hopefully prevent him calling back. I spun around, having totally forgotten about the patiently waiting Gaston.
And there was the steely-eyed Louis Delarue, standing at Gaston’s side, front row centre to my complete meltdown. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was an entire camera crew filming me.
‘You finished?’ Louis said, his voice low, his stare hard. Gaston looked completely dismayed, mouthing ‘Sorry’ as he backed away to stand by the front door again.
Then, as Louis called me out for being the biggest phony and the most disastrous staff member he had ever had the displeasure of encountering, I stared vacantly, my cheeks flushed, my soul depleted. There was no room left in me to care about anything other than wanting to dissolve.
Just when I was about to tell Louis and his bloody nosy camera crew to get out of my face, the door to the office opened, laughter filtering out, as Cecile lead Amelie toward the reception.
‘Oh, Claire, thank you so much for looking after the—’ Cecile’s words fell away, her eyes widening as she studied my face, turning to Louis and the camera crew then back again.
I swallowed, trying to keep my composure, trying to keep myself from crumpling into a ball. There was something oddly reassuring about the fact that Louis hadn’t made me cry; well, not yet anyway.
‘I said I didn’t want to be on camera.’ I spoke directly to Cecile, barely containing the rage that was bubbling underneath the surface.
‘Of course, Louis knows that,’ she said, her eyes filled with worry as she looked at Louis.
The man with the bulky camera on his shoulder shrugged arrogantly. ‘We were told to film in reception.’
Louis Delarue said nothing, only stood there, his eyes fixed on me as if he was trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. His silence only made me more angry.
‘Can I go now?’ I asked Cecile, my voice low. It wasn’t bad enough that my demeanour was completely flattened by what Liam had just told me, how he had asked me to come home – and for that. To drag out and ruin my life a little more. And now to add insult to injury, my entire meltdown was being witnessed by Louis and his bloody film crew.
‘Oui, go rest, Claire. We will take over from here.’
I nodded, moving away from the counter, offering only a fleeting sad, apologetic smile to Amelie, who must have thought me a complete freak. I could still feel Louis’s judgemental stare, the disappointment radiating off him as he no doubt waited for me to be completely out the way before he convinced Cecile that I was a hindrance to Hotel Trocadéro and to let me go.
I took in a deep breath. Don’t cry, don’t cry … wait until you’re inside the lift.
The magical ding finally sounded and I dived into the small recess, urging the doors to close quickly enough to disguise meltdown round two. Just as I was about to give in to the misery, a hand plunged into the lift, preventing the door from closing, and making them shunt open. Louis stood there.
Oh God, he had come to fire me; appare
ntly I didn’t need to be absent for the conversation to take place, and apparently it was something that couldn’t wait. They probably wanted my room for Amelie now, a true professional, not an imposter.
I braced myself for the words, thinking how I was actually quite relieved that it would be over soon, that I had given Paris a second chance, given it my all and it just hadn’t worked out. Liam and I were over; my time at the Hotel Trocadéro was over. I was resigned to my fate. So when Louis wedged his foot against the concertina folds of the doors and smiled at me, I almost recoiled from the unexpectedness of it; not only was he going to fire me, but apparently he was going to enjoy it.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
My mouth gaped; I mean, surely it was obvious? Surely he didn’t mean to torture me further? But his face seemed light, his demeanour carefree.
‘I’m just going to—’
‘Come with me.’
‘What?’ I said a bit too loudly.
‘I said, come with me.’
‘W-where?’
Louis shook his head. ‘So many questions.’
‘I don’t like surprises,’ I said, thinking how true that was under the circumstances. In fact, I really fucking despised being kept in the dark on any matter.
Louis seemed unperturbed. ‘Meet me out front,’ he said. ‘It’s the black Audi,’ he said with a smirk as he stepped back, letting the door go. ‘But something tells me you already know that.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
I had two choices: collapse into bed with the curtains drawn, or sate my curiosity and find out where Louis Delarue was taking me in his flash Audi. Was he taking me for a uniform fitting? That would be the only agenda that seemed to make sense right now, and based on that I was almost tempted to go with Plan A – almost.
I stopped by my room to pick up my bag and jacket and cleared away the smudges of my eye makeup in the lift’s mirrored walls on my way back down to the lobby.
Cecile stopped still next to Amelie when she saw me. She seemed worried that I was back. It made me quite sad thinking she had to be different around me now that Amelie was here. I felt like a complete fool – what must they all think of me?