1
1 NOVEMBER
Opposite the Jardin du Luxembourg, on Rue de Vaugirard, you’ll find the world’s ugliest hotel. My hotel. Even the stunning Gothic architecture can’t distract from the level of disrepair evident through the window. If I squint hard, I can envision what itwillbe like with a little TLC and a whole lot of euros.
Or is that just wishful thinking?
‘Spoils ofle divorce,’ my younger cousin Manon says. Only two years separate us, but at times it feels more like decades, as if I’m ancient at thirty-eight compared to my freewheeling family member. Manon doesn’t take life as seriously as I do, and I envy her ability to not give a damn whenever she comes to a fork in the road.
I let out a theatrical sigh. ‘It’s a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.’ Not only did I lose my husband Francois-Xavier, but I also lost in the divorce proceedings and wound up with this eyesore as part of the settlement. I don’t want to say the French favour their own when it comes to dissolving a marriage and dividing the assets, but they clearly do. I might be half-French but, in this case, it wasn’t enough, not when I was up against his colossal family. Note to self: don’t marry into a clan of litigators.
Manon clucks her tongue as she peers into the window. ‘We’re stuck in a time-warp. The seventies called and they want their avocado-green drapes back.’
The colour scheme is a retro chic horror story and not one you see in Paris often. For very good reason…
It’s hard not to let bitterness take over. Francois-Xavier took off with another woman and is enjoying an extended tropical island holiday (financed by yours truly) while I’m going to have to reside in a hotel that may just collapse around me like a house of cards. But stay here we must. Even during messy, noisy renovations.
L’Hotel du Parc has a distinct air of dilapidation about it, at least from this angle. ‘I’m all for budget stays, but this...’ I let the words fall away.
With the sale of the hotel came four backpackers who agreed to stay on for a reduced rate to keep an eye on the place until the divorce finalised. They’ve asked to stay while we revamp, which I’m happy to do since any money coming in, no matter how nominal, all helps at this point. ‘I didn’t realise the backpackers were having to avoid piles of junk like that.’ I point to the detritus through the window.
‘It’s notthatbad,’ Manon says. This is coming from a woman who uses the floor as a wardrobe and probably wouldn’t have even noticed the refuse if I hadn’t pointed it out. ‘I’m sure their rooms are fine and, being free-spirited nomads, they’re probably ecstatic to have accommodation in the centre of Paris for a fraction of the usual cost.’
‘Oui.’ Manon’s right. They’re probably loving it, and each couple has their own room and private ensuite, which is more than what they’d get at a hostel for the same price. ‘Still, it’s unsightly.’
‘Easily remedied. And, sure, the décor is hideous but that’s cosmetic. By the looks of it the place simply needs a massivetidy up and a design makeover.’ Manon takes a step forward and runs a fingertip along the outside of the window, which comes away grey. ‘See! Everything just needs a good scrub.’
I hope she’s right because funds are limited. Just selling the hotel isn’t an option, as it turns out Francois-Xavier overpaid for the property by a fairly large margin, so the current forecasted sale price wouldn’t even cover the excessive mortgage. Instead, I’d be left with a stonking debt, which is why I suppose my ex was so generous offloading the hotel on to me.
The realtor advised me to either give the place a spruce up and make it a blank canvas, bland and clean, the no-fuss low budget option;orcustomise the hotel with a particular theme to help it stand out when compared to thousands of accommodation options in Paris. The latter is a riskier option but has the potential to achieve a higher price upon sale, which is why I’m leaning towards that idea. She suggested building up clientele before putting it back on the market. How hard can it be? It’s one of those ‘you have to spend money to make money’ scenarios, and I’ve got Manon’s support when I wonder for the millionth time just what the hell I’m playing at. This is not in my wheelhouse; far from it.
What could go wrong? I have a lot of renovation experience as a… romance writer.Gah!
The idea is to revitalise this grand dame and have it at least partially opened by Christmas for all those last-minute holiday makers. An audacious plan, given that it’s just clicked over to November. A mouse runs along the windowpane as I break out in noisy sobs that catch me unawares. Great big heaves that draw the eye of many a passerby.
‘Don’t let that fool win, Anais.’ Manon isn’t the tactile type, so she shoves me with her hip, which for her equates to a big squishy hug. ‘Really, it could be worse—’ Her words peter off when there’s a grinding noise above us. We crane our necksupward and I let out a blood-curdling scream when the old L’Hotel du Parc sign comes crashing down, landing a whisper away from my feet.
I’m still screaming when I turn to Manon, who isn’t the least bit concerned that I nearly lost my life in front of this neglected monstrosity. ‘Can you knock it off?’ she admonishes, holding her hands to her ears.
What can I say? It’s been a fraught few months and I’mfeelingall my feelings with an intensity that overwhelms me.
But, dammit, why is she so relaxed? ‘I – I could have been kil?—’
‘You’re looking at this all wrong. That wasliterallya sign from the universe! It could have pancaked you into the pavement, yet here you are still very much alive, with all your appendages intact.’
My cries grow more plaintive. ‘I can’t even bekilledproperly. I have to suffer this prolonged agony while Francois-Xavier is sunning his over-buff body’ – a red flag in retrospect – ‘with that woman who doesn’t speak French. How do they even communicate?’ Manon makes an obscene gesture to imply she knows exactly how they do it; and I let out a shaky sigh. ‘You really don’t need to paint me a graphic picture, Manon. I walked in on them, remember? Only a lifetime of therapy is going to remove that vision from my mind.’
‘Sorry.’ Manon twists her mouth into an apologetic moue. My cousin lacks any filter and often drops truth bombs, but it’s done without malice on her part.
‘That woman is now stuck with him, which is payback in itself,’ I say. ‘He’s a pig, a swine, a no-good lying cheating exhibitionist, with very little going on upstairs.’
‘That husband-snatcher did you afavour.’
Did she though? ‘I suppose, if not her, it would have been one of the others.’ Turns out Francois-Xavier didn’t comprehendwhat ‘forsaking all others’ meant when he boldly claimed such a thing in his wedding vows.
‘Actually,’ Manon says, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘rumour has itthat womanhas been exiled from paradise, replaced with a certain socialite who goes by the name Ceecee.’
My jaw drops. ‘He ditched Helga already?’ Although, I’m not sure why I’m surprised; it’s his modus operandi when it comes to flings, all while being married to yours truly.
