Kiki breaks into a loud cackle that makes the birds flee from the horse chestnut trees. ‘Désolée, I read about your divorce inParis Scandale, and if it were me who suffered through a marriage with a man like that, I’d become a hammer-wielding, revenge-seeking,je ne sais pas, maniac.’
I take a moment to process Kiki’s words, not sure at first whether I feel offended or completely understood and decide it’s the latter, and that she’s quite possibly my spirit animal.
‘The thought has crossed my mind once or twice, Kiki. In fact, I’m having a little trouble writing romance after his many infidelities, and I must admit there are times when I do have murder on my mind.’ Juliette’s eyes widen in fright while Kiki gives me a slow nod of understanding. ‘Fictionally, at least. But isn’t living well the best revenge?’ I quickly add and give Juliette what I hope is a reassuring smile and a pat on the hand. Would a killer do that?Non, they’d delight in their audience being uncomfortable.
Our breakfast arrives and I take a much-needed sip of coffee before I fill them in on our plans for the hotel, including that we aim to do as much of the work ourselves; well, as much as our capabilities allow. ‘The hotel will be designed around a literary theme.’
Juliette dances in her seat. ‘Ooh, perfect for the 6th arrondissement, which I’ve found to be the most literary of all!’
‘Oui,’ I say, my mind going to all the magnificent libraries and bookshops in the vicinity. ‘Maybe I should make a literary map for guests…’ I muse as the idea takes shape. Not only can we offer a literary haven inside the hotel, but we could provide a detailed map of all those hidden gems that most people miss because they don’t know to go looking for it.
Juliette clicks her fingers. ‘I can take you to a couple of special places for your literary map that are very close by and are the best-kept secrets.’
‘I’d love that.’
‘I’ll have a look at our bookings and let you know what day I’m free.’
‘Parfait.’
‘Soo…’ Kiki says, smirk at the ready. ‘How are you finding your new neighbour, Noah? He had quite the list of complaints when we moved into the hotel. We had to explain many times we weren’t there for maintenance.’
That man! Just what is his problem? How exactly does the hotel impinge on his business aside from the fact it’s a little rough around the edges? Is he bored?
6
5 NOVEMBER
After yet another fruitless evening of killing my darlings, and by that I mean literally murdering my fictional heroes, I awake groggily in the musty confines of my suite and know it’s time. I’ve put off the call as long as I can. If my literary agent Margaret’s frantic voicemails are anything to go by, I’d say our telephone call ping pong days are over.
If I don’t return her call, there’s every chance she’ll arrive on my doorstep, and I’d like to avoid a face-to-face meeting if I can. When there’s bad news afoot, Margaret can be domineering and terrifying in equal measure, which is great when it comes to her negotiating my contracts, but not so good when I’mnot meeting my end of the bargain.
I dread the thought of telling her I’m not going to meet the imposed deadline. I’ve already spent the advance on some overpriced divorce lawyers, and I’ve got no book to hand in. No book means no chance of royalties once I’ve earned out the advance. And, worse still, it could also mean a lawsuit for breaking the terms of my contract.
In my suite, I sit at a desk that’s past its prime with a scratched surface and a wonky leg that I’m growing to love.Every scar and scrape is part of its story and evidence of a long, rich life. Who else sat at this desk over its tenure in suite two? Did they write postcards to family at home? Or long sweeping letters trying to capture the vibrancy of the city and all they’d seen and done? Now I’m taking comfort by the marred and rickety desk, trying to pull my life back together one word at a time. In these quiet, reflective moments I see beauty in these abandoned belongings throughout the hotel.
But… musing time is over. There’s no avoiding the dreaded call to Margaret. I’ve got three building contractors arriving this week to quote for the reno job and, if I don’t sort my writing life out, I won’t be able to fully focus on the hotel.
I brace myself and dial the number. ‘Bonjour, Margaret!’ I say, forcing brightness into my voice.
‘Cut the crap, Anais. What’s going on? You’ve been avoiding my calls.’ Margaret is old-school publishing ilk. You’ll find her sitting at a desk littered with manuscripts, by an open window that overlooks the Shard, smoking a raspberry-flavoured vape and screeching at staff. It’s not exactly PC but she is lauded enough to get away with it.
‘I’m glad you asked. You see—’ There’s a crash from below and a blood-curdling scream soon follows.
‘What on earth was that?’ Margaret says, her voice laced with suspicion as if I’m creating a diversion in the hopes of ending the call. And, truthfully, I wish I’d thought of that.
‘It’s Manon!’ I take flight, picturing the worst. She’s fallen through a ceiling. She’s tripped down the laundry chute. Who even has laundry chutes these days? Well, L’Hotel du Parcsure does. I’ve had to pull the hood of Manon’s jumper many a time to stop her attempting to slide down it, ‘to see where it leads’, imagining my poor cousin stuck bent and twisted in a pipe for all eternity.
‘Where is she?’ I yell as I race down the brown carpeted steps, dust dancing as I go.
Sweet relief hits me as I find Manon in the room we’ve picked to be the future library. It’s mostly empty except for a row of bookshelves, some with dusty leatherbound editions abandoned on the shelves higher up and out of reach. Well… I find her feet. She’s stuck under a fallen bookshelf with only her Doc Martens on display like she’s the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m still holding my phone, so I inform Margaret, ‘I have a medical emergency on my hands! I’ll call you back.’
‘No, you won’t. I’m invested in this now. Put me on speaker.’
I sigh and press the speaker button, dropping the phone to the parquetry floor. ‘Manon, are you OK?’ My chest tightens at the thought Manon might be seriously hurt. There’s a faint groan. I say, ‘I’m going to lift the bookshelf up.’
‘Noadajldk,’ comes her muffled reply. I give the old bookshelf a great big heave but it doesn’t budge. I’d previously marked these shelves for the bin because they appeared somewhat flimsy, but it turns out they’re surprisingly heavy.
‘Merde! It’s impossible! Can you breathe under there?’
