‘How do you know it’s aguyburied there?’ Manon asks, suspicion heavy in her voice.
I rub my temples. ‘There’s no corpse, Manon! You have to stop saying that or the hotel will get a reputation as some kind of burial ground and then I’ll have no chance of selling it.’
‘Orghost hunters from all over the world will visit and set up those recording devices and those temperature things and we’ll become famous.Infamous!’
‘Why are you so macabre?’ Only Manon would hope there’s a body there, andnotbecause it will save on renovation costs.
‘I’m dark because the world is dark.’
I laugh at her dramatics. ‘I’m worried we’re going to blow the budget before we’ve even really begun what with all that talk of mould removal, not to mention if there’s an issue with plumbing and whatever else he warned about. Then what? We’re stuck here forever.’
I’m worried that sinking my savings into the hotel might be yet another misstep. ‘Back when Francois-Xavier did the deal, I paid a hefty deposit and if I lose that and more, I’d feel like I’ve taken a giant leap backwards. I’m at the pointy end of my thirties…’
‘Thirty-eight to be exact,’ Manon chimes in. ‘But what does age matter?’
I sigh. ‘It matters because I’ve worked so hard, and I lost so much in the divorce. The windfall I had from my last few books has been chewed up by this place and whatever’s left will goto mortgage repayments and renovations. And what if it fails? Then what?’ My lungs compress, making it hard to breathe.
‘What if it doesn’t?’ Manon gives my arm a pat, but her eyes shine with determination. Sometimes I wish I could have blind faith like she does. ‘It’s going to work out. The bad guy never wins in your books, so how could this be any different? You’ll rise like a phoenix and life will be sunshine and roses.’
I sit on the sofa, a green velour outrage that has somehow stood the test of time and is still structurally sound. ‘If only my life was as simple as a mixed metaphor, like a sweet, happy romantic comedy where the heroine prevails despite all the obstacles in her way.’
‘You need to write again, Anais.’ Manon’s voice is soft. ‘Writing is your happy place and?—’
‘Ooh, the Tin Man does have a heart.’
‘—without it you’re lapsing into this maudlin version of yourself. Next you’ll be wandering the hallways in your full-length nightgown at midnight, screaming for your lost love, and it can only go downhill from there.’
‘Wow, Manon, you really do know how to bring me back to earth with a thud.’ I need to shake the gloom away once and for all, but it’s easier said than done.
I gaze outside to the busy street. Most passersby walk in the direction of Luxembourg gardens because there’s so much to see and do inside thejardin. There are beehives near the Rue de Fleuris entrance, and an apple and orange orchard in the south-west corner. A pétanque field and tennis courts. A pond to sail model boats. There are busts of many a writer and poet, like Verlaine. There’s a statue of Gustave Flaubert, who wroteMadame Bovary. But what I like even more than all the beauty as far as the eye can see is walking in the footsteps of all those writers who came before. James, Faulkner, Stein, Hemingway and Wilde were all known to wander these very same gravelpaths. So, as far as locations go, the hotel is well situated, especially with our literary theme.
And, personally, the 6th arrondissement is my favourite. There’s so much to see and do and there’s plenty for literature lovers, including the San Francisco Book Company, on Rue Monsieur le Prince,a cute-as-a-button English language bookshop that’s often overlooked in favour of the more famous shops like Shakespeare and Co. or the Abbey Bookshop. All three shops have an eclectic mix of used books and are a joy to spend an hour or two thumbing through, looking for treasure. We’ve got a lot to offer, not just at the hotel but in Paris as a whole, and I just need to focus on that and all the positives.
‘You’re right, Manon. I need to stop making excuses and write,’ I say. ‘Itismy happy place and if I don’t find my way back there, then he’s won again, hasn’t he? By snatching away not only my income, but the work I love doing.’ It feels like a balancing act, and at the minute I’m teetering on the edge of the tightrope, looking down instead of looking ahead. Thathas to change. ‘And we’ll give this place the facelift it deserves. Soon enough we’ll be welcoming guests with big smiles and we’ll make them feel at home. We’ll build the business up, show potential buyers this is a great investment and then we can resume our normal lives.’
‘I don’t know,’ Manon says, gazing around the lobby. ‘This place, it’s growing on me.’
‘That’s probably the mould – you should get that looked at.’ Manon’s laughter follows me out of the room.
I go to the reception desk in the lobby and call a locksmith who says they’ll be out in the next day or two. Our next builder arrives to quote and this time I send Manon into the kitchen to prepare lunch so she can’t scare the guy off or pull any more pranks.
11
9 NOVEMBER
The day is grey and overcast, and big black clouds float above as if it’s about to rain hard. I’ve been waiting for a break in the weather to clean the front windows of the hotel, so I hurry to gather what I need. You’d think the incessant rain would do the job for me, but the windows need a decent scrub more than anything.
I slip on my raincoat and take my cleaning supplies outside. I’m keen to see how much brighter the lobby and guest lounge will be once the build-up of grime is washed away. Even though it’s a little early for Christmas decorations, I’m going to string tinsel and Christmas lights up. Later, once renovations are done, I’ll decorate the wooden ledge inside with the ‘creche’ nativity scene, but I don’t want to do that now and risk the stunning vintage set getting damaged or dusty.
Outside, I slide on rubber gloves and dunk my cloth into the soapy water, marvelling at how menial work such as this is really quite satisfying. Perhaps it’s because I’m avoiding writing, and even chores I usually despise like vacuuming or mopping are a delight when each word I type feels weighted, like an insurmountable effort that goes nowhere.
Once I soap and scrub down each window, I refill my bucket with clean, clear water and use my squeegee to wipe the suds off, the mindless task allowing me to ponder about my writer’s block and possible solutions.
This late in the game it’s probably best to write anything, no matter how clunky the sentences are. Get those words on the page with the knowledge that I can shine it up later, because I can’t edit a blank page and if I don’t stop deleting what I write every evening then that’s all Iwillhave; a white, blank, page. How hard can it be to write a light-hearted festive romance? So, my own love life went up in a big ball of flames, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how lovefeels. All I need to do is forget about my own woes and get into the head of my heroine Hilary…
While I have the satisfaction of washing these windows, I picture my heroine and what she yearns for. A Parisian romance? Parisian Christmas romance. What’s so hard about clearing the mind and getting into the zone? Nothing. I dream of a hero for Hilary who woos hisamour, whispering sweet nothings… as he gently?—
‘It’s nice to see a cleanup finally happening but what about the windows above those?’
