I’d been searching for my own real-life hero after writing romances for so long, and then he stepped into my life, dashing and debonair, a book-smart bibliophile who wasn’t shy in admitting that he read romance novels because he enjoyed happy ever afters. The man said all the right things. He checked every box and then some. It felt like I magicked the perfect hero to my heroine – finally! A sweeping romance off the pages, starring me, the then thirty-two-year-old dreamer, with a dreamboat by her side forevermore. One month into our relationship, he proposed, and insisted on a quickie wedding, much to the alarm of my friends and family. But not to me. I’d been enraptured by him and certain he was my soulmate. Our marriage lasted five years and was not the fairytale I expected it would be. Well, five and a half if you want to count how long it took to divorce him and get him out of my life for good.
‘How did I believe in the fantasy?’ Honestly, love-drunk should be outlawed.
Manon shakes her head. ‘Swindlers like that always find a weak spot, and he found yours. And phoniesalwayshave a double-barrelled name; that should have been your first clue.’ She pulls the sucked lemon face – an expression Manon uses most, as if life is always a touch distasteful for her liking. ‘Doesn’t it just scream ego? “Bonjour, I’m Francois-Xavier Giradot.”’ She postures up as if she’s my ex, and with a deep voice says, ‘I’m a fake, a phony and a flop between the sheets.’
Gloom settles in my poor, bruised heart. I don’t mention that, as far as pep-talks go, this isn’t exactly helping. But Manon is using everything in her toolbox to draw me out of myself and, really, her impersonation is spot on. So why does it still hurt so much?
I’d had a huge amount of success with my books right around the time Francois-Xavier appeared in my life – coincidence, I think not. What I should have done was get a prenup, but stupid me in love-bubble land didn’t feel it was necessary. He got the apartment in Le Marais and I got this rundown mess. Really, I should have done my due diligence when I found out early on that he came from a family of lawyers, although he didn’t work at the firm – or at all, it turns out. Their legal team buried me, creating so much paperwork for my own lawyer I had no choice but to settle or end up penniless from fees alone. For a smart woman, I really dropped the ball. That stabby rage returns and my fingers itch to write him into a book and torture him. I’m not sure if this is a healthy response or if I’m losing touch with reality.
Silent tears stream down my face, catching me unawares. This lack of control over my own bodily functions is alarming, but there’s not much I can do about it. Surely tears aren’t a never-ending resource? I’m hoping eventually the waterworks will dry up. The man doesn’tdeservemy tears, but for thelife of me I can’t control these visceral reactions. Perhaps it’s humiliation driving the engine. Who knows?
I swipe uselessly at my face, my fingers coming away blackened with mascara. I must look a fright.
‘Bonjour, bonjour.’ A man wearing a beanie approaches. He’s got a whiff of a young Ernest Hemingway about him, with his intense masculinity and cheeks ruddy from the cold. There’s a wild robustness to the guy, as he speaks in American-accented French. When he smiles, his eyes sparkle as if he’s about to impart a secret. I get a jolt at his sudden appearance. It could be that he reminds me of the long-dead charismatic author. That or it’s his disarming rugged good looks; either way I’m intrigued, and an alert goes off in my brain. He’s main-character material and I’ve learned my lesson the hard way when a man like that comes along not to fall for it. I must remain on guard.
‘You must be the new hotelier?’
‘Oui.’ Hotelier. Me. The idea is preposterous, yet here we are. ‘I’m Anais and this is my cousin Manon.’ I hold out a hand to shake, but he either doesn’t see it or is uncertain about what might have discoloured my fingers black and doesn’t want to risk transfer onto his big man hands. Once more I surreptitiously wipe my mascara tears and pull my coat in tight.
‘I’m Noah.’ He motions to the property next door to the hotel. ‘I own La Génération Purdue Wine Bar.’ The Lost Generation Wine Bar; how apt.
We have ourselves a literature fan.
American men have a different intensity to their French counterparts. Or maybe it’s just this man who speaks French well but has a fervency with his body language as he does so. Like he’s coiled, ready to spring into action to get his point across. I wonder if that’s due to not being understood when he originally started learning French. That or he’s got a chip on his shoulder and is ready to battle. I laugh at my mad musings. Theman is just here to welcome us and here I am catastrophising that he’s some evil villain!
Still sniffling, and unable to get a handle on it, I survey the dark façade of my neighbour’s bar. It features an indulgent art deco black and gold aesthetic with geometric ornamentation. Behind the window there are sepia-toned framed pictures of Ezra Pound, Sylvia Beach and T. S. Eliot.
The Lost Generation – a term named for the period of time those literary greats reached adulthood after the war – was almost like rebellion, a coming-of-age for creatives. Expat American writers, readers and poets threw off the shackles of the past in a post-World War One era and lived bohemian Parisian literary lives on their own terms. The phrase was coined by Gertrude Stein and included famous faces such as Hemingway, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, and Sylvia Beach.
‘Your bar is lovely,’ I say, meaning it. I’m about to compliment it further and tell him I’m a literature fan too when he gets in first.
‘The thing is, rubbish like this drives my customers away.’ He points to the shattered pieces of the L’Hotel du Parc sign littering the pavement. Ah, now his coiled intensity makes sense. Hewasreadying himself to reprimandme. My instincts were correct! ‘It’s not a good look for the neighbourhood. Not to mention the hotel itself, which is unsightly and getting worse by the day with it being so… desolate.’
Just like me. Maybe this hotel and I are a good match, after all.
Still, who does this stranger think he is, admonishing me when I’ve been here all of five minutes? Noah doesn’t stop there though. His monologue continues as he harps on about a range of hotel maintenance issues that impinge on his business. For a hot guy he’s really annoyingly verbose. ‘While it’s only the beginning of November, Christmas will soon be here, and withthat comes many tourists, whose custom keeps us going. Rue de Vaugirard must look its best for the festive season.’
With every sullen word, my leaky eyes dry up. His voice becomes white noise that matches my white-hot rage. What the hellisit with men lately?
‘Excusez moi.’ I hold up a hand to stop his rambling and give him a sweet, deadly smile that belies my inner fury. ‘Do you make a habit of approaching a clearly upset woman and making demands upon her? Can you not see this isn’t the right time?’
Confusion dashes across his face. He surveys me closely as if he’s only really seeing me now. ‘I ah?—’
I fill my lungs, readying myself to retaliate. ‘A few moments ago, this sign almost killed me, and you have the audacity to stomp over here and tell me it needs to be cleaned up. I haven’t had a chance yet to put my key in the lock and you’re complaining that my hotel is bringing down the look of the entire 6th arrondissement?’ My voice rises as I continue my own tirade. ‘How dare you call it desolate, as if there’s no hope!’ Manon presses my shoulder as if to quieten me, but I will not be silenced any more. ‘And to imply I’m going to ruinChristmas? That’s insulting.’ A Parisian Christmas is like no other. It’s a winter wonderland for young and old and happens to be my favourite time of year, but this Grinch is trying to stop my sleigh bells from jingling. ‘Who made you the boss anyway?’
Noah grimaces and, with his hands up in surrender, he takes a tentative step back, like he’s afraid I’m a wild reindeer gone rogue and about to attack. And maybe I am. Blitzen goes berserk! ‘I’ve clearly picked the wrong time for this… ah, discussion, so I’ll leave you for now. In fact, I can clean up the sign; will that help?’
Oh, he is the limit! ‘What, because I’m a woman I can’t do manual labour, is that it?’
His eyes widen and Ithinkhe lets out a yelp. Hard to tell when there’s a storm raging in my head making it difficult to hear the world around me. Manon pulls so hard on my arm, I nearly fall over. ‘What!’ I screech, facing her.
‘You know I love a good rage-fest, but, seriously, take a breath. It’s Francois-Xavier you’re mad at, not Noah.’ If Manon is telling me to calm down, my behaviour must be bad.
My cousin turns to Noah and blurts, ‘Anais isn’t quite herself at the moment. Her husband had an affair, so now she sees all men as the enemy.’
‘Manon!’ Her frank admission is mortifying. But is she right? Am I looking at all men like they’re the antagonist in my own story? Surely that’s a normal part of the process when you’ve had an upset like this?
My writer’s brain whirs into action.
