‘Oh. My request still stands.’
‘Fine.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve sent Giselle a text to ask. If not, I’ll call Aunt Odette.’ Our aunt lives just outside of the Boulevard Périphérique, which is a ring road that circles the twenty arrondissements of Paris. When I try to describe the order of the arrondissements to people, I always think of it as a snail shell curling around from the 1st arrondissement in the middle all the way out to the 20th.
‘Please not Aunt Odette!’
‘Why? She’s lovely.’
‘She’s still holding a grudge after that Christmas prank that went awry a few years ago.’
I slap my head. ‘So she’s out then. Anyway, let’s see what Giselle says first. Let’s get some lunch and we can make a plan in the quiet.’
‘Music to my ears.’
‘Don’t forget your laptop.’
The backpackers have gone for the day, so I send Juliette a message:
We’ll be away until Friday. I hope the renovations and subsequent mess won’t bother you too much.
Half an hour later we meet back in the lobby with our bags. I find JP to let him know we’ll be staying locally, and he can contact me by phone if he needs to. ‘Sure, sure. Probably for the best. The damaged ceilings will come down today and that’s a messy, dusty job.’
‘Merci. We’re having lunch at La Closerie des Lilas first if you run into any problems.’ Why am I suddenly protective of the hotel? As much as I want to escape the chaos, I also feel some sort of separation anxiety. What is that about?
‘I’m sure we’ll be fine. See you back here on Friday.’
While it’s full steam ahead at the hotel, we can get started on the branding and the website remodel. There might even be time to write a solid first chapter. Which will lead to a second chapter…
I’m surprised to feel a pang leaving the hotel, but I know it’s safe in JP’s capable hands. In the short time we’ve been at L’Hotel du Parc, the place has grown on me, and that’s not just the mould talking. While it might be a seventies horror story, it has the potential to be so much more. It’s got good bones and is in a great location. If I shut my eyes, I can picture future guests dressed to impress in the library, champagne glasses held aloft,the tinkling of their laughter, the soft expressions of people on holidays where no alarm clocks are necessary.
‘Why are we having lunch so far away? It’s a fifteen-minute walk at least.’ She flicks me an impatient look.
As always, Manon is ruled by her stomach. If she doesn’t eat on schedule her grumbling gene is activated, and we’ve well and truly missed that deadline.
‘Thatisnearby. It’s just on the other side of Jardin du Luxembourg.’ I hold my bag with one arm and link my elbow through Manon’s to help drag her along. ‘We’re going there for research. La Closerie des Lilaswas a well-known haunt for literary greats in the Roaring Twenties. Ernest Hemingway wrote about the restaurant inA Moveable Feast. It’s rumoured to be the spot where F. Scott Fitzgerald showed Hemingway his manuscript forThe Great Gatsby, and on it goes. So much literary history under one roof.’
‘You and your literary history.’ Cue the dramatic eye roll. Once her blood sugar has been evened out, I’ll get the real Manon back.
We cut through thejardin, past la fontaine Médicis, one of the prettiest fountains in Paris with its cascading flora and vibrant colourful flowers. It’s like something out of a storybook. Even the cold weather doesn’t dissuade people from finding a spot to sit and chat, or to read while the water laps gently in the breeze.
‘It’s sort of crazy to think some of the suites are being stripped today,’ I say. ‘Stage one, a fresh start for the boutique literary hotel, for which we’ve yet to figure out a fitting name!’
‘Oui,it has to be perfect. We can come up with a shortlist over the next few days. Most important is to figure out how to update the antiquated booking system on the website. But all that aside, it’s going to be fun, spending Christmas in a hotel rather than atmaman’s, getting bossed about and told to keep my elbows off the table.’
Growing up, I spent every second Christmas with Manon and her family when I visited on school holidays after we moved to Suffolk when I was a child. Mypèredidn’t want me to lose my French connection with family, language and culture, so it was agreed us cousins would be sent back and forth as much as possible over school breaks. Manon visited us every alternate year for Christmas so we’ve always been as close as sisters. ‘You rile her up on purpose. Why can’t you just keep your elbows off the table for the sake of peace?’
‘Then what will we have to talk about?’
I shake my head at the memories of Manon, an only child, making merry hell on her mother. Aunt Josephine is reserved and a little aloof, but that’s just her way. She’s all about conduct and decorum and the universe gave her a daughter like Manon who pushed against rules and regulations and refused to play the part. While they’ve always bickered and remained stubborn in their convictions, there’s no question they love each other.
We come to Boulevard Saint-Michel and cross at the busy corner to La Closerie des Lilas, one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. While it’s a tourist hotspot because of its history, abundant greenery and its beautiful façade, it’s also well known for its authentic French bistro food. I’ll add this to the guide we make for our bibliophile guests, a literary map of Paris they can use to easily find all these hidden gems. While I’ve dined here a handful of times, I’ve never paid much attention to the literary aspect, hence the visit today.
We speak to a waiter, and I tell him I want to learn about the history of the place. He gives me a wide smile, as if he’s used to being questioned this way. ‘You’ll want to sit at the bar, then?’
‘Ah –oui?’
He leads us to the dark wood, leather-upholstered bar area. The moody aesthetic has that whole dark academia vibe that seems fitting for wintry days. ‘Here is Hemingway,’ he says, and I startle, expecting to turn around and find the author himself propped up at the bar. Instead, there’s a golden plaque bearing the name ‘E. Hemingway’ bolted to the wood itself. ‘Each table has a plaque. There’s Oscar Wilde, Emile Zola, Honoré de Balzac, Ezra Pound, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Samuel Beckett, to name a few,’ the waiter says. ‘Their legacy lives on here at La Closerie,non?’
‘Magnifique.’Literature is celebrated in Paris, revered like art and music.
