‘I’m not sure. Do you think these hidden suites have something to do with the writer?’
I think back to objects we sifted through in suite twenty. There was nothing that pointed to a writer: no books, no letter-writing paper, no typewriter; not even a fountain pen.
I drop my gaze to the key. I have the urge to run back to the hotel and, trust me, I don’t get an urge to run very often. Noah’s eyes twinkle; I sense he’s feeling the same way too. ‘There was nothing in suite twenty that would indicate a writer stayed there. Perhaps there could be in suite nineteen? It would make sense if they were reclusive to hide away in the rooms at the furthest point of the hotel, but why seal the suites up for all this time? What is it that they wanted to keep hidden?’
Noah lifts a shoulder. ‘Only one way to find out.’
‘Oui.’ I pocket the key. ‘We’re staying elsewhere for a bit so it’ll have to wait, but thanks for passing on the key, Noah.’
‘You’re welcome. I hope it fits.’ He glances at his watch. ‘So, two to four this afternoon. Can you ask them to keep the noise down just a little?’
I give him a solemn nod. ‘I’ll call JP now.’
He smiles and drinks the rest of his Kir and takes some euros from his pocket and places them on the bar.
‘Non, it’s—’ But he’s gone, back into the drizzly day.
Manon makes a show of pulling out her collar as if she’s hot and bothered. ‘Ouah, you two are sizzling together! It’s like… Pow. Pow, pow – pow! Those sparks, like fireworks. I wonder if I caught them on camera.’
‘What do you mean, caught them on camera?’
Manon takes her phone, zooms in on the photo and turns it to me. ‘Sparks!’ she says as if such a thing is tangible. I squint at the screen. She’s managed to catch the moment we both looked up from the antique key with awed expressions at the possibility of a literary mystery to solve. Drops of rain on the windows are caught through flickering candlelight, making it look like sparks are flying between us.
‘Those are candlelight rain drops.’
‘Really?’ she groans. ‘The universe is still throwing signs directly your way and yet you’re still blind to them. What will it take?’
‘For what? I told you romance is dead and buried. My heart is a no-go zone. Closed for business. And sure, Noah did the right thing sharing the key with us, but did you hear him before that? He’s bossy and unyielding.’
Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Truth-bomb time: since the divorce,you’rebossy and unyielding.’
‘Exactly. So no man will ever get the better of me again. I’m sick to death of the opposite sex telling me what I can and can’t do, like my divorce lawyers, who carried on the farce for so long draining me of money, knowing winning was futile but urgingme to continue to fight a losing battle and increase their billable hours. Noah is no exception. Fine, he might be hot in that suave, cocktail-swilling, intense masculinity, broody way, but he’s still a guy who is attempting to control me and that means he’s going to learn the hard way that I’m no pushover.’
Manon’s shoulders droop. ‘What about his event today then?’
I sigh. ‘I’ll call JP and ask about minimising noise for the sake of his customers, but we can’t stop altogether. Noah has to learn that he can’t stomp around and expect the world to fall at his feet. I’m over men trying to orchestrate my life. Delete that photo.’
‘Non, I will not. Let’s eat or I will die.’ Manon clocks the waiter returning with our meals, who motions to a nearby table for us to sit to eat more comfortably. The plaque on this table readsS DE Beauvoir, better known as Simone De Beauvoir, a French writer famous for her revolutionary ideas around feminism.
I make a note to research the plaques on each table for the literary map before I find JP’s number and call to explain the situation about our surly neighbour. JP complains about time constraints and his scheduling, but agrees to try his best to reduce the noise between 2 and 4p.m.
After I end the call, I say, ‘Bon appétit.’ But Manon is already digging into her lunch with great gusto. Once our plates are cleared, we order café crèmes and pull out our laptops. We chat for a while about a literary name for the hotel, but nothing sounds quite right.
‘I’ll start redesigning the website because that’s going to be a big job, making the booking system more efficient,’ Manon says. ‘We’ll also need to take photos but we can’t do that now, and of course we need the new hotel name, but I can make a start at least.’
‘Oui. I’ll look for suppliers for the items we need, mattresses and linens specifically.’ I spend an hour trawling through various websites and sending enquiries, but I’m distracted. The mystery of room nineteen is far too enticing to let go.
I google ‘reclusive writer living at L’Hotel du Parc’, but nothing comes up. Not one hit. Did Noah make it up? Surely not. If it’s a mystery from the twenties, I presume there’s not much online about it, but it’s strange there’s not a whisper. Not even an outrageous conspiracy theory to work with.
My phone beeps again with a text message from Giselle:
Bonjour, Anais, of course you’re always welcome to stay and so is your cousin. Key is in the lockbox by the door, the code is 9876.
‘Giselle is happy for us to stay. We can return to the hotel on Friday afternoon to meet with JP before they finish work for the weekend.’
Finally, I open my Word document and promise myself I’m going to write one paragraph, then two and then a page.
Rain lashed the windows of the La Closerie des Lilas as Hilary sipped her café crème and considered the new man in her life. Or what was left of him.
