JP swings open the door and we take a tentative step inside. The suite smells… musty, like the rest of them. ‘The smell that I thought would outlast humanity, it’s gone! What was it?’
Manon’s face falls, as if she’s bitterly disappointed. ‘Was it mould? How utterly boring.’
Is JP grinning? ‘Therewasa body?—’
I gasp and Manon claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes ablaze with hope.
‘—A rat.’ I can’t help but shiver. The rats in Paris are rabbit sized. I’m not exaggerating. If you happen to walk along the edges of the garden surrounding the Eiffel Tower late at night, they have free rein, and youwillstep on one. They don’t seem to fear humans under the cover of darkness as they search for food.
Manon deflates, as I smile. ‘Where was it?’
‘Behind the vanity, so we had to replace the shelving because – it’s best if you don’t know every detail.’
I exhale a pent-up breath. ‘I’msoglad it wasn’t human.’
JP nods. ‘Me too. If there’s nothing else you needed me for, I’ll get back to work then? We’re hoping to get a lot of the demolition rubbish downstairs today before the skip is picked up and replaced with a fresh one.’
‘Merci,JP,’ I say.
‘Oui, merci,’ Manon says as an afterthought.
The big broad-shouldered guy blushes and gives Manon a shy smile, which she frowns at, as if she can’t translate the meaning of such a gesture. That or she’s toying with the poor fool. You never can tell with my wily cousin. ‘De rien.Au revoir.’ JP scratches the back of his neck as he backs away, his gaze firmly locked on Manon, who doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
‘Au revoir,’ I say as he ducks out, and I put the weird pause down to him not quite knowing how to deal with Manon. It happens a lot.
‘What about the literary aspect?’ Manon asks, jumping straight into the next thing as if JP isn’t a consideration at all. Perhaps I’m imagining the awkward atmosphere between the two of them. ‘How should we incorporate that in every guest suite aside from a curated selection of books for each guest? Stocked bookshelves? Themed rooms?’
I tap my chin, considering what would work best. ‘The Ritz Paris has suites named after icons. There’s Suite Coco Chanel. Charlie Chaplin, Windsor. Why don’t we do the same, but each room is named after a memoir set in Paris or by those who made Paris their home? There are so many evocative novels that share different eras of life in Paris.’
‘OK, throw me some titles.’
‘I’ll have to check my Goodreads list, but off the top of my head… um…’ I struggle to name many of the books I’ve read over time that have all added to the experience of living in Paris. ‘OK, how aboutThe Piano Shop on the Left Bank. Such a great novel about discovering a dormant passion in a little atelier, that for the life of me I’ve never been able to find. He kept it secret so the shop wasn’t bombarded.’
Manon pulls a face. ‘I mean, I like it, but isn’t it a little wordy for the name of a suite?’
I grin. ‘It is, but the quirkiness of such a thing appeals. Book lovers will get it. What aboutThe French Ingredient? An American woman who was so bold as to open a cooking school in Paris. It was unheard of!’ Manon’s brow furrows so I press on, becoming more taken with the idea as I remember other awe-inspiring memoirs. ‘Time was Soft Thereis a memoir about the author’s time as a Tumbleweed, a name given to those itinerants who blew in on the wind and were permitted to live and work inside the bookshop Shakespeare and Co. InAlmost French,the author navigates love in a new city in a language she doesn’t speak.’
‘You aresoeccentric. Although I must admit, it does sound rather fun and frivolous. Let me make a note of these names and we can choose the strongest contenders.’ She pulls her phone from a pocket and types in the book titles. ‘What about our writer in residence? The incomparable Anais De la Croix? Surely we get to name a suite after you, given all your bestselling romances?’
‘Non, merci. Plus, mine aren’t memoirs.’ As a writer, I don’t crave the limelight at all. In fact, I actively avoid it as much as I can and only do events like book tours, festivals and awards nights when Margaret demands it of me. Which is all the time. ‘That would be a bit arrogant, don’t you think?’
Manon shakes her head. ‘It would be sweet.’
‘Non, there are plenty of other books we can feature. There’sA Moveable Feast,the classic. OrMy Paris Dream.We’ll gift a copy of “their” special suite book on check in. Each suite will have a notebook in the room, for guests to pen their thoughts about what they read during their stay with us. Sort of like a guest book… for books. They can read what the previous guest wrote. I’ve already ordered bath caddies for the four suites and old-book-scented candles.’
‘Actually, some hotels offer a pillow menu, so why don’t we offer a reading pillow menu? There are all sorts, like tablet holder cushions, or chunky pillows with arm rests and back support. There’s full body-length pillows for those who sprawl when they read. Massaging neck pillows to relax those jetlagged readers. I’m sure we can find a selection and offer them to our guests upon check in.’
‘Great idea, Manon! We can advertise our very own reading pillow menu on social media closer to the time.’
‘Oui,there’s a few other things on our spreadsheet we need to get too. Let’s see if we can find some bookish décor at the markets,non? We need literary mugs for the coffee stations, cute library-card stamped cushions. Anyway, we’ve still got plenty of time for finessing. Let’s get back to work.’
‘Real work, as in manual labour?’
I nod. ‘Oui!Time to start painting!’
We’ve chosen a creamy white because of the golden cornicing, and I’d rather highlight that feature and keep the rooms light and bright, clean.
‘We have to paint so many walls.’ Manon has an air of defeat in her tone. Us painting saves a huge amount of money and while it’ll be tedious, it’s not hard, even though it does seem like a mammoth task. One step at a time. Painting seems so much easier than facing a blank screen on my laptop. The clock isticking, and my word count is exactly two. And those two words are: Chapter One.
