‘It wouldn’t be mine to sell, it would be her family’s, or her estate, or whatever. Plus, she has expressly asked for the last manuscript to be kept safe. As a writer, I couldn’t go against those wishes, and as a human it wouldn’t be right.’
Manon slaps her forehead. ‘You and your morals.’
I laugh. ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t read the manuscript if we find it.’
‘There’s hope for you yet.’
I laugh. ‘One issue has been solved.’
Manon’s brows pull together. ‘What’s that?’
‘The name of our hotel will be L’Hôtel Bibliothèque Secrèt.’
‘The Secret Library Hotel!Magnifique!’
The next evening, I sit at my desk, laptop open, and wait for inspiration to strike. I wait and wait. And I wait. I tell myself just to write one tiny little sentence. Just one. How hard can itbe? There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet; I just need to arrange those letters to form a word, and soon a sentence will appear, then a paragraph. Then a page. Simple.
I remind myself that, if I don’t meet my deadline extension, Margaret will drop me, and my readers will be disappointed there’s no Christmas book next year.
When Hilary locked eyes with the brooding man in the café on Boulevard Saint Germain, she felt a frisson of something. Was it love, lust or… murderous rage?
I cup my head. Why can’t I write? I delete the sentence and sigh. Perhaps I’ll find a little inspiration reading the notebooks of our mysterious author. I take one from my desk, inhaling the scent of the parchment. It smells like ink, like vanilla. Who was she? Why did she leave her pseudonymandhusband behind?
As I read the flowery cursive words, an unhappy picture forms. It seems even the passage of time hasn’t changed human nature. Our anonymous writer found her husband in flagrante delicto with a member of their household staff. I can relate.
This husband of hers also kept every penny she’d made writing, and threatened that, if she left him, he would tell everyone she was mad; the household staff would back him up, and he’d ruin her reputation. He was easily enraged and she feared for her life.
I must leave for my own sanity. While he may do his best to besmirch me, he cannot take away the words I am yet to pen. Those words, they are all that matter. I’ll never publish another novel as long as I shall live, thus he cannot profit from me. That will be the best revenge. The man is dangerous. I must tread ever so carefully.
My pulse races at the entry. I have to show Noah! Manon’s right. She will care not one jot about this, but I know he will. And maybe he can help me solve the identity of who this mysterious author is. But can I trust him with a secret as big as this? Perhaps I can give him some breadcrumbs, not the whole loaf, and see what he makes of it.
I swipe on some lipstick and head next door, only to see Noah through the window, in his element behind the bar, throwing cocktail shakers and joking with the small crowd who are dressed in reindeer ears and Christmas jumpers.
Perhaps he’s hosting a work Christmas do? It’s a Saturday night, probably his busiest time, so I don’t bother interrupting. When he notices I’m hovering outside, he waves me in. I wave back and leave it at that. I suddenly feel protective of the mysterious writer, so maybe it’s best I delve into this alone to ensure her last wishes of not only her manuscript being kept safe if I ever find it, but also her secrets.
20
24 NOVEMBER
By Sunday evening, the lobby hall is painted – begone, sunshine-yellow walls! – and we’ve spruced up the reception desk by hiding it behind a few plant pots with leafy ferns we picked up at the market for a song.
Manon’s looped red tinsel around the plants even though all this area will most likely get dusty as work continues in the hotel and we’ll need to clean it all time and again. ‘That’s it, I quit.’ I put my hands on my hips and arch my back. I’m toy-soldier stiff. It radiates from my neck down every muscle, some I’m sure I’ve never used before. ‘Maybe the words will spill now, because any excuse would do to not have to hold another paintbrush. The crick in my neck feels permanent, like I’ll fall over backwards when I try to go forwards.’
‘We’ve done a great job.’
I don’t remind her how many other rooms we’ve got to do.
While I’m physically drained, I feel inspired by our accomplishments. My fingers tingle to write, which is a positive sign. ‘Who knew backbreaking labour would be a potential cure for writer’s block?’
Manon gives me the side eye. ‘Cure or avoidance of said backbreaking labour?’
I let out a laugh. ‘Both, probably.’
‘I need dinner. It’s well past my designated mealtime.’
In the laundry, we clean our paintbrushes and trays before going to the kitchen area. I take cheese and charcuterie from the fridge while Manon slices a baguette. We’ve been living on simple slap-together meals, and I do look forward to shopping and stocking up the larder so we can cook some proper dishes, but, at the end of a long day painting or rushing around, neither of us can be bothered cooking.
‘I checked with the supplier about the delivery for our mattresses. There was an issue with the ones we ordered but it’s sorted now and they’re being delivered tomorrow.’
