‘And the linen too?’
‘Oui.’ I eat quickly, eager to get writing in the hope that the block is a thing of the past. ‘I’m off to write.’ I put my plate in the sink and leave Manon to it.
In my suite, I open up my laptop and begin to type.
Snow fell as Hilary made her way down the cobblestoned street near the Louvre. Her Parisian adventure had only just begun when she’d met a dashing Frenchman who…
Who what? Made her heart sing. Pulse race?
I’m internally cheering. One full sentence. Progress! I knit my fingers and stretch them out, readying myself for a long writing session, when there’s a thump of bass. No matter. Paris is a noisy city and I am a professional. In my desk drawer I find my noise-cancelling headphones and slip them on. The pumping of the bass increases. Where is it coming from?
I take a steadying breath. It does not matter. It does not exist in this fictional world. Where was I? Hilary. How she feelsabout the dashing Frenchman. Does she feel rapture? Lust? Excitement? I picture my heroine with her straight blonde bob and China blue eyes. She’s no nonsense. Has a take-charge persona. Doesn’t suffer fools. She?—
‘Bonsoir, Bonsoir!Welcome to The Lost Generation Wine Bar! Tonight we have local death metal band, Pandemic, playing a set for you.’
How loud does the man have to be for his patrons to hear him in his tiny little bar? Is he using a megaphone? And a death metal band? It doesn’t sound very Roaring Twenties to me.
I vow not to let him disrupt the flow of my writing. I stretch once more and try to get back into the headspace of my heroine. Hilary, black hair. Or was it blonde? Gah, it’s no use. The thumping starts in earnest, so loud I’m sure the walls are shaking. Is this some kind of retaliation for the renovations?
I pull my headphones off and stomp downstairs and bump straight into Manon, who is dancing around the lobby in time to the music. ‘Who knew Noah had such good taste?’ she screams to be heard.
‘Good taste? How can this even be called music? It’s horrific. I’m going to go over there and give him a piece?—’
‘Yeah! Me too!’
‘What?’ She clearly can’t hear me. How do the other neighbours let this sort of thing fly? As predicated, Noah is a hypocrite of the finest order. Whatever noise we make renovating makes his teeth grind, yet he hosts a death metal band that’s so loud I’m sure the Eiffel Tower is shaking on its foundations.
My rage builds as I head to the exit. Manon grabs my arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘NEXT DOOR!’
‘C’est bon!Let me get my coat and I’ll join you.’
I frown, confused. ‘I’m not going for the… music! I’m going to talk to Noah about the noise pollution. It’s a disgrace!’
Disappointment dashes over her features. ‘Noise pollution? It’s not that loud.’
‘I can’t hear you!’
With hands over my ears, I make my way to The Lost Generation Wine Bar. Noah stands by the front door in the crisp evening air, smiling and joking with patrons who are queuing to get in.
I tap him on the shoulder. When he turns to me, the smile slips straight off his face. Typical. I’m so riled up I don’t speak; I rely on an extreme eyebrow raise and the cords twanging in my elongated exposed neck to get my point across.
‘Do you need medical help?’ he asks, his face pinched with worry. ‘Did you… ingest?—’
‘What?’
His expression changes to relief. ‘Ah, sorry. You had your neck stuck out like a giraffe, and that surprised look on your face. I thought you needed medical attention, but I see my error. Were you just…? In pain, or?—?’
The hide of this man! ‘Oui, I’m in a lot of pain. Because I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK.’
‘Is this about the writer’s block? Manon told me all about it.’
I’m going to kill her. But first I’ll ask where to hide a dead body. And then I’ll kill her.
‘Non, it’s not about that.’
‘Well,’ he says jovially, throwing an arm around my shoulders as if we’re long-lost friends. ‘Whatever it is, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll even let you skip the queue, since you so clearly need to get out of your own head.’
