23
2 DECEMBER
JP and I stand outside gazing at the front façade of the hotelwhile he delivers what equates to bad news.Verybad news. ‘The windows in the guest lounge will need resealing, an expense we didn’t budget for. And the windows on the other side, near the laundry.’
As I survey the windows in the drizzly rain, my heart drops. Another surprise expense. Sure, natural light is a wonderful thing, but not when it comes time to pay for maintenance.
‘Is there any other way we can get around it?’ Short of scrunching up newspapers to fill the pockets of air whistling through, I’m sure there’s no other option but to do it properly for the sake of our guests, but JP might be able to pull a rabbit out of a hat and come up with a solution that’s… Oh, who am I kidding? Warmth, especially in winter, is crucial. They’ll need to be fixed, no two ways about it. We only discovered this problem after noticing the fresh paint in the guest lounge wasn’t quite drying and was dripping around the window frames, as the cold air came in. We’ll have to sand and repaint that area, but it’ll do for now. Drips are better than sunshine-yellow walls.
‘Non. It’s important, especially as winter is approaching.’
‘Oui.’ Rain falls on this grey day, matching my mood. ‘Is there any way to cut costs elsewhere?’
He lets out a long sigh. ‘We could but it would slow down the opening of the hotel. I know this isn’t ideal, but it’s necessary.’
‘What’s the estimate for the resealing?’ I ask and brace myself for the answer.
JP rattles off a figure that makes my eyes water. ‘Sorry.’
‘D’accord. It must be done.’
‘It’ll put us behind too, but we’ll do our best to catch up.’
‘I understand.’ JP gives me a nod and runs in out of the cold.
I think of the secret library and finding the hidden manuscript. Would it be mine to sell? The paperwork for the hotel said I own the hotel and all its chattels. But could I go against the wishes of a long-dead writer? She said,Keep my soul in peace, keep my last manuscript safe, but what does that actually mean? Really, I don’t even know if such a manuscript exists. I don’t know who she is. What if her writing is abysmal? Although, from reading her journals, I know it isn’t. It’s brave, bold and fierce, and deeply poignant at times. She writes with an eloquence of the time, but also strangely modern too, as if she was born of the wrong era, or else knew that traditional roles for women had to change.
There’s been no time to search through the room properly as the hotel work has been interminable with deliveries and painting, not to mention my writing, which seems to have turned into some kind of ode to Noah, of all people. I’m not sure what my muse is playing at.
Then there’s the financial concerns that pop up and are always at the forefront of my mind. These have the ability to keep me awake so I feel like I’m always running on empty.
I pull my coat tighter and glance down Rue de Vaugirard, smiling when I see so many businesses have decorated for Christmas now that’s it’s officially clicked over to December.Père Noël’s donkey stands tall out the front of Cépages et Fromages. In France, the donkey named Gui is the beast responsible for guiding Santa’s sleigh, and the name translated means Mistletoe, which is hung for good luck here, not a device for kissing, although the romantic in me prefers the idea of a surprise smooch.
Each lantern along the street is adorned with red-beaded garlands. All of Paris is illuminated to celebrate Christmas.
Noah exits from his bar, carrying various colours of tinsel.
‘Bonjour!’ he says cheerily and walks over with his hands up in surrender, as if I’m going to take a shotgun from my pocket and blow him away, although he does look rather farcical doing it with tinsel wrapped around his arms.
‘Erm,bonjour, Noah. I’m very busy so I’ll leave you?—’
Like the overbearing man he is, he cuts me off, not listening to a word I’ve uttered and says, ‘Give me a hand, would you? I want to string this up along the windows.’ More decorations? The man is Christmas mad. Secretly, I’m jealous. We haven’t done much in the way of decorating because everything continually gets covered in a film of dust with the renovations.
I hold in a sigh and take the end of a length of golden tinsel. ‘Wouldn’t it be better taping this up inside the window?’
‘Non, I’ve got Christmas string lights for that. I suppose you won’t be decorating? No need just yet, is there? Not while it’s still such a frightful mess.’
I reel back. Noah has the ability to get me on the back foot each and every time. ‘What do you mean a frightful mess?’ The lobby still holds a range of detritus to be removed, but that’s because things are constantly being moved there from other parts of the hotel. ‘We’ve cleaned the windows to a streak-free shine numerous times and hung posters that announce “Demande-moi pardon!I’m having a makeover”.So it’s fairlyeasy for passersby to compute that we’re not hoarding old bric-a-brac and the corpses of flatpack furniture just for fun.’
He gives me a loose disinterested shrug that is so offhand it makes me want to…
Hilary loved everything about Christmas, especially tinsel. It came in handy when you wanted to decorate or… decapitate. She wasn’t surprised to find her neighbour had purchased top-of-the-line tinsel. She thanked him for investing in its sturdiness as she wrapped it around his neck, smiling when his ruddy cheeks went from red to white…
I shake the madness away and hope my face doesn’t show my inner serial killer. What is happening to me? When I glance up at Noah, his mouth is a perfect O and his eyes are full of fear.
‘Ah – everything OK?’
He gazes at me suspiciously. ‘Did you say “decapitate”? You mumbled so I only caught?—’
