Within a month, he’d put the offer in and somehow had me co-sign, though I don’t remember ever seeing any contract of sale, or recall signing any important paperwork. When I questioned him about this, he’d put my forgetfulness down to being distracted by a writing deadline. I do often live inside my imagination towards the end of a deadline; the real world becomes hazy as my fictional world becomes front and centre of my mind.
Now, musing about the nuts and bolts of our marriage, I can’t see a divorce being an issue. I can sign the hotel and its eyewatering mortgage over to him, he can repay the hefty deposit I paid for it, and I’ll keep the apartment. It’s only fair, since he’s never worked a day in all the time we’ve been married.
The vision of them coupled on my bed suddenly flashes in my mind and it’s all I can do to keep my emotions at bay. How could he do this to me? I’d never suspected a thing. I get the attention of the waiter. ‘A bottle of champagne,s’il vous plaît.’
‘Celebrating?’ he asks and lifts a brow.
Commiserating? ‘Something like that.’ When he returns and pops the cork, I toast myself. I toast Kiss Films. I toast endings. And new beginnings. I’ll do what I always do and throw myself into my work. Writing sweeping epic romances. With that, I finally burst into messy tears.
3
1 NOVEMBER
After Noah, the Ernest Hemingway wannabe, vanishes, I put the key in the lock of my very own hotel. Me, a hotelier; who’d have thought? Despite my misgivings, it’s sort of exciting to finally explore the place in person. All I’ve seen previously is some rather grainy photos online and on the hotel’s website gallery itself, which painted the place in a much better light, if you’re into seventies décor, that is. Francois-Xavier had invited me to visit the hotel many times, but I always refused, telling him I’d take a tour once he’d done it up. Deep down, I sensed that I’d panic if I found the place derelict and would’ve felt trapped by it, by him, by a marriage that clearly wasn’t working, but at that point I wasn’t even being honest withmyselfabout the wheels falling off around me.
We step into the lobby with its sunshine-yellow walls that are so bright it’s headache inducing. ‘Oh god, look at that cobweb,’ Manon says. ‘It’s like a portal into another world. How big do you think the spider is that made it?’
The web is abnormally large and sends shivers down my spine. ‘Get rid of it.’
‘Moi?’
‘Toi,’ I confirm. ‘Not only are you here for moral support, heavy lifting, painting the high bits and the low bits, and being the cheerleader and shoulder to cry on, you’re also the chief spider wrangler.’
Her jaw drops. ‘And so, what, you get to paint the easy middle bits?’
‘No, I’ll be writing a sparkly shiny Christmas romantic comedy for release next year.’ Or staring at a blank screen. Or having my heroine Mrs Claus lace the gingerbread with laxatives because she’s sick of her husband’s lies. Wait. Maybe that’s me inserting myself inside my own stories again, dammit. ‘You can do the middle too, but you have to cut in the top and bottom first,’ I joke. It will be all hands on deck to get this hotel up and running on the budget we have. The quicker we open – even a few rooms – the better for the monthly mortgage repayments that eat away at my savings at an alarming rate.
Right now, the place is quiet, not a backpacker in sight. They must exit onto the back lane and come and go that way, rather than through the lobby, because the wooden parquetry is dusty with disuse.
Manon sighs. ‘I thought I was doing the fun stuff like the website, and now I’m the painter and the spider relocator?’
‘Relocator? I think you mean remover.’ I make a stabbing gesture.
‘You want me tokillit?’
How is she not understanding this? One arachnid can easily become two and on it goes. ‘Oui, or we run the risk of it coming straight back to its home. Look at the size of that web. You’re going to need a chainsaw to cut through it.’
‘But look at those diaphanous strings catching the light…’
‘Christmas garlands are just as glittery in the muted light and much prettier to look at,non? We can go wild and decorate as soon as the renovations are done.’ What I don’t say is we’ll showthat guy next door that I am not going to ruin Christmas; far from it. I’ll deck the halls, all right.
‘Fine. I’ll rehome the spider, farfaraway. You deal with the web.’
‘I suppose that’s fair.’
Manon pings the web with an index finger and the spider comes running from its hidden hellscape. It makes my skin crawl. I don’t want to see her pick up the beast, so I go looking for a broom and find one in a utility closet. I swipe at the web and pray that’s the only portal-size example we’re going to run into.
When Manon returns, she dusts her hands on her jean-clad legs. ‘Right, let the tour commence!’
The lobby has a curved reception desk and large mirror, reflecting my startled face back at me. Is that how I always look? Like I’m slightly shellshocked.
To the left of the lobby is a guest lounge. It’s spacious and would be full of light if the windows weren’t so grimy. Bottle-green velour sofas sit in the centre of the room and all but one are laden with boxes and stacks of old newspapers and magazines. There’s a mound of broken-down flatpack furniture dumped haphazardly in a corner.
While the guest lounge is a mess, there are redeeming features: the polished wood parquetry is in good condition, the ceiling roses are ornate, and the thick gold cornicing is intricate, like something you’d see in a chateau. ‘This French baroque style’ – I point upwards – ‘is stunning. Perhaps we can work with that? Go backwards in time and present the hotel in a more luxe manner. Navy blues, creams and golds, marble tabletops, that kind of thing.’
‘Very Versailles.’
‘Doesn’t everyone wish to live in a palace? If we can recreate the look with the existing features, it would be quite anachievement. We’d be preserving what’s here. The ceiling itself is magnificent and the gold cornicing will look so much better once we lose the yellow walls. What were theythinking?’
