‘I guess in the seventies it was groundbreaking.’
I laugh. ‘We’ll keep this lobby and guest lounge for its intended purpose and spruce up the reception desk. While the sofas are ugly, they’ve held up well. We can find some fabric and reupholster them.’
Manon throws herself on the only sofa not littered with junk, making dust motes dance around her. ‘I can confirm the sofas are comfortable and worth recovering. We can shop for fabrics at Place Saint Pierre at the foot of Montmartre. It’s the heart of discount fabrics. A textile heaven with all sorts, from silks, linens, cashmere, to buttons, ribbons.’
‘I love that idea.’ I make a note on my phone. ‘I’ll watch some tutorials on how to reupholster sofas. But drapes.’ I gaze at the ones hanging by the windows, that are ruched and gathered like an old ball dress. It’s nice in theory, but the avocado-green is grey with dust in all the folds. ‘Something simple, sheer perhaps would be a better alternative. How handy are you with a sewing machine?’
‘I’ll only stitch my fingers together. We can buy ready-made sheer sets in Montmartre at Marché Saint Pierre, for a fraction of the cost of custom-made drapery.’
‘Parfait.’ I survey the room once more. ‘The flimsy retro wall prints can be ditched. Lights can stay. According to the inspection report done at the conclusion of the sale, all the electrics in the hotel are in good working order and up to code.’ The lighting is surprisingly pretty. A golden crystal chandelier hangs charmingly in the middle of the room and the wall sconces only need a clean and polish. ‘We can repaint the walls in a rich cream and add some bookshelves. All in all, nottoomuch work in this area.’ From the outside, it looked a lot worse.
‘Nottoomuch work? Says you, with her delicate writer hands who won’t be doing most of the manual labour.’
I’ll have to help even though my deadline looms. ‘Manual labour just might cure my writer’s block.’
Never in my fifteen-year career have I suffered with a block like this. Suddenly I can’t write happy ever afters. When I envisage my characters, they’re knife-wielding maniacs. Ishouldreach out to my literary agent Margaret and get her advice, but I’m terrified she’ll be disappointed and potentially drop me as a client. I don’t think I can suffer losing another relationship, even if it’s a professional one.
I’m hoping the problem magically restores itself and the words pour out of me, but so far that hasn’t happened. My deadline is a week away, so that’s not good either. While I’m a prolific writer, I’m not quitethatfast. I swallow down the dread of having to tell Margaret my words have frozen for the foreseeable and turn back to the matter at hand.
‘There’s a salon off to the right of the lobby. I thought we could make it into a guest relaxation area, a space for aperitifs and cocktails. If we keep with the gold baroque theme from the reception area, we could make this room slightly moodier: dark paint, luxe velvet drapes, Louis XVI replica furniture.’
Manon lifts a brow. ‘SoundsveryGatsby.’
‘And? It will be a boutique hotel, after all. It has to be a little bit bourgeois.’ Manon stares hard at me like I’m missing the point. I guess I am because what’s wrong with wanting the place to feel luxurious?
‘Only the hot guy next door might take offence if the hotel décor is the same as his bar.’
I wave her concerns away. ‘Hardly. It’s a Parisian aesthetic that’s been around forever. Noah can’t lay claim to an interior design style just because he did it first. Besides, Gatsby is moreRoaring Twenties with all those geometric patterns and art deco touches. This will be more… refined, elegant.’
‘Where are you getting all the money for thiselegance? Last I checked, the budget was so tiny, I figured you’d missed a couple of zeroes.’
‘Merde.I know. We’ll have to scour flea markets or repurpose what we’ve got here for now.’
‘You could finish your book. That would help.’
‘That means I’d have to start it.’
‘You haven’t started it?’ Her thick black brows shoot up.
‘I have eleven thousand first chapters, but they’re no good unless I am indeed a thriller writer, which I am not.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why can’t I bloody get over this hurdle? ‘I’ve been a little busy what with falling apart and sewing voodoo dolls and all.’
‘You told me you were halfway through the manuscript!’
‘I lied.’
She cups her face. ‘Margaret is going tokillyou.’
My agent is well known in my family for her fiery temperament. ‘I wonder if there’s another unscrewed sign I can stand under? Maybe I can hold a streetlamp and hope for a bolt of lightning to strike?’
Manon rolls her eyes. ‘Sounds like a very grown-up way to deal with your problems. Let’s finish having a look around and then you can get writing.’
‘What’s the point?’ These swings in mood are intense! I’m stuck in a real-life rut. ‘It’s all so hopeless.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Manon is not one to let me get maudlin. ‘Keep holding on to the negatives, Anais.’
‘You’re right.’ I shake away the fear, the angst. I’m being insufferable and evenI’mtired of hearing myself whine. ‘So back to the salon. I’m envisaging it as a bar area but stacked withbooks as far as the eye can see. A plush and warm… Oh my god… Alibraryfor our guests!’
‘A library?’ Manon raises a thick brow.
