Day one and I’m on breakfast duty for our very first guest, who has woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Although her noise complaint is fair, she was up at 3a.m. smoking in the dining room and never mentioned the pumping of the bass at that point. Still, we’ll have to warn guests that this does happen every now and then when Noah hosts his up-and-coming bands. At least it wasn’t death metal this time!
‘Sorry, it’s not usually that loud. Every now and then our neighbour holds an evening like that with live music to help aspiring musicians in Paris.’ I’m exhausted myself. I knew I wasn’t cut out for life as a hotelier. My exhaustion is soon replaced by shock when Francois-Xavier pads downstairs.
‘How did you get in here?’ I hiss.
He gives me an oily smile and joins Renee at the table. ‘I’m with my girlfriend.’
Of all the… ‘Girlfriend?’
‘Oui, perhaps my future wife.’ He gives her shoulder a squeeze. This is farcical. Absurd. But it’s so very much in fitting with Francois-Xavier and the way he responds when he’s got his eye on the prize. The prize being the hotel and whatever information he can gather.
‘Renee has paid for a suite for one person, not two.’
‘You can amend the booking,’ she says, leaning over to give him a long, loud kiss.
How can this be happening? ‘Seriously, Francois-Xavier? Why are you doing this? I’m finally back on my feet after what you did.’
‘WhatIdid?’ He faces Renee. ‘I made mistakes, I admitted that. Anais wouldn’t even try couples’ therapy.’
I scoff. ‘Couples’ therapy? That’s the first I’ve heard of that.’
He shakes his head sadly as if I’m the one who let him down and not the other way around. ‘I’ll admit it’s a strange coincidence that I found my next great love at the Trocadero Christmas Market. There I was, taking a photograph of our beautiful La tour Eiffel, as she sparkled under the moonlight in her special Christmas colours. No matter how long I’ve lived in this wondrous city, it never gets old. The Trocadero is the best spot for photographs, and then,voilà, Renee appeared, and it wasle coup de foudre!’
Love at first sight? Didn’t they meet right out the front of the hotel though? He will spin it any which way he can to fit his narrative and subsequent plotting…
‘Ooh, I love it when you speak French,’ Renee says. ‘Say something else.’
‘Je t´aime infiniment.’
Her face lights up. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I love you endlessly.’
It’s too early for this farce and there’s not enough coffee in the world to be able to make sense of the tableaux in front of me.
‘Help yourselves to breakfast, and I’ll be adding another guest to your account, Renee. If you could square that away before you head out today.’
‘Head out? We’ll be staying in.’ She cups his face and wiggles her nose against his.
And that’s enough of that for one day. Well, until our family of six from Germany come down for breakfast. I only hope these two are gone by then.
42
20 DECEMBER
Margaret has her feet up on the chaise in Library Anaïs. From her red-rimmed eyes, it’s obvious she had no sleep after reading Chloe’s manuscript. When she goes to smoke her vape, I yell, ‘Non, non!One of our guests already set off the smoke alarm, in the early hours.’
‘It’s not smoke, it’s a vape.’
‘Please.’
She heaves an impatient grunt. ‘Fine. Firstly, this manuscript is dynamite. It’s going to be huge. Chloe’s made careful notes about publishing it according to her wishes and, because you own the hotel and its chattels, that makes you in an enviable position, Anais. What will you do with the proceeds? Because this’ – she waves the precious notebook – ‘is going to be huge. A hundred-year-old literary mystery solved, and the real author of those literary classics that are still studied to this day will get the attribution they deserve.’
‘I’m going to give all the proceeds away.’
Margaret sits up straighter on the chaise. ‘What?’
I take a seat in the bergère chair beside her. How to explain just how moved I was by Chloe’s memoir? Because that’s whather last novel is: a story of heartbreak and loss, hurt and pain, until Lily-Louise made a last-minute decision one fateful day to stop at the Chateau Beauchêne when her driver had automobile trouble, because they knew the author Benjamin Marceaux lived there. She’d vaguely known him from various cultural soirees in Paris.
