Christmas at the Little Paris Hotel

Chapter 1

1

1 NOVEMBER

Opposite the Jardin du Luxembourg, on Rue de Vaugirard, you’ll find the world’s ugliest hotel. My hotel. Even the stunning Gothic architecture can’t distract from the level of disrepair evident through the window. If I squint hard, I can envision what it will be like with a little TLC and a whole lot of euros.

Or is that just wishful thinking?

‘Spoils of le divorce ,’ my younger cousin Manon says. Only two years separate us, but at times it feels more like decades, as if I’m ancient at thirty-eight compared to my freewheeling family member. Manon doesn’t take life as seriously as I do, and I envy her ability to not give a damn whenever she comes to a fork in the road.

I let out a theatrical sigh. ‘It’s a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.’ Not only did I lose my husband Francois-Xavier, but I also lost in the divorce proceedings and wound up with this eyesore as part of the settlement. I don’t want to say the French favour their own when it comes to dissolving a marriage and dividing the assets, but they clearly do. I might be half-French but, in this case, it wasn’t enough, not when I was up against his colossal family. Note to self: don’t marry into a clan of litigators.

Manon clucks her tongue as she peers into the window. ‘We’re stuck in a time-warp. The seventies called and they want their avocado-green drapes back.’

The colour scheme is a retro chic horror story and not one you see in Paris often. For very good reason…

It’s hard not to let bitterness take over. Francois-Xavier took off with another woman and is enjoying an extended tropical island holiday (financed by yours truly) while I’m going to have to reside in a hotel that may just collapse around me like a house of cards. But stay here we must. Even during messy, noisy renovations.

L’Hotel du Parc has a distinct air of dilapidation about it, at least from this angle. ‘I’m all for budget stays, but this...’ I let the words fall away.

With the sale of the hotel came four backpackers who agreed to stay on for a reduced rate to keep an eye on the place until the divorce finalised. They’ve asked to stay while we revamp, which I’m happy to do since any money coming in, no matter how nominal, all helps at this point. ‘I didn’t realise the backpackers were having to avoid piles of junk like that.’ I point to the detritus through the window.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Manon says. This is coming from a woman who uses the floor as a wardrobe and probably wouldn’t have even noticed the refuse if I hadn’t pointed it out. ‘I’m sure their rooms are fine and, being free-spirited nomads, they’re probably ecstatic to have accommodation in the centre of Paris for a fraction of the usual cost.’

‘ Oui .’ Manon’s right. They’re probably loving it, and each couple has their own room and private ensuite, which is more than what they’d get at a hostel for the same price. ‘Still, it’s unsightly.’

‘Easily remedied. And, sure, the décor is hideous but that’s cosmetic. By the looks of it the place simply needs a massive tidy up and a design makeover.’ Manon takes a step forward and runs a fingertip along the outside of the window, which comes away grey. ‘See! Everything just needs a good scrub.’

I hope she’s right because funds are limited. Just selling the hotel isn’t an option, as it turns out Francois-Xavier overpaid for the property by a fairly large margin, so the current forecasted sale price wouldn’t even cover the excessive mortgage. Instead, I’d be left with a stonking debt, which is why I suppose my ex was so generous offloading the hotel on to me.

The realtor advised me to either give the place a spruce up and make it a blank canvas, bland and clean, the no-fuss low budget option; or customise the hotel with a particular theme to help it stand out when compared to thousands of accommodation options in Paris. The latter is a riskier option but has the potential to achieve a higher price upon sale, which is why I’m leaning towards that idea. She suggested building up clientele before putting it back on the market. How hard can it be? It’s one of those ‘you have to spend money to make money’ scenarios, and I’ve got Manon’s support when I wonder for the millionth time just what the hell I’m playing at. This is not in my wheelhouse; far from it.

What could go wrong? I have a lot of renovation experience as a… romance writer. Gah!

The idea is to revitalise this grand dame and have it at least partially opened by Christmas for all those last-minute holiday makers. An audacious plan, given that it’s just clicked over to November. A mouse runs along the windowpane as I break out in noisy sobs that catch me unawares. Great big heaves that draw the eye of many a passerby.

‘Don’t let that fool win, Anais.’ Manon isn’t the tactile type, so she shoves me with her hip, which for her equates to a big squishy hug. ‘Really, it could be worse—’ Her words peter off when there’s a grinding noise above us. We crane our necks upward and I let out a blood-curdling scream when the old L’Hotel du Parc sign comes crashing down, landing a whisper away from my feet.

I’m still screaming when I turn to Manon, who isn’t the least bit concerned that I nearly lost my life in front of this neglected monstrosity. ‘Can you knock it off?’ she admonishes, holding her hands to her ears.

What can I say? It’s been a fraught few months and I’m feeling all my feelings with an intensity that overwhelms me.

But, dammit, why is she so relaxed? ‘I – I could have been kil?—’

‘You’re looking at this all wrong. That was literally a sign from the universe! It could have pancaked you into the pavement, yet here you are still very much alive, with all your appendages intact.’

My cries grow more plaintive. ‘I can’t even be killed properly. I have to suffer this prolonged agony while Francois-Xavier is sunning his over-buff body’ – a red flag in retrospect – ‘with that woman who doesn’t speak French. How do they even communicate?’ Manon makes an obscene gesture to imply she knows exactly how they do it; and I let out a shaky sigh. ‘You really don’t need to paint me a graphic picture, Manon. I walked in on them, remember? Only a lifetime of therapy is going to remove that vision from my mind.’

‘Sorry.’ Manon twists her mouth into an apologetic moue. My cousin lacks any filter and often drops truth bombs, but it’s done without malice on her part.

‘That woman is now stuck with him, which is payback in itself,’ I say. ‘He’s a pig, a swine, a no-good lying cheating exhibitionist, with very little going on upstairs.’

‘That husband-snatcher did you a favour .’

Did she though? ‘I suppose, if not her, it would have been one of the others.’ Turns out Francois-Xavier didn’t comprehend what ‘forsaking all others’ meant when he boldly claimed such a thing in his wedding vows.

‘Actually,’ Manon says, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘rumour has it that woman has been exiled from paradise, replaced with a certain socialite who goes by the name Ceecee.’

My jaw drops. ‘He ditched Helga already?’ Although, I’m not sure why I’m surprised; it’s his modus operandi when it comes to flings, all while being married to yours truly.

‘ Oui , he switched her out with a fully paid-up member of the glitterati. I only hope that Ceecee’s family will delve into his past and see he’s a gold-digging, money-grabbing social climber.’

Unlike stupid me, who didn’t put two and two together. There I’d been doing book launches all over Paris, my name up on billboards, when he happened along. I’d been so sure it was a chance meeting of two souls. Not the calculations of a con man.

‘Who told you about this?’ Why does part of me feel bad for my former housekeeper Helga, for crying out loud? I should have no sympathy, and yet I do, because I know just how charming that silver-tongued devil can be. While she did the wrong thing, my anger is directed solely at him, the person I exchanged wedding rings with.

‘I read all about the new woman on his Facebook account. The guy is an over sharer of the finest order.’

Betrayal hits me square in the gut. ‘You’re still friends with him on Facebook?’ I outlawed such a thing when we broke up. Demanded every family member block him in solidarity with me.

She snickers. ‘Under a fake name to keep tabs on the slimy weasel.’

I slap my forehead. ‘Manon! I bet you’ve toyed with him too for your own amusement.’

‘ Oui . I catfished the hell out of him, had the fool running all over Paris to meet his date “Lola”. And quelle surprise, she had one disaster after another and didn’t turn up.’ She lets out an evil cackle.

I bite down on my lip to stem laughter because I really shouldn’t encourage Manon. Next minute she’ll make a hundred fake profiles and make it her mission to ruin his dating life. ‘You shouldn’t engage with him; he’ll find out it’s you and then I’ll never hear the end of it.’

The grin she slides my way is a cunning one. ‘He’ll never find out. Firstly, he’s as dumb as a broom, and secondly, I always use a VPN to hide my IP address. He’s not the only person on my hit list, you know.’

Merde! Manon’s probably got a revenge list taped to the underside of her laptop. It wouldn’t surprise me. Still, she doesn’t need to fight my battles.

I sigh. ‘He has the IQ of an oyster.’

‘That’s being unkind to oysters.’

I give her a watery smile. ‘Even if it kills me, which I’m certain is on the cards after the near-miss from above, I will get through this.’ Francois-Xavier probably loosened the bolts on the L’Hotel du Parc sign and hoped for the best. Another worrying thought flutters through my mind and I gasp. ‘I have to change my will! He’s still the beneficiary. That’s just what I need, me to be crushed to death and him to inherit the piddly amount I’ve got left. I’d have to figure out how to haunt him from the afterlife.’

‘Are you suggesting…?’ Her face twists with awe. Only Manon could get excited about a possible murder plot even if the intended victim is me, her favourite cousin. What can I say? She’s got a grisly bloodlust side to her.

I tut. All I seem to do is cry, sigh or tut these days. ‘I’m suggesting no such thing. Francois-Xavier wouldn’t risk climbing on a roof in case he fell and disfigured his face.’ The man is vain, no two ways about it. Originally, I’d thought it was a good thing, a man who put self-care as a priority, but I clearly had my rose-tinted glasses on. Now I see my ex is just a vapid attention seeker with wandering eyes.

‘True, but I would have relaunched the podcast for that. Do a deep dive into your marriage and his web of lies and call it Plot Twist: The End of the Story . Ooh la la, as much as I love you, doesn’t that sound enticing, what with you being an author?’

I frown. It should be no surprise that Manon is a true crime aficionado and once had a podcast where she investigated cases. Like almost everything with Manon, she grew bored and let it slip away even though she was doing well, helping families shine a light on cold cases. To me, it seemed gruesome, combing over case files featuring the worst of humanity, but none of that bothered Manon; she only wanted to help catch the bad guys.

We’re as different as can be, but those differences are why we’ve always been close. I’m more measured, while Manon is spontaneous. She will blurt out every thought that flutters through her mind, appropriate or not, while I’ll consider how every word will land. I’m her safe space when the world comes crashing down, or so I thought. Right now, she’s that person for me. Who knew that I’d need to find solace such as this from my wayward cousin?

Light rain begins to fall as I push my hands deeper into my coat. ‘I’ll turn this relic into a vibrant hotel catering to festive holiday makers visiting for Christmas all while penning my novel: How to Kill Your Husband and Where to Dump the Body. ’

OK, that might be the anger talking. I write heart-warming romantic comedies, but that’s off for the foreseeable future, because I’m not exactly feeling lovey-dovey these days. Each draft of my new book devolves into a massacre – often a scorned wife who exacts revenge on her traitorous spouse and bludgeons him to death. Huh, maybe I’m more like my cousin than I first thought. But there’s simply no way my British literary agent Margaret will let that sort of thing slide. Writing is cathartic though, so I figure bashing out murder-y plots will help me heal, even if all I do is send them all to the recycle bin. That’s what I tell myself anyway…

Perhaps I need to pivot into the feminist serial killer genre, where I can gleefully dismember cheating men a hundred at a time? The tears start again in earnest. Honestly, what is happening to me? I’m not usually such an emotional blubbering mess .

‘This feels like pep-talk time,’ Manon says, giving me one of her long looks that implies she’s uncomfortable with my constant outbursts. Manon is a straightforward sarcastic type who finds feelings difficult to translate and even harder to understand, so my constant state of flux is probably grating on her. I’ve never been able to have those sorts of intense, deep and meaningful conversations with Manon, because she’s unable to hide her complete lack of disinterest and just cannot relate. She’s always curious why I get so hung up on discussing the minutiae of life and love, and frequently tells me it’s an enormous waste of time worrying over such trivialities.

Even now, with my disaster of a marriage behind me, she treats it as a simple mistake that’s not worth dwelling on. But I just can’t help but hold on to the pain. The humiliation. I’m hoping Manon’s no-nonsense approach will eventually rub off on me though, and I’ll be able to let go and move forward with my life.

‘Francois-Xavier will get sunburned and wrinkle like a prune in the tropical heat. He’ll dehydrate and prematurely age. Long, coarse white hairs will grow out of his ears and possibly his nose from excessive sun exposure. The future looks bleak for the runaway husband.’

I have no words.

As the Parisian temperature drops, Manon shuffles on her feet and continues her so-called pep-talk. ‘From the get-go we knew he was bad news, but would you listen, Anais? Non .’ Almost every family member, from the coast of Britain to the south of France, put in their two cents, telling me he wasn’t genuine, he was playing a part. I’d brushed their negativity off, figuring they’d all gone a little mad. They couldn’t see what we had. They were swept up in the whispers that were passed along the family grapevine. I’m not usually spontaneous, that’s Manon’s department, so they were taken aback that my relationship and subsequent marriage happened so fast.

I choke back sobs. ‘Love is blind.’

‘And hard of hearing.’

She’s right. I didn’t heed any of their warnings. I was love-struck, in a daze, hypnotised by this man who seemed too good to be true. Spoiler alert: he was.

I’d been searching for my own real-life hero after writing romances for so long, and then he stepped into my life, dashing and debonair, a book-smart bibliophile who wasn’t shy in admitting that he read romance novels because he enjoyed happy ever afters. The man said all the right things. He checked every box and then some. It felt like I magicked the perfect hero to my heroine – finally! A sweeping romance off the pages, starring me, the then thirty-two-year-old dreamer, with a dreamboat by her side forevermore. One month into our relationship, he proposed, and insisted on a quickie wedding, much to the alarm of my friends and family. But not to me. I’d been enraptured by him and certain he was my soulmate. Our marriage lasted five years and was not the fairytale I expected it would be. Well, five and a half if you want to count how long it took to divorce him and get him out of my life for good.

‘How did I believe in the fantasy?’ Honestly, love-drunk should be outlawed.

Manon shakes her head. ‘Swindlers like that always find a weak spot, and he found yours. And phonies always have a double-barrelled name; that should have been your first clue.’ She pulls the sucked lemon face – an expression Manon uses most, as if life is always a touch distasteful for her liking. ‘Doesn’t it just scream ego? “Bonjour, I’m Francois-Xavier Giradot.”’ She postures up as if she’s my ex, and with a deep voice says, ‘I’m a fake, a phony and a flop between the sheets.’

Gloom settles in my poor, bruised heart. I don’t mention that, as far as pep-talks go, this isn’t exactly helping. But Manon is using everything in her toolbox to draw me out of myself and, really, her impersonation is spot on. So why does it still hurt so much?

I’d had a huge amount of success with my books right around the time Francois-Xavier appeared in my life – coincidence, I think not. What I should have done was get a prenup, but stupid me in love-bubble land didn’t feel it was necessary. He got the apartment in Le Marais and I got this rundown mess. Really, I should have done my due diligence when I found out early on that he came from a family of lawyers, although he didn’t work at the firm – or at all, it turns out. Their legal team buried me, creating so much paperwork for my own lawyer I had no choice but to settle or end up penniless from fees alone. For a smart woman, I really dropped the ball. That stabby rage returns and my fingers itch to write him into a book and torture him. I’m not sure if this is a healthy response or if I’m losing touch with reality.

Silent tears stream down my face, catching me unawares. This lack of control over my own bodily functions is alarming, but there’s not much I can do about it. Surely tears aren’t a never-ending resource? I’m hoping eventually the waterworks will dry up. The man doesn’t deserve my tears, but for the life of me I can’t control these visceral reactions. Perhaps it’s humiliation driving the engine. Who knows?

I swipe uselessly at my face, my fingers coming away blackened with mascara. I must look a fright.

‘ Bonjour, bonjour .’ A man wearing a beanie approaches. He’s got a whiff of a young Ernest Hemingway about him, with his intense masculinity and cheeks ruddy from the cold. There’s a wild robustness to the guy, as he speaks in American-accented French. When he smiles, his eyes sparkle as if he’s about to impart a secret. I get a jolt at his sudden appearance. It could be that he reminds me of the long-dead charismatic author. That or it’s his disarming rugged good looks; either way I’m intrigued, and an alert goes off in my brain. He’s main-character material and I’ve learned my lesson the hard way when a man like that comes along not to fall for it. I must remain on guard.

‘You must be the new hotelier?’

‘ Oui .’ Hotelier. Me. The idea is preposterous, yet here we are. ‘I’m Anais and this is my cousin Manon.’ I hold out a hand to shake, but he either doesn’t see it or is uncertain about what might have discoloured my fingers black and doesn’t want to risk transfer onto his big man hands. Once more I surreptitiously wipe my mascara tears and pull my coat in tight.

‘I’m Noah.’ He motions to the property next door to the hotel. ‘I own La Génération Purdue Wine Bar.’ The Lost Generation Wine Bar; how apt.

We have ourselves a literature fan.

American men have a different intensity to their French counterparts. Or maybe it’s just this man who speaks French well but has a fervency with his body language as he does so. Like he’s coiled, ready to spring into action to get his point across. I wonder if that’s due to not being understood when he originally started learning French. That or he’s got a chip on his shoulder and is ready to battle. I laugh at my mad musings. The man is just here to welcome us and here I am catastrophising that he’s some evil villain!

Still sniffling, and unable to get a handle on it, I survey the dark fa?ade of my neighbour’s bar. It features an indulgent art deco black and gold aesthetic with geometric ornamentation. Behind the window there are sepia-toned framed pictures of Ezra Pound, Sylvia Beach and T. S. Eliot.

The Lost Generation – a term named for the period of time those literary greats reached adulthood after the war – was almost like rebellion, a coming-of-age for creatives. Expat American writers, readers and poets threw off the shackles of the past in a post-World War One era and lived bohemian Parisian literary lives on their own terms. The phrase was coined by Gertrude Stein and included famous faces such as Hemingway, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, and Sylvia Beach.

‘Your bar is lovely,’ I say, meaning it. I’m about to compliment it further and tell him I’m a literature fan too when he gets in first.

‘The thing is, rubbish like this drives my customers away.’ He points to the shattered pieces of the L’Hotel du Parc sign littering the pavement. Ah, now his coiled intensity makes sense. He was readying himself to reprimand me. My instincts were correct! ‘It’s not a good look for the neighbourhood. Not to mention the hotel itself, which is unsightly and getting worse by the day with it being so… desolate.’

Just like me. Maybe this hotel and I are a good match, after all.

Still, who does this stranger think he is, admonishing me when I’ve been here all of five minutes? Noah doesn’t stop there though. His monologue continues as he harps on about a range of hotel maintenance issues that impinge on his business. For a hot guy he’s really annoyingly verbose. ‘While it’s only the beginning of November, Christmas will soon be here, and with that comes many tourists, whose custom keeps us going. Rue de Vaugirard must look its best for the festive season.’

With every sullen word, my leaky eyes dry up. His voice becomes white noise that matches my white-hot rage. What the hell is it with men lately?

‘ Excusez moi .’ I hold up a hand to stop his rambling and give him a sweet, deadly smile that belies my inner fury. ‘Do you make a habit of approaching a clearly upset woman and making demands upon her? Can you not see this isn’t the right time?’

Confusion dashes across his face. He surveys me closely as if he’s only really seeing me now. ‘I ah?—’

I fill my lungs, readying myself to retaliate. ‘A few moments ago, this sign almost killed me, and you have the audacity to stomp over here and tell me it needs to be cleaned up. I haven’t had a chance yet to put my key in the lock and you’re complaining that my hotel is bringing down the look of the entire 6th arrondissement?’ My voice rises as I continue my own tirade. ‘How dare you call it desolate, as if there’s no hope!’ Manon presses my shoulder as if to quieten me, but I will not be silenced any more. ‘And to imply I’m going to ruin Christmas ? That’s insulting.’ A Parisian Christmas is like no other. It’s a winter wonderland for young and old and happens to be my favourite time of year, but this Grinch is trying to stop my sleigh bells from jingling. ‘Who made you the boss anyway?’

Noah grimaces and, with his hands up in surrender, he takes a tentative step back, like he’s afraid I’m a wild reindeer gone rogue and about to attack. And maybe I am. Blitzen goes berserk! ‘I’ve clearly picked the wrong time for this… ah, discussion, so I’ll leave you for now. In fact, I can clean up the sign; will that help?’

Oh, he is the limit! ‘What, because I’m a woman I can’t do manual labour, is that it?’

His eyes widen and I think he lets out a yelp. Hard to tell when there’s a storm raging in my head making it difficult to hear the world around me. Manon pulls so hard on my arm, I nearly fall over. ‘What!’ I screech, facing her.

‘You know I love a good rage-fest, but, seriously, take a breath. It’s Francois-Xavier you’re mad at, not Noah.’ If Manon is telling me to calm down, my behaviour must be bad.

My cousin turns to Noah and blurts, ‘Anais isn’t quite herself at the moment. Her husband had an affair, so now she sees all men as the enemy.’

‘ Manon! ’ Her frank admission is mortifying. But is she right? Am I looking at all men like they’re the antagonist in my own story? Surely that’s a normal part of the process when you’ve had an upset like this?

My writer’s brain whirs into action.

Hilary loved everything about Christmas. More so when she conked her obnoxious neighbour on the head with a life-size candy cane and bound his prone body in Christmas lights, tight, the same way she wrapped pork loin to roast for Christmas dinner. There was the smallest of splashes as she rolled him into the Seine. He would remonstrate her no more.

The rage dissipates as quickly as it came. Am I being melodramatic? It’s like I’ve had a personality change. The old me would never have bellowed like that. But, then again, the old me chose a man like my ex-husband, so perhaps this new ragey version is for the best. Still, I have to work in close proximity to this guy, so I’d better attempt to smooth things over even if I don’t want to.

I turn to find him gone though. Typical. Men take one look at me and then vamoose.

Manon lets out a surprised bark of laughter. ‘I never imagined my role would be peacemaker. That’s usually more your speed.’

I cup my face in my hands. ‘Have I done irreparable damage?’ The last thing I need is a grumpy neighbour complaining every two minutes when renovations begin.

She scoffs. ‘Hardly. Yeah, sure, you scared him off at the end. He looked like he could taste fear and he was deciding whether it was palatable or not. Before your outburst, he had love hearts for eyes. And he’s a literary nerd, like you! Have we found the new hero in your next love story? A Christmas romance for my heartbroken cousin, non ?’

Merde , she’s picked up on it too. Noah is exactly the type I’d normally go for. Rugged, hot, literary nerd. But not any more.

I will not admit the man has me intrigued. ‘Haven’t you got the memo? Romance is DEAD.’

L’affair took care of that.