Chapter 3
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 with myself about 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 to kill it?’
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 show that 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, far far away. 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 an achievement. 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 they thinking ?’
‘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, not too much work in this area.’ From the outside, it looked a lot worse.
‘Not too much 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. I should reach 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 quite that fast. 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. ‘Sounds very Gatsby.’
‘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 more Roaring Twenties with all those geometric patterns and art deco touches. This will be more… refined, elegant.’
‘Where are you getting all the money for this elegance ? 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 to kill you.’
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 even I’m tired of hearing myself whine. ‘So back to the salon. I’m envisaging it as a bar area but stacked with books as far as the eye can see. A plush and warm… Oh my god… A library for our guests!’
‘A library?’ Manon raises a thick brow.
‘ Oui .’ I gaze around the spacious room. ‘A literary sanctuary.’
‘Uh, but what about the bar idea?’
‘It can be both. Look at the size of this room with those big picture windows with a pretty view out to the busy street and the gates of Jardin du Luxembourg. The realtor suggested a theme and I think we’ve just discovered it!’
‘We have?’
I clap my hands together. ‘We’ll make this place a haven for book lovers! We can provide a wide range of literature to suit every taste…’ My mind spins with ideas to add bookish elements throughout the hotel itself.
Manon considers it before saying, ‘It’s not exactly Paris-centric though, is it? Isn’t that what guests want? The full Parisian experience?’
‘Well…’ I tap my chin, considering it. ‘We’ll make the hotel an ode to Paris, highlighting books set here. We’ll be spoilt for choice as we build our library. From classic tomes, romances, memoirs, travel guides; the list is endless. So many Christmas books are set in Paris!’
Manon’s expression is animated as she comprehends the vision. ‘And not just French authors. It’ll be a nod to all the literary greats who made France their home! Instead of room numbers, the suites could be named after authors. The library too. What about “The F Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Library”? His book Tender is the Night is set in the French Riviera.’
I consider it. ‘Or we could name it after Zelda? Forget Scott.’ I smile, loving the idea. Zelda was a writer too, but that’s often overlooked in the history books. I take my phone from my pocket and google Zelda’s name, looking for details about her. ‘What about a direct quote from the woman herself made from one of those warm gauzy neon light word signs: “Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the human heart can hold.”’
Manon’s eyes sparkle. ‘ Magnifique .’
‘We can stock her book for guests, memoirs written about her too. Hang photographs of her. Make this space an ode to Zelda and the jazz age. Although… maybe we should feature a French writer for the library rather than an American? If this room is to be our pièce de résistance, it should be Paris-centric like you suggested.’ I bite down on a smile, excited by the prospect of making this room a showstopper and having a theme we can carry throughout the hotel.
Manon nods. ‘ Oui , a French-born author is best to give the library the flair we’re after.’
And just like that we’ve hit on an idea that’s sure to appeal. ‘We’re bibliophiles who often shut the door on the outside world to sink into a book that transports us away from reality and the mundanity of real life. Paris is a popular tourist hotspot, but bookworms, like us, also enjoy time to relax and read on holidays. After a long, manic day taking in the sights of Paris, our book-loving guests will return with aching feet and can enjoy perusing the many novels on display around the hotel before sprawling on a chaise in front of a roaring fire, or reading in the comfort of their suites, blocking out the noise and the chaos of the city for a few hours. We can offer charcuterie and dessert boards. Bottles of wine. Each suite will have a coffee station for those who prefer coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. For our Christmas soft launch, we’ll offer gingerbread coffee, pumpkin-spiced lattes. Mulled wine and eggnog in the library. I want them to feel like this place is a cosy retreat. They can escape into fictional worlds with all the creature comforts they desire.’
‘Can I be a guest instead of your helper? I want to sink into my suite with a good book, a glass of wine and a dessert board.’
I laugh and shake my head as I try and keep up with the ideas flashing in my mind. ‘We can hang bookish artwork that we print ourselves. Make bookmarks. Find literary mugs for the coffee stations. Reading pillows for Kindles. Bamboo bath caddies to rest books and wine. Annotation sets. We can wrap books in butcher paper and feature “Blind date with a book”. The list is endless, and most of those things are inexpensive but will really highlight the literary aspect of the hotel.’
‘Uh-huh. And you’re just doing the place up to sell.’ Manon’s voice is laced with sarcasm, but even she seems swept away by the idea of what the hotel could become. How can she not get carried away by the dream of designing a space for word nerds, like us? While Manon and I are bookworms, we read different genres. My cousin prefers gritty true crime or terrifying horror stories, and when she’s had her fill of those she switches back to classics, whereas I enjoy a comforting romance, memoirs, or a historical saga. A classic or two every now and then.
‘I am going to sell . And I’m hoping the literary theme is enough to make that sale happen so I can get back to my normal night owl writerly life, where the only thing I have to worry about is fictional broken hearts. They’re so much easier to mend.’
We continue our tour into the dining room. It’s as bold as the other areas with a brown, green and yellow colour scheme, but the mahogany furniture is sturdy and in good repair. ‘Paint and new drapes in here. Not much really, aside from a deep clean.’ The closer I look the more my enthusiasm grows. It’s not as bad as it first appeared. The kitchen itself is practical and updated, all stainless-steel functionality. The inspection report cleared all electrics and appliances so that’s one less thing to worry about.
‘Are you going to run this as a restaurant?’
‘ Oui . I suppose we’ll have to interview for a chef, since I have no experience with the restaurant side of things, and let’s be honest, I’m not going to be all that cheerful for a sevena.m. breakfast service.’
I write better at night and, if I’m in the zone, I don’t stop until the early hours of the morning. I’m hoping that zest, that passion, for what I do soon returns. ‘As we discussed before, I like the idea of offering simple fare too, like charcuterie and dessert boards for guests who want to graze while they read. For the opening, we can offer festive Christmas platters with fruit mince pies, B?che de No?l, chocolate truffles , baked camembert and baguette. Simple stuff that you and I can prepare that won’t have us in a tizzy.’
‘Stop, you’re making me hungry.’
We leave the first floor and head upstairs to the suites. There are eighteen rooms in total. Twelve on the second floor and six on the third floor, which, according to the website, are slightly bigger, catering to larger groups or families.
‘Is it just me or does it feel kind of eerie wandering around a closed hotel?’ Manon asks. ‘I’d have thought the backpackers would be blaring their music, knocking back cheap wine and congregating here somewhere.’
‘Not that you’re into stereotyping or anything, Manon. Perhaps they’re working or out sightseeing?’ I expected we’d run into them too. I’ve spoken on the phone a few times with one of them named Juliette, when she had concerns about a broken window from a late-night reveller. But aside from that I don’t know a lot about them, only that the previous owner trusted them implicitly and I felt comfortable knowing the hotel wasn’t entirely abandoned while we sorted out who got what in the divorce.
With the gloomy lighting and piles of junk, it is a touch eerie in the hotel, but that will all be fixed when we commence work and brighten the place up with fresh paint and clean windows. ‘We should enjoy the quiet while it lasts, I suppose.’
Soon enough, these halls will be filled with the sound of suitcases being trundled along, the chitchat of guests as they plan their Parisian days. It’s so strange to think of myself in this situation, having been tucked away in the quiet, writing for so long, where the only daily concerns I usually deal with is my word count and how to thread my stories together to provide satisfying endings. This new me, hotelier, seems so wildly foreign, but I remind myself it’s not forever.
I open the door to the first of the suites on the second floor. The dusty drapes and grimy windows stop most of the natural light entering the space, making the room dim and uninviting, but that’s easily fixed. Most repairs seem cosmetic, but, really, how would I know? Paint, drapes and bedding. Crockery and a kettle and pod machine for the coffee stations. While the furniture is old, it’s durable. ‘We can get away with painting some of this furniture and updating the chest of drawers with new handles and hardware we can find at flea markets.’ There’s a lot we can do with little money if we’re inventive enough. ‘I’m most nervous about the bathrooms. If they need a full renovation, we’re doomed.’
According to the inspection report, the bathrooms were functional and up to code but dated and would need modification in the future. I hope that means the very distant future and that we can make some tweaks to dress them up a bit without having to remodel them entirely.
‘Plumber I am not.’ Manon crosses her fingers as if hoping we’re not going to be met with a disaster.
‘How can you say that if you haven’t tried?’ I can’t help but tease.
‘ Anais. ’
From memory, the photos on the website showed the bathrooms were all the same colour, but I struggle to recall what that was. I send a prayer up that they’re not avocado-green or sunshine-yellow.
I open the bathroom door and am greeted with an explosion of salmon. Salmon-coloured ceilings, walls, tiles, bath and floor.
‘Wow… Salmon was not on my bingo card.’
‘It could be worse,’ Manon says cheerfully.
‘ Oui , it makes a nice change from avocado-green. At least it’s sort of… calming. And while it’s not super chic, they’re clean and tidy so we can get away without having to fully overhaul the bathrooms if they’re all like this one, which is a relief.’
I close the bathroom door and we turn back to the suite itself. The rooms are a modest size, but big by Paris standards. The bed is heaped with pillows and linens. I rifle through to find they’re mostly ripped and frayed and can’t be salvaged. So why they’ve been dumped here is a head scratcher.
‘The balcony is nice,’ Manon says.
It’s just the right size for a table and chairs for two, for those who want to breakfast in fresh air, although the wrought iron is bent out of shape and will need repairs.
‘I’ll take this suite,’ Manon says, her tone brooking no argument.
‘Why this one?’ I ask.
‘It’s close to the stairs, which are close to the kitchen if I want to go down for a late-night snack.’
‘Good plan. I’ll take the suite opposite for now.’ Really, it makes sense being close to the lobby end of things in case our guests need us on short notice. Manon’s suite has a view of the Jardin du Luxembourg, the high black gates with golden spears and a canopy of bushy green trees.
We check out the remaining suites on the second floor, which are largely identical, save a few different wardrobes and bureaus, and are laid out dependant on where the windows are situated. However, some suites are cluttered with broken furniture: odd legs of chairs lie marooned, and various-sized drawer inserts are stacked as if someone kept a junk pile hoping one day these bits and pieces would come in handy. In one suite there are a heap of overflowing rubbish bags, whereas a few are relatively neat as if waiting for guests.
Inexplicably, suite eight is home to an avalanche of old kettles and toasters. The room is fragrant with the smell of burnt toast. Why not ditch them if they don’t work? We peek into the two remaining rooms at the end of the hallway, which the backpacker couples have claimed as their own. We quickly check their bathrooms to make sure no extra repairs are needed and leave their suites, one of which is pristine while the other looks like a tornado has whipped through and no piece of clothing was left unscathed.
‘Why don’t we unpack our things and tidy our suites? We can check out the third floor tomorrow.’
‘Unpack?’ Manon scrunches her nose in distaste.
‘I’ll unpack, you throw your suitcase in a corner.’ My suite needs a deep clean if there’s going to be any chance for me to relax into this new life. My space has to be organised so I feel like I’ve got a handle on things, whereas Manon will most likely change her bed linen and that’s it. Oh, to be free of hang ups like she is, able to assimilate into a new environment easily.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘But what about all the stuff that’s been dumped on my bed? Do you want to keep any of it?’
‘ Non , not for guests, but perhaps we can use some of it for cleaning rags or something. Throw them in the laundry for now. Meet back for dinner later?’
‘ Oui .’
Once I’ve dragged my suitcase upstairs, I light a peppermint Christmas candle and place it on the shelf of the window. The minty scent helps disguise the stuffiness in the air and makes the place feel more like home as I clean and make the space my own.