Chapter 6
6
5 NOVEMBER
After yet another fruitless evening of killing my darlings, and by that I mean literally murdering my fictional heroes, I awake groggily in the musty confines of my suite and know it’s time. I’ve put off the call as long as I can. If my literary agent Margaret’s frantic voicemails are anything to go by, I’d say our telephone call ping pong days are over.
If I don’t return her call, there’s every chance she’ll arrive on my doorstep, and I’d like to avoid a face-to-face meeting if I can. When there’s bad news afoot, Margaret can be domineering and terrifying in equal measure, which is great when it comes to her negotiating my contracts, but not so good when I’m not meeting my end of the bargain.
I dread the thought of telling her I’m not going to meet the imposed deadline. I’ve already spent the advance on some overpriced divorce lawyers, and I’ve got no book to hand in. No book means no chance of royalties once I’ve earned out the advance. And, worse still, it could also mean a lawsuit for breaking the terms of my contract.
In my suite, I sit at a desk that’s past its prime with a scratched surface and a wonky leg that I’m growing to love. Every scar and scrape is part of its story and evidence of a long, rich life. Who else sat at this desk over its tenure in suite two? Did they write postcards to family at home? Or long sweeping letters trying to capture the vibrancy of the city and all they’d seen and done? Now I’m taking comfort by the marred and rickety desk, trying to pull my life back together one word at a time. In these quiet, reflective moments I see beauty in these abandoned belongings throughout the hotel.
But… musing time is over. There’s no avoiding the dreaded call to Margaret. I’ve got three building contractors arriving this week to quote for the reno job and, if I don’t sort my writing life out, I won’t be able to fully focus on the hotel.
I brace myself and dial the number. ‘ Bonjour , Margaret!’ I say, forcing brightness into my voice.
‘Cut the crap, Anais. What’s going on? You’ve been avoiding my calls.’ Margaret is old-school publishing ilk. You’ll find her sitting at a desk littered with manuscripts, by an open window that overlooks the Shard, smoking a raspberry-flavoured vape and screeching at staff. It’s not exactly PC but she is lauded enough to get away with it.
‘I’m glad you asked. You see—’ There’s a crash from below and a blood-curdling scream soon follows.
‘What on earth was that?’ Margaret says, her voice laced with suspicion as if I’m creating a diversion in the hopes of ending the call. And, truthfully, I wish I’d thought of that.
‘It’s Manon!’ I take flight, picturing the worst. She’s fallen through a ceiling. She’s tripped down the laundry chute. Who even has laundry chutes these days? Well, L’Hotel du Parc sure does. I’ve had to pull the hood of Manon’s jumper many a time to stop her attempting to slide down it, ‘to see where it leads’, imagining my poor cousin stuck bent and twisted in a pipe for all eternity.
‘Where is she?’ I yell as I race down the brown carpeted steps, dust dancing as I go.
Sweet relief hits me as I find Manon in the room we’ve picked to be the future library. It’s mostly empty except for a row of bookshelves, some with dusty leatherbound editions abandoned on the shelves higher up and out of reach. Well… I find her feet. She’s stuck under a fallen bookshelf with only her Doc Martens on display like she’s the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m still holding my phone, so I inform Margaret, ‘I have a medical emergency on my hands! I’ll call you back.’
‘No, you won’t. I’m invested in this now. Put me on speaker.’
I sigh and press the speaker button, dropping the phone to the parquetry floor. ‘Manon, are you OK?’ My chest tightens at the thought Manon might be seriously hurt. There’s a faint groan. I say, ‘I’m going to lift the bookshelf up.’
‘Noadajldk,’ comes her muffled reply. I give the old bookshelf a great big heave but it doesn’t budge. I’d previously marked these shelves for the bin because they appeared somewhat flimsy, but it turns out they’re surprisingly heavy.
‘ Merde ! It’s impossible! Can you breathe under there?’
‘You need another pair of hands to help, Anais. Get to it,’ Margaret says in her usual brusque way.
‘NOAJDAJLDK!’ Manon says, her voice raspy but strong as if she’s using every ounce of lung capacity to talk.
‘What? Conserve your energy, Manon.’
Margaret says, ‘Is she asking for someone?’
‘Who would she ask for? The backpackers are all at work.’ I give the bookshelf another shove. Nothing. ‘I’m going to need assistance. Someone with muscles. A dependable, solid?—’
‘Noajkh.’
‘Noah!’ Margaret shrieks. ‘Who’s Noah?’
‘The next-door neighbour! Margaret, you keep talking to her and I’ll get Noah.’ I move my mobile phone closer to Manon so she can hear my agent and dash outside into the drizzly day.
I race to The Lost Generation Wine Bar, as fast as my out-of-shape romance writer body can take me, and bang on Noah’s door. What if he’s not here? My heart gallops as I screen my hands against the darkened glass to peek in. I let out a shuddery breath when I see his purposeful strides coming towards me.
When he opens the door a crack, I say, ‘Noah, we’ve got an emergency! Manon is stuck under a heavy bookshelf and I can’t lift it off.’
Thankfully, Noah understands the urgency and follows my quick steps. He doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge about my unleashing on him the other day when I went a little off script. Still, best he knows I’m not going to allow a man to boss me about.
We rush back to find Margaret telling Manon all about a new author of hers who’s single and has an upcoming book tour in Paris and would love a native French friend to help guide him during his stay. ‘Margaret! Now is clearly not the time for matchmaking!’
Noah assesses the situation and in a matter of moments lifts the shelf from Manon’s frame as easily as if it’s made of ply. I really must work on my upper body strength. Either that, or Noah is deceptively strong. While he’s got that robust alpine man swagger, I didn’t think a man who owns a bar would be that athletic, what with being in close proximity to wine, whisky and cocktails serving and imbibing. Am I buying into the stereotype? He probably spends his days off trekking up mountains, hunkering in humble cabins with no electricity just to prove he can, like Hemingway used to do with his first wife Hadley. Again, probably a stereotype but I am a writer and that’s where my mind goes.
I put Noah out of my mind and focus on Manon, who sits up, her face darkened with dust. ‘You’re alive to tell the tale!’ I drop to my knees and pull her in tight. She yelps.
Noah inspects the shelf as if it might offer up a clue as to why it fell over. He’s bent at the waist like he’s Poirot or something.
‘I’m alive – just. I might claim compensation. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘You’d make me, your favourite cousin, pay compensation?’ The patient looks remarkably well despite a heavy piece of furniture having landed smack bang atop her. Still, injuries can be internal and that is a worrying thought. ‘We should get you to the hospital to get checked.’
Manon scoots to the side of the room and leans against the wall. She’s clutching her midsection, which is a concern. ‘No, I don’t need to go to hospital. It’s not that serious.’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Noah says breezily.
And really, how would he know? ‘Are you medically trained, Noah?’ I narrow my eyes. ‘With X-Ray vision?’
A frown mars his brow. ‘Well, no. It’s just that the bookshelf itself is?—’
‘—made from solid wood and must have fallen on her with some velocity!’ I butt in. ‘For all we know, my poor cousin could be internally bleeding, or worse.’
Manon’s eyes widen.
‘She might fall asleep and never wake up again.’ I twist my mouth into an apologetic pucker. ‘Sorry to speak so bluntly, Manon. Your maman would kill me if you died on my watch.’
She gasps. ‘You’re more concerned about my maman than me waking up dead?’
I nod gravely. ‘She’s rather intimidating.’ Let’s just say, Aunt Josephine would give Margaret a run for her money. My school holiday visits were always fun with Manon by my side, but Aunt Josephine ran a tight ship, and I behaved because I was terrified of getting into trouble, and also because my younger cousin did not .
‘Maman is the reason I have so many issues. Do you know she threatened me every Christmas that Père No?l wouldn’t be coming to deliver presents because of my behaviour, and instead I’d be paid a visit by Père Fouettard, who would whack me instead? What kind of a mother does that?’ Manon shakes her head at the memory. When we were children, all French parents threatened such a thing. Fairytales about ‘Father Whipper’ were enough to keep most of us well behaved as we imagined this old, stooped stranger arriving to dole out punishment instead of the jovial Père No?l, who’d deliver our presents while we slept.
‘Well, it didn’t stop you, did it? You still wouldn’t do as told.’
‘Where’s the fun in that.’ There’s a wicked gleam in her eye as if she’s right back there baiting her poor mother. ‘You just need to understand how to handle her, and playing by the rules is not the right way. Help me up, would you?’ I lift her up and she wipes her hands on her black jeans. ‘I only hope… I’ll recover in time for the festive season.’ She hugs herself tight and I get the first inkling all is not what it seems.
‘That’s, like, seven weeks away, Manon.’ My shoulders relax. If she’s exaggerating, she’s healthy. ‘You’re fine. You probably pulled the bookshelf on top of yourself so you didn’t have to help me sort the kitchen cupboards today.’ There is all sorts of detritus in the cupboards: canned food that goes back decades, mismatched crockery and broken appliances that need to be relegated to the scrap heap. All that, and I still haven’t found a French press, but have managed to buy one at a local market so at least our mornings start with the required jolt of caffeine.
‘It did cross my mind.’
I’d almost forgotten Noah is still here when he says, ‘How could you not lift such a light shelf?’ Suspicion flits across his features.
Light shelf? Is this some kind of macho man thing? He wants to be fawned over for his big, strong, wild-man muscles? ‘The shelf is so heavy I couldn’t even get it to budge! I don’t think you need to highlight the fact my upper body strength is somewhat lacking to feel better about yourself, Noah.’ The ego on the man is astounding!
Manon shrugs. ‘Anais might have very strong phalanxes from all that typing but that’s where it ends.’ I go to argue, but she’s probably right. If I didn’t force myself to walk the streets of Paris for sustenance or at least a baguette to go with a home-cooked meal, I dread to think what shape I’d be in.
I survey the books that lay scattered on the carpet and suddenly the jig is up. ‘You climbed the bookshelf like a tree to get to the hardbacks on the top shelf in case they were first editions you could smuggle out and sell, Manon?’
My devious cousin has the grace to blush. ‘I would have gone halves with you.’
‘Please, do keep nattering,’ Margaret says. ‘It’s not like I have other authors who need my attention.’
Oh god, my life has devolved into a comedy of errors! ‘Sorry, Margaret.’ I pick up the phone and take off the speaker function. ‘I’ll get Manon settled and call you back.’
‘No, you’ll make another excuse to avoid me. Get that man to watch Manon while you and I have a serious talk.’ There’s no avoiding it, I guess. The brief reprieve is over.
‘Fine.’ I turn to Noah. ‘Would you be able to keep an eye on Manon while I talk to my literary agent who doesn’t take medical emergencies into account?’
‘I can hear you!’
‘Sure.’ He folds his arms. ‘Your literary agent, eh?’
‘ Oui , I’m a novelist.’
He raises a brow as if impressed. ‘What do you write?’
‘Romantic comedies.’
His face falls. Typical. He’s probably one of those men who get off denigrating romance novels as trashy when they’re anything but. ‘Oh, uh, I see,’ he eventually manages.
‘Not literary enough for you, Noah?’ He wears his judgement like a cloak, apparently. Not a surprise, but still.
‘ Still waiting! ’ Margaret says just as I’m about to educate the ignorance out of him. Romance is the highest-earning genre of fiction for a reason and it riles me up when people (men typically) frown upon it, as if it isn’t literary enough because the books end in a happy ever after or a happy for now, so get labelled as predictable. Formulaic. It makes my blood boil. Trust Noah to fall into that category, with his love of the literary authors from the Roaring Twenties. He’s got that hot-guy scowl perfected too, as judgement lines his masculine features. Men – who needs them! I’ll stick to my misunderstood fictional heroes, merci beaucoup !
‘I’d better take this,’ I say and turn to Manon. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ Manon wears the expression of a petulant child.
‘Let me put out this fire before I return to yours. Please .’
Manon rolls her eyes dramatically before wincing. ‘Fine.’
I turn to Noah and grudgingly thank him for his help. ‘Sure, sure. I’ve got nothing better to do.’
Sarcasm? I don’t tell him that’s the lowest form of wit; instead, I express my contempt with a cool gaze, just like one of my heroines would do, and hope it cuts him to the quick.
I return to my suite when there’s a commotion down the phone line.
‘Ah, damn it all to hell,’ Margaret says. ‘I’ve got another client here. Some two-bit celebrity who has written yet another cosy mystery. I’ll have to go and dance attendance on him, which irks me no end. I’ll call you back, probably not until tomorrow since I’ll have to be the one who wines and dines him.’
We say our goodbyes and I return to the library room to check on Manon and find that Noah is nowhere to be found. So much for keeping an eye on my poor cousin, who could very well be concussed. It says a lot about the guy, just vanishing like that. Comes to our rescue, tells us how strong he is, and then leaves with no care or concern for Manon’s possible collapsed lung, or worse.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, finding her leaning against the wall, reading a book.
‘I’ll need a few days to recuperate,’ she says, twisting her features. She’s clearly in pain. What if she’s broken some ribs? Or is bleeding internally? Is it possible that she will really fall asleep and never wake up? Maybe her earlier stoic reaction was for Noah’s benefit.
‘Manon, maybe we should get you looked at?’
‘A nap will suffice.’ Her words are clipped, as if she’s really hurting.
‘OK. Do you want to move to the sofa in the guest lounge? I can bring a rug and pillow or…?’ She shakes her head, so I survey the spacious room and what will be our raison d’être , the library. Right now, it’s soulless but soon it will be magnificent. I sigh. There’s so much to do but right now I need to make sure Manon is comfortable and not concussed.
Noah left the offending bookshelf standing in the middle of the room, but I don’t want to risk it falling over again. There’s no chance I can shift it since I couldn’t budge it before. ‘I need to move this out of the way. But how?’ I say, almost to myself.
‘ Non! It’s fine there! Leave it!’
Hands on hips, I study my cousin. What’s with the sharp outburst? Is she worried it might topple over on her again? This must be some kind of trauma response!
I hurry to reassure her. ‘I’ll be careful. If I lift an edge, I can pop a rug under it and slide it across the parquetry.’
‘Now you mention it, I am rather woozy. Get me une demi bouteille of Chablis, will you?’
‘What! No. You can’t drink alcohol with a concussion!’
There’s a shifty look in her eyes that takes but a mere moment to translate. To test my theory, I go to the bookshelf and push it. It moves easily as if it’s made of plywood, which upon further inspection, I suspect it is. No wonder Noah made those comments about me not being able to move the thing.
‘Manon! Were you holding the bookshelf so I couldn’t lift it off you?’
Her face dissolves into a grin. ‘ Oui.’
‘To get out of working today or—’ I slap my forehead when I figure it out. ‘To get knight in shining armour Noah over here? How transparent! He would have known it was a farce as soon as he lifted the very light shelf off your poor, prone body!’ This is why she’s doesn’t have any external injuries; it was all a set up. ‘You planned this? Why?’
‘He came running just when you needed him, did he not?’
Her heart is in the right place but what Manon doesn’t seem to understand is that, when I say romance is dead, I really mean it. ‘One day, in the future, when my battered heart is healed over, I might consider dating again, but the nasty divorce proceedings where all our dirty laundry had been aired really did a number on me. And Noah, he’s a walking cliché and I happen to know a lot about men like that.’
‘How is Noah a walking cliché?’
‘Can’t you see it simply from the swagger? The literary nerd sartorial choices? The whole broody, robust, I’m a wild mountain man who can lift heavy things who marches home to the little lady and slugs back a glass of whisky, neat of course , and smokes an imported cigar, while analysing and dissecting nineteenth-century literature as if he knows what he’s talking about? I mean, it’s obvious , right?’
Manon gapes at me like I’ve got two heads. At least now I’m certain it’s not concussion causing that. ‘ La vache . Not that you’re into stereotyping, Anais, you hypocrite!’
Am I wrong? Men like him are the love-and-leave-them type and I don’t care what anyone says, I know it to be true. It’s why these over-thirty and -forty macho men are still single. Because they’re not the commitment types. ‘I’m calling it like I see it, so can we agree our focus should be on the hotel, not on men? Especially not on men who live and work next door?’
‘I cannot.’
I let out a frustrated sigh. ‘ Manon. I’ve got very little time to write a first draft, and to renovate and open a hotel. Adding a love interest into the mix is just asking for trouble. Been there, done that, got the writer’s block.’
‘I’m not going to join your pity party, if that’s what you’re hoping for, but let me say this: have you ever thought your writer’s block might be cured by a new love interest? It makes perfect sense.’
I can only shake my head. Manon and Margaret both think a man is the answer. How can they not see a man caused all these problems?! ‘Back to work.’