Chapter 18
18
22 NOVEMBER
We give Giselle’s apartment a quick tidy before we pack up our belongings ready to return to the noise and progress at L’Hotel du Parc. The brief reprieve has done wonders for us. Manon’s figured out how to revamp the website for bookings, and despite us not having a new name yet, she restructured it, so it’s inviting and modern. Guests can’t book as yet, but if they click on the link there are posts about our progress and an expression-of-interest form they can fill in, to be informed when bookings become available for Christmas. We can’t do much more with the site until we figure out the perfect name. No matter how much we brainstorm, nothing sounds quite right. Manon likes L’Hotel des Buveurs d’Encre, which translates to The Ink Drinker Hotel. It’s another word used to describe a bookworm in French, but I feel it doesn’t quite hit the mark.
I’m hoping the right name will appear, just like I hope the writing fairies will pay me a visit.
My romcom is still stubbornly refusing to write itself. Nevertheless, I’m hoping once I get back to my own space things will improve.
Back at the hotel, JP takes us through the work they’ve done, which is an incredible amount considering it’s only been a week. The leaks have been detected and repaired and the mouldy ceilings replaced. The delicate cornice work he’ll do later as it’s not a noise-producing job. JP takes us right around, pointing out what they’ve accomplished and what’s coming next. Without all the retro seventies décor, the place already appears cleaner, tidier, like a blank canvas.
‘OK,’ JP says. ‘Follow me.’ We walk to the second floor and stop by the door of suite three. ‘Here’s the first suite we’ve started on.’
‘Ready?’ I ask Manon. The idea of a clean slate and imagining what the suites will look like is a heady thing indeed. Be gone, avocado-green drapes!
‘Ready,’ Manon confirms, giving JP a salacious wink. He frowns as if confused by such an action. Honestly, the guy is handling her well, considering.
I open the door and gasp. While it’s an empty shell, it’s so much lighter and brighter without the dingy brown rug and dusty thick drapes. They’ve cleaned the windows, and the room is bathed in natural light and ready for us to paint. ‘Manon, look how well the floors have shined up!’ The herringbone-style parquetry has been sanded and polished.
‘We could tap dance, it’s so shiny.’
And she probably would. I can see Manon in a leotard and tap shoes for some reason.
I get the first inklings of happiness. Such a small rejuvenation has produced such dramatic results. JP and his team have replaced the mouldy ceiling and fixed the crumbling cornice in this guest room. There’s still more to do but, for now, it’s a great start. ‘This is lovely!’
Even JP cracks a smile at our enthusiasm. ‘Now to the bathroom,’ he says.
And… back to reality. I scrunch my eyes closed as I open the door, not wanting to be disappointed, that the vision isn’t quite what I hoped for. While the bathrooms are spacious, there’s only so much salmon a person can handle. JP agreed on a simple fix of switching out the mirrors, sinks and tapware. The salmon tiles will stay for now, but I’m hoping they look more glamorous with golden hardware in the form of taps and soap and towel holders. Once we add thick fluffy white luxurious towels and bathmats, it should complete the look.
‘ Mon Dieu! ’ Manon says. ‘Anais, look. The gold accents are just beautiful. It complements the salmon colour.’
I give her a wide smile. The new extra-wide mirrors hide the bulk of salmon tiling as you enter the bathroom, and the salmon ceiling has been painted a vibrant white, which helps to calm down the previous intensity. ‘We just might make this renovation work.’ It’s a huge energy boost, expecting the worst and being pleasantly surprised. We shut the door and survey the bedroom area once more. ‘What about drapes, bedlinen, rugs? We need to decide what colours are best. I like the sheers we got for the guest lounge, but the drapes in here will have to be a blackout type.’
Manon takes her phone from her pocket and opens the notes app. ‘Well, we’ve painted the bedside tables navy, but we’re yet to switch out the handles, so we should stick with whatever matches that.’
‘Right.’ We have so much on the go, my to-do list is pages long. ‘What about simple white bed linen with a textured throw at the end of the bed, navy-blue blackout drapes with white sheers? We can go back to Marché Saint Pierre. Maybe you can use your haggling skills and do a deal with them for ready-made drapery?’
‘ Oui, easy.’
‘But will those colours suit the salmon bathroom?’
‘Let’s check on Pinterest.’ Manon brings up the website and a page of colour swatches appear. ‘Those colours are great together.’ She points to the photos on screen and, somehow, they do work. The overall effect is sophisticated.
‘Gold bedside lamps. A curated selection of books.’
JP points to a space by the door. ‘We’ve added electrics to that area for your coffee station. Did you want a shelf hung there, or…’
‘A shelf would be great, and we can buy those inexpensive trolleys for mugs and coffee and tea.’
‘Before I get back to it…’ JP coughs clearing his throat. ‘There’s one other thing. Suite seven.’
‘AKA the crime scene suite!’ Manon says with a grin.
‘ Manon! It is not. Is it, JP?’ Why does he stay silent?
He leads us down the hallway, and I can’t help stiffening, preparing myself for bad news. Surely he’d have called me if there was indeed a dead body buried there. Wouldn’t there be caution tape? Detectives? Reporters out the front? I shake myself back to reality. Manon’s true crime chatter is obviously getting to me.
JP swings open the door and we take a tentative step inside. The suite smells… musty, like the rest of them. ‘The smell that I thought would outlast humanity, it’s gone! What was it?’
Manon’s face falls, as if she’s bitterly disappointed. ‘Was it mould? How utterly boring.’
Is JP grinning? ‘There was a body?—’
I gasp and Manon claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes ablaze with hope.
‘—A rat.’ I can’t help but shiver. The rats in Paris are rabbit sized. I’m not exaggerating. If you happen to walk along the edges of the garden surrounding the Eiffel Tower late at night, they have free rein, and you will step on one. They don’t seem to fear humans under the cover of darkness as they search for food.
Manon deflates, as I smile. ‘Where was it?’
‘Behind the vanity, so we had to replace the shelving because – it’s best if you don’t know every detail.’
I exhale a pent-up breath. ‘I’m so glad it wasn’t human.’
JP nods. ‘Me too. If there’s nothing else you needed me for, I’ll get back to work then? We’re hoping to get a lot of the demolition rubbish downstairs today before the skip is picked up and replaced with a fresh one.’
‘ Merci, JP,’ I say.
‘ Oui, merci ,’ Manon says as an afterthought.
The big broad-shouldered guy blushes and gives Manon a shy smile, which she frowns at, as if she can’t translate the meaning of such a gesture. That or she’s toying with the poor fool. You never can tell with my wily cousin. ‘ De rien . Au revoir .’ JP scratches the back of his neck as he backs away, his gaze firmly locked on Manon, who doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
‘ Au revoir ,’ I say as he ducks out, and I put the weird pause down to him not quite knowing how to deal with Manon. It happens a lot.
‘What about the literary aspect?’ Manon asks, jumping straight into the next thing as if JP isn’t a consideration at all. Perhaps I’m imagining the awkward atmosphere between the two of them. ‘How should we incorporate that in every guest suite aside from a curated selection of books for each guest? Stocked bookshelves? Themed rooms?’
I tap my chin, considering what would work best. ‘The Ritz Paris has suites named after icons. There’s Suite Coco Chanel. Charlie Chaplin, Windsor. Why don’t we do the same, but each room is named after a memoir set in Paris or by those who made Paris their home? There are so many evocative novels that share different eras of life in Paris.’
‘OK, throw me some titles.’
‘I’ll have to check my Goodreads list, but off the top of my head… um…’ I struggle to name many of the books I’ve read over time that have all added to the experience of living in Paris. ‘OK, how about The Piano Shop on the Left Bank . Such a great novel about discovering a dormant passion in a little atelier, that for the life of me I’ve never been able to find. He kept it secret so the shop wasn’t bombarded.’
Manon pulls a face. ‘I mean, I like it, but isn’t it a little wordy for the name of a suite?’
I grin. ‘It is, but the quirkiness of such a thing appeals. Book lovers will get it. What about The French Ingredient ? An American woman who was so bold as to open a cooking school in Paris. It was unheard of!’ Manon’s brow furrows so I press on, becoming more taken with the idea as I remember other awe-inspiring memoirs. ‘ Time was Soft There is a memoir about the author’s time as a Tumbleweed, a name given to those itinerants who blew in on the wind and were permitted to live and work inside the bookshop Shakespeare and Co. In Almost French, the author navigates love in a new city in a language she doesn’t speak.’
‘You are so eccentric. Although I must admit, it does sound rather fun and frivolous. Let me make a note of these names and we can choose the strongest contenders.’ She pulls her phone from a pocket and types in the book titles. ‘What about our writer in residence? The incomparable Anais De la Croix? Surely we get to name a suite after you, given all your bestselling romances?’
‘ Non, merci . Plus, mine aren’t memoirs.’ As a writer, I don’t crave the limelight at all. In fact, I actively avoid it as much as I can and only do events like book tours, festivals and awards nights when Margaret demands it of me. Which is all the time. ‘That would be a bit arrogant, don’t you think?’
Manon shakes her head. ‘It would be sweet.’
‘ Non , there are plenty of other books we can feature. There’s A Moveable Feast, the classic. Or My Paris Dream. We’ll gift a copy of “their” special suite book on check in. Each suite will have a notebook in the room, for guests to pen their thoughts about what they read during their stay with us. Sort of like a guest book… for books. They can read what the previous guest wrote. I’ve already ordered bath caddies for the four suites and old-book-scented candles.’
‘Actually, some hotels offer a pillow menu, so why don’t we offer a reading pillow menu? There are all sorts, like tablet holder cushions, or chunky pillows with arm rests and back support. There’s full body-length pillows for those who sprawl when they read. Massaging neck pillows to relax those jetlagged readers. I’m sure we can find a selection and offer them to our guests upon check in.’
‘Great idea, Manon! We can advertise our very own reading pillow menu on social media closer to the time.’
‘ Oui, there’s a few other things on our spreadsheet we need to get too. Let’s see if we can find some bookish décor at the markets, non ? We need literary mugs for the coffee stations, cute library-card stamped cushions. Anyway, we’ve still got plenty of time for finessing. Let’s get back to work.’
‘Real work, as in manual labour?’
I nod. ‘ Oui! Time to start painting!’
We’ve chosen a creamy white because of the golden cornicing, and I’d rather highlight that feature and keep the rooms light and bright, clean.
‘We have to paint so many walls.’ Manon has an air of defeat in her tone. Us painting saves a huge amount of money and while it’ll be tedious, it’s not hard, even though it does seem like a mammoth task. One step at a time. Painting seems so much easier than facing a blank screen on my laptop. The clock is ticking, and my word count is exactly two. And those two words are: Chapter One.
‘I know it feels endless, and having to do so many coats to hide the bright colours is a kick in the teeth.’ I rummage in my jacket pocket and produce the antique key. ‘First, we need to see if this fits suite nineteen.’
Manon slaps her forehead. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’
There’s a sense of excitement about discovering what’s inside. I only hope that excitement isn’t extinguished if we open the door to find a basic hotel room with a horrific colour scheme just like the rest.
‘Wait!’ She holds up a hand. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
She dashes out before I can ask her where she’s going. I wait a few minutes and then give up, making my way up to the third floor when there’s a commotion on the stairs behind me. I turn to see Manon dragging a very reluctant Noah behind her, blithely ignoring his protestations. It’s like she’s taken him prisoner.
‘Manon! What are you doing ?’ I turn and hold on to the banister for support as tradespeople slip up and down the stairs, surefooted like mountain goats. I’m definitely going to improve my own fitness here traipsing up and down.
‘I’d like to know that too,’ Noah says, wrenching his arm from hers. ‘I was in the middle of a meeting with a supplier, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Can you tell me what’s so urgent that I have to be here? Let me guess: another bookshelf has toppled over?’
‘We’re opening the secret room, but I didn’t want your supplier to find out. What if it’s full of gold, or the hidden corpse of your reclusive writer? Best we keep this petit mystery to ourselves for now.’
I’m rankled she’s roped Noah into this. While it was nice of him to offer us the key he found, we don’t even know if it fits the lock. And whatever is in that suite is ours to explore. Alone.
‘Sorry for the disturbance, Noah. Manon took leave of her senses temporarily. You’ll come to learn this happens quite a bit where my cousin is concerned. You can leave.’
‘Perhaps I’ve been a little hasty. Manon is only doing the neighbourly thing by inviting me here. I’ll stay, just let me text my supplier.’ He loses his gruff countenance, which irks me even more. How fickle he is!
My brain won’t compute an excuse fast enough to get rid of him, and Manon doesn’t help when she pushes him in the back to get moving. ‘We don’t have all day.’
Part of me is furious with her; the other part just prays the key fits. If it’s another dead end, we’re back to square one and will have to try another locksmith, or the sledgehammer option. Both unappealing. Last night, locksmith numero uno sent me a terse email saying he didn’t discover any details about the internals of the lock and, if I forced entry and damaged it, I’d be bringing down a lot of bad juju on myself and every guest who ever deigned to stay here. Who knew locksmiths could be so threatening. He topped off his stroppy email with a rather large invoice for his call-out fee. Hence, I’m a little reluctant about calling in any other ‘experts’.
We find JP at the top of the stairs in deep conversation with one of his workers. We sidestep him and Manon calls out, ‘If you hear a scream, don’t panic.’
JP frowns. Honestly, the guy is going to prematurely age working in close proximity to Manon. While he seems intrigued, he also spends a fair amount of time perplexed by her. Such is the Manon effect.
When we get to the end of the hallway, I take a series of deep breaths. I wish I could say it’s from the adrenaline pumping, but that would be a lie. So many stairs. So often. While Noah and Manon are conversing about what we might find behind the door, seemingly not affected at all by physical exertion, I’m struggling to stay alive.
‘Anais,’ Manon says, hands in a prayer gesture. ‘Do you want a drum roll?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I want no such thing.’ In Noah’s presence, I act a little haughtier than usual. I’m not sure why.
‘Do the honours, then.’
I stand in front of the door and briefly close my eyes, readying myself for any disappointment that may come. We’ve beat this so-called mystery up and there’s not one solid bit of proof there is any truth to it.
‘I hope this works,’ I say, and I put the key in the lock and turn it.