Chapter 20
20
24 NOVEMBER
By Sunday evening, the lobby hall is painted – begone, sunshine-yellow walls! – and we’ve spruced up the reception desk by hiding it behind a few plant pots with leafy ferns we picked up at the market for a song.
Manon’s looped red tinsel around the plants even though all this area will most likely get dusty as work continues in the hotel and we’ll need to clean it all time and again. ‘That’s it, I quit.’ I put my hands on my hips and arch my back. I’m toy-soldier stiff. It radiates from my neck down every muscle, some I’m sure I’ve never used before. ‘Maybe the words will spill now, because any excuse would do to not have to hold another paintbrush. The crick in my neck feels permanent, like I’ll fall over backwards when I try to go forwards.’
‘We’ve done a great job.’
I don’t remind her how many other rooms we’ve got to do.
While I’m physically drained, I feel inspired by our accomplishments. My fingers tingle to write, which is a positive sign. ‘Who knew backbreaking labour would be a potential cure for writer’s block?’
Manon gives me the side eye. ‘Cure or avoidance of said backbreaking labour?’
I let out a laugh. ‘Both, probably.’
‘I need dinner. It’s well past my designated mealtime.’
In the laundry, we clean our paintbrushes and trays before going to the kitchen area. I take cheese and charcuterie from the fridge while Manon slices a baguette. We’ve been living on simple slap-together meals, and I do look forward to shopping and stocking up the larder so we can cook some proper dishes, but, at the end of a long day painting or rushing around, neither of us can be bothered cooking.
‘I checked with the supplier about the delivery for our mattresses. There was an issue with the ones we ordered but it’s sorted now and they’re being delivered tomorrow.’
‘And the linen too?’
‘ Oui .’ I eat quickly, eager to get writing in the hope that the block is a thing of the past. ‘I’m off to write.’ I put my plate in the sink and leave Manon to it.
In my suite, I open up my laptop and begin to type.
Snow fell as Hilary made her way down the cobblestoned street near the Louvre. Her Parisian adventure had only just begun when she’d met a dashing Frenchman who…
Who what? Made her heart sing. Pulse race?
I’m internally cheering. One full sentence. Progress! I knit my fingers and stretch them out, readying myself for a long writing session, when there’s a thump of bass. No matter. Paris is a noisy city and I am a professional. In my desk drawer I find my noise-cancelling headphones and slip them on. The pumping of the bass increases. Where is it coming from?
I take a steadying breath. It does not matter. It does not exist in this fictional world. Where was I? Hilary. How she feels about the dashing Frenchman. Does she feel rapture? Lust? Excitement? I picture my heroine with her straight blonde bob and China blue eyes. She’s no nonsense. Has a take-charge persona. Doesn’t suffer fools. She?—
‘ Bonsoir, Bonsoir! Welcome to The Lost Generation Wine Bar! Tonight we have local death metal band, Pandemic, playing a set for you . ’
How loud does the man have to be for his patrons to hear him in his tiny little bar? Is he using a megaphone? And a death metal band? It doesn’t sound very Roaring Twenties to me.
I vow not to let him disrupt the flow of my writing. I stretch once more and try to get back into the headspace of my heroine. Hilary, black hair. Or was it blonde? Gah, it’s no use. The thumping starts in earnest, so loud I’m sure the walls are shaking. Is this some kind of retaliation for the renovations?
I pull my headphones off and stomp downstairs and bump straight into Manon, who is dancing around the lobby in time to the music. ‘Who knew Noah had such good taste?’ she screams to be heard.
‘Good taste? How can this even be called music? It’s horrific. I’m going to go over there and give him a piece?—’
‘Yeah! Me too!’
‘What?’ She clearly can’t hear me. How do the other neighbours let this sort of thing fly? As predicated, Noah is a hypocrite of the finest order. Whatever noise we make renovating makes his teeth grind, yet he hosts a death metal band that’s so loud I’m sure the Eiffel Tower is shaking on its foundations.
My rage builds as I head to the exit. Manon grabs my arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘NEXT DOOR!’
‘ C’est bon! Let me get my coat and I’ll join you.’
I frown, confused. ‘I’m not going for the… music! I’m going to talk to Noah about the noise pollution. It’s a disgrace!’
Disappointment dashes over her features. ‘Noise pollution? It’s not that loud.’
‘I can’t hear you!’
With hands over my ears, I make my way to The Lost Generation Wine Bar. Noah stands by the front door in the crisp evening air, smiling and joking with patrons who are queuing to get in.
I tap him on the shoulder. When he turns to me, the smile slips straight off his face. Typical. I’m so riled up I don’t speak; I rely on an extreme eyebrow raise and the cords twanging in my elongated exposed neck to get my point across.
‘Do you need medical help?’ he asks, his face pinched with worry. ‘Did you… ingest?—’
‘What?’
His expression changes to relief. ‘Ah, sorry. You had your neck stuck out like a giraffe, and that surprised look on your face. I thought you needed medical attention, but I see my error. Were you just…? In pain, or?—?’
The hide of this man! ‘ Oui , I’m in a lot of pain. Because I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK.’
‘Is this about the writer’s block? Manon told me all about it.’
I’m going to kill her. But first I’ll ask where to hide a dead body. And then I’ll kill her.
‘ Non , it’s not about that.’
‘Well,’ he says jovially, throwing an arm around my shoulders as if we’re long-lost friends. ‘Whatever it is, you’ve come to the right place. I’ll even let you skip the queue, since you so clearly need to get out of your own head.’
‘ Excusez moi? ’ Is he joking or does he really think I’m here to unwind?
‘No need to thank me.’ He motions to a guy standing just inside. ‘This is Anais, drinks are gratis for her. She’s going through… some things.’
Before I can argue, Manon shows up. ‘Ooh, can I skip the queue with Anais? I’m going through some things too.’
Noah throws her a bright smile. ‘I bet.’ He gives me a long look as if to imply that I’m the issue. I’m roiling, my head is going to explode, but it’s so damn loud I can’t form words fast enough to cut this fool to the quick.
Before I know it, we’re being led inside the bar, Christmas lights are pulsing in time with the horrific bump of the base, it’s so loud I’m sure this must be what hell sounds like, and we’re deposited in a booth.
‘If you had to dispose of a body, Manon,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘where would you suggest?’
‘Drink?’ She mimes the action.
I give in to it. A drink would certainly help matters. It can’t make it any worse, surely.