Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

relieved that they’re home.

I begin stuffing the Paris paraphernalia back into the envelope because I’m not quite sure how to explain it to them. It still feels a bit fantastical, as if any moment Marla is going to laugh and say, “Just kidding. I really had you going, didn’t I?”

“How is everyone?” Cressida asks as if she’s walking into a hostage situation.

Tallulah looks just as tentative.

“We’re fine,” I say. “Come in. Want some tea?”

“She’s a tough nut.” Marla nods in my direction and rolls her eyes. “I still haven’t convinced her to come with me. I mean, who needs to be convinced to go to Paris?”

Marla told my friends about the apartment before she talked to me? Why should I be surprised?

I console myself with the reality that if it does pan out, we’ll probably end up selling the place and be done with it.

“It’s like this,” Marla says. “In Orlando, if you travel three hours north, you’re in Jacksonville. Three hours south and you’re in Clewiston. But from London, you invest the same travel time and you’re right smack in the middle of oh là là.”

“You have to go,” T says. “It’s Paris, Hannah. I’ll go if you don’t want to.”

I wonder how long it would take for Tallulah to get to know the real Marla, the one standing there smacking on Cressida’s cookies. The one who would probably try to stick her with the hotel bill if they got over there and discovered this magical apartment was uninhabitable or, more likely, a myth.

Because what is the likelihood that an apartment that has been sitting vacant for a while is move-in ready?

Or even ours.

It crosses my mind to take Tallulah up on the offer to go in my stead, but I say, “She just sprung this on me. I haven’t even had time to digest the situation. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight anyway. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“That’s right,” Cressida says. “And we have a party to get to. Marla, are you coming?”

“No!” I say before she can answer.

Three heads swivel in my direction.

“I love parties,” says Marla.

“You can’t go,” I say, determined to nip that in the bud. “You weren’t invited. You can’t just show up.”

“Hannah, this is Jemma,” says Cressida. “There’s no invitation list. There will be so many people there she won’t care as long as Marla brings a bottle of something.”

“Ha! She doesn’t have a bottle to bring.”

And a recovering alcoholic doesn’t need to be around a bunch of drunks at a party.

“We picked up plenty,” says T. “Even something for you so you couldn’t use that as an excuse not to go.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I’ve had a long week. I want to have a quiet night.”

“Well, girls,” says Marla. “Let her stay home if she’s going to be like that. We know how to have fun.”

Visions of Marla dancing on tables with her bottle of something snap me back to reality.

Shit.

London was the birthplace of her days as a groupie following around the punk band The Squelching Wellies. I have a sinking feeling that coming here might tempt her to relive her glory days. I need to make sure she doesn’t do something stupid.

Babysitting my mother was not how I envisioned spending my vacation… or ringing in the New Year. But one of us needs to take responsibility.

“Okay, fine. I’ll go.”

Cressida claps her hands. “Zed will be so happy.”

Ugh. That’s right. Okay, fine. I’ll meet Zed. It doesn’t mean I have to go out with him.

Cressida looks at her watch. “I have to start getting ready.”

As she and T leave the room, they’re discussing wardrobe choices. I contemplate what people would do if I did show up in my flannels and fuzzy socks.

Hi, Zed; I’m Hannah.

That would fix the situation.

“Shall I shower first, or do you want to?” Marla asks.

“Go ahead,” I say. “But wash your champagne glass, please. The washing liquid is in that stainless steel pump container to the right of the sink.”

“It’s not dirty,” Marla says.

“Didn’t you drink champagne with T and Cressida?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t have any. I told you I’m on the wagon.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s good.”

“I’m starting over, Hannah. If I keep doing what I’ve been doing, I’ll keep getting what I’ve been getting. I’m tired of it.”

“Fair enough,” I say, wanting to believe her but remembering the sting of too many broken promises and sullied declarations in the past.

“So, what about Paris?” she asks. “Are you coming with me?”

March 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

When I entered the garret after my disastrous appointment, I met our landlord, Monsieur Arpin. One glance and I realized he took no more pride in his personal hygiene than he did in the flat’s cleanliness.

He needed a shave. He wore grey, grease-spotted trousers and a dirty white sleeveless shirt that was yellowed under the armpits. He smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and whiskey-soaked cabbage.

I held my breath as I brushed past him to stand next to Helen. He leered at us and licked his lips. Muttering, his gaze dropped to Helen’s bosom and he had the nerve to say she was the prettier of us, but I would do.

I would do?

At first, I had no idea what he meant, but then he laughed and gave a lascivious wink. It sent a shiver down my spine.

I walked to the door and asked him to leave.

He refused, insisting we settle on the rent. He wanted two months’ rent in advance rather than the one month’s we had agreed upon in our correspondence.

With a pursed-lip shrug, he claimed circumstances had changed. If we wanted the place, we needed to hand over the money.

He kept muttering in French and holding up two hairy-knuckled fingers with filthy nails. By this time his odeur had filled the flat, threatening to gag me.

We tried to reason with him, saying we needed to work to earn the rest. Once we had the money, we would pay.

He refused to budge.

Helen shot me a glance as if telling