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

a wad,” she says. “I’m going to reboot my phone. Maybe that will stop it from freezing on me. Maybe the eleven-minute time was via car?”

Suddenly, as if the universe is willing me to hold my tongue, I smell chocolate. I inhale deeply to make sure my senses aren’t playing a trick on me.

There it is—that deep, rich, mouthwatering fragrance. Like manna from heaven.

It’s exactly how I remember Paris smelling, like chocolate and bread. Just when I thought that fantasy had been shattered, compliments of the red-light district, I spy the chocolate shop two doors down.

“I’m going in there.” I point to the pretty storefront and leave Marla holding her phone at arm’s length, waving it around as if that’s going to get her better reception.

As I wheel my suitcase inside the shop, I inhale the delectable scent of cocoa and marvel at the masterpieces in the glass cases. Instant mood booster. There are rows and rows of Lucite trays brimming with gorgeous confections in various shapes and colors. Some are wrapped in colorful foil; others are displayed in their full chocolate glory, as if they’re waiting to be plucked from the case and savored.

Did I mention that it smells heavenly? Like I’ve fallen into a chocolate dream.

A woman in a white apron smiles at me from behind the counter.

“Bonjour, madame,” I say, trying to sound Parisian. As if I’d fool anyone. All she’d have to do is answer me in French and my deer-in-the-headlights look would give me away.

“Hello.” Mercifully, she addresses me in English, and her voice has a delightful lilt that makes the ordinary greeting sound like a beautiful song. “How may I help you?”

“I’ll take one of each.” I’m joking, of course, but judging by her wide eyes, she thinks I’m serious.

“It all looks so delicious,” I add. “How does a person decide?”

“Oh!” She smiles and nods, catching on. “May I recommend the crème de noisette? It is… how do you say… hazelnut cream.”

“Yes, please. I’ll take a half dozen.”

As she selects six perfect pieces of chocolate, I make my way down the display case, wishing I really could taste one of each. I settle on an additional dozen traditional dark chocolate truffles covered in cocoa powder, and a bag of chocolate disks with cacao nibs mixed in.

I’m buying plenty to share with Marla as a show of goodwill.

The woman wraps up my treasures and tucks them into a bag with handles, which she stuffs full of gold tissue paper.

It looks like a gift when she hands the package to me.

I pick up a business card to slip into my purse, in case I want to come back again before I return to London. That’s when I notice that the zip code is 75017.

Wait a minute—the seventeen at the end of the zip means we’re in the seventeenth arrondissement.

It’s been ages since I visited Paris. I don’t know my way around the city without a map, but I do know that the hotel where we’re staying is not far from the Louvre, which is located in the first arrondissement.

I also remember that Paris has twenty arrondissements. The arrangement starts in the center of the city with the first arrondissement and spirals outward in a clockwise manner, arranged in a snail shell of sorts.

If we’re in the seventeenth, we definitely took a wrong turn or two somewhere along the way.

“Merci beaucoup,” I say. “Your shop is lovely. You’re in the seventeenth arrondissement, right?”

She beams with pride. “Oui. We are family owned and have been in this location for nearly thirty years.”

“If I wanted to walk from here to the Louvre, how long would it take?”

Her eyes fly wide open and then she purses her lips as if she’s seriously considering the question.

“Oooh… Forty-five minutes? It would be a long walk.”

“Yes, it would.”

The moment I exit the shop, Marla says, “Okay, we’re lost. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, but this damn thing sent us the wrong way.” She smiles meekly. “Don’t be mad. Please.”

“I’m not mad.” I’m irked at myself for not taking on the navigation responsibility from the start.

“You’re mad,” she says.

“I’m not mad,” I repeat. “But it’s after four o’clock. Let’s regroup. Call Monsieur Levesque and see if he can meet us at the apartment instead of his office. I’ll get us an Uber.”

June 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I’ve visited all the fashion houses. Each one has turned me down. Some of the ateliers acknowledged my superb sewing skills but claimed my aesthetic didn’t align with theirs. That’s confusing because my aesthetic rubbed too closely to Chanel’s. The others turned me away before I could even introduce myself, claiming they had no openings.

I am beginning to feel desperate. I’m constantly irritated with Helen.

She keeps begging me to come out with her and Luc, accusing me of moping about and being a regular spoilsport.

I try to reason with her: I don’t have a job, which means I have no money. I can barely pay for rent, much less drinks.

She insists something will come along. She did not win her Ballets Russes audition, because they only had one opening this time and they selected the niece of a principal dancer. Even so, Helen’s not worried. She says she will audition again the next time they need dancers.

I do wish I could be more like my friend—in some ways. She radiates a sunny disposition even when clouds loom overhead. But it’s easier to be sunny when you have an income, and she’s been dancing in cabarets and modeling for Luc.

Helen is much freer with her body than I am. She’s a good person, mind you, but she’s an exhibitionist. We have different views of modesty. I button up; she bares all. In the two weeks we’ve been living in Paris, she has shed any pretense of inhibition she might have presented in London.

As I write this, Helen is lounging about in her robe on the living room sofa, reading the Evening Standard and leaving very little to the