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

A few moments ago we had a disagreement when I mentioned returning to London if I can’t find work. I was trying to be practical and give her fair warning that she might need to find a new flatmate, but she called me defeatist.

She accused me of changing because in London I seemed much braver. She said what if success is right around the corner and I miss the opportunity because I return to Bristol with my tail between my legs?

I have to wonder if she will still sing that tune come the rent day when I can’t afford my share. It’s one thing to dream and it’s another to pay your own way.

I fear we have been living in an altered reality for too long: going to Dingo Bar almost daily and letting men buy us drinks for the pleasure of our company. How much longer will they be so generous? Soon, they will want something in return.

After our tiff, Helen calmed down and said she knows how I can earn money while I continue to look for a situation at a fashion house.

I knew I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

And I didn’t.

Luc has a friend, another artist, who needs a model. It doesn’t pay much, but it wouldn’t require much time. I could still look for the work I wanted.

When I asked if I would have to take off my clothes, Helen laughed at me. Of course I would. He paints the human figure. He couldn’t do his job if I kept my coat on.

Embarrassed, I then said I had too much self-respect to flaunt my naked body.

Helen flinched and asked if I was calling her a whore.

Then Helen laughed as if nothing was wrong and started teasing me about being a modest little girl who was afraid for the boys to see my knickers.

I asked her if she ever felt vulnerable without a barrier of clothing between her and Luc.

She said boundaries were her barriers. He wouldn’t dare cross her barriers unless she invited him. She insisted that type of control was the ultimate form of self-empowerment.

Then she smiled in such a dreamy manner that I knew she had already given herself to him.

I’ve never thought about it until now, but the clothing I design is my armor, a barrier between me and the world. I can’t imagine laying myself bare for a man to gaze upon as if he were looking at fruit in a bowl.

However, if that fruit belongs to me, and I decide what’s forbidden, could I be so brazen if it meant getting what I wanted in the end?

Eight

January 2, 2019—4:20 p.m.

Square la Bruyère, 9th arrondissement

Paris, France

The building is surrounded by an iron fence with an ornate gate. Marla and I debate letting ourselves inside, but Monsieur Levesque, still en route through late-afternoon traffic, said we needed to sign some papers before the apartment would officially be ours. Even though we have the key (assuming it’s still functional), we agree to play by the rules and sit restlessly on our suitcases.

As I stare up at the beautiful five-story tan stone building, I take it all in: the Haussmann-style façade with elaborate stonework around large arched windows and iron rails that set off intermittent Juliet balconies.

There’s a fountain on the other side of the gate and a bit of garden space between it and the building. Several leafless, mature trees stand like sentries on the grounds. I imagine in summer, when they’re lush and green, they will filter the late-afternoon sun and create dappled shade on the walk that extends from where we’re standing to the building’s front door.

Even though the landscape is winter stark, the place is stately and elegant.

It looks expensive.

I reach into my purse and pull out the paper on which I’d written the apartment’s address and double-check that we’re in the right place. It appears we are.

With this, my heart thuds. I allow the floodgates I’d guarded to swing wide open. All the hope that I’d denied myself pours out.

The temperature has dropped several degrees, but my cheeks burn as I cast another glance at the apartment building.

I have no idea what shape the place is in, but at least it’s still standing.

A black Town Car stops along the curb.

A tall, thin, well-dressed man in his early sixties emerges and extends his hand. “Bonjour, ladies. I apologize for keeping you waiting. Emile Levesque, at your service.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Levesque.” I shake his hand. “I am Hannah Bond. This is my mother, Marla Bond. Thank you for agreeing to meet us here on such short notice.”

“But of course. It is very nice to finally meet you both in person.” He smiles and regards me with warm eyes. I like him instantly.

He opens a leather folio and thumbs through some papers.

“The formalities won’t take long. First, allow me to extend my sympathies for your loved one’s passing. Monsieur Sterling in Florida communicated that Madame wasn’t simply a client to him; she was a friend, and she loved you both very much. That’s why her wishes are simple.”

She loved us both very much?

I wonder if she really said that or if he’s assuming. I hope it’s true. I was relieved when I learned that Gram hadn’t cut Marla out. Maybe she knew it had the potential to cause my already strained relationship with my mother to implode. I was even more relieved when she hadn’t attached stipulations to the inheritance—like us working together. Even though that’s what it’s come down to, it was our choice. I slant a quick glance at Marla, who seems uncharacteristically demure.

“I am in possession of a copy of Madame’s will. She has directed that the two of you shall split everything, which now includes the square la Bruyère apartment. I’m here to accommodate you should you require anything while you are in Paris.

“First, I need your signatures on the paperwork, and there will be the small matter of taxes,