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

People don’t just fly to London on a whim.”

Well, most people who aren’t Marla need time to plan.

I move into the kitchen and put on the kettle. She follows and parks herself on one of the stools at the marble-topped island.

An empty bottle of champagne and three glasses litter the island’s otherwise tidy surface. And she said she wasn’t drinking.

At least it was only one bottle split three ways.

I busy myself measuring loose Darjeeling tea into a white ceramic teapot, and grab a small yellow-and-blue creamer pitcher from the refrigerator. I can feel her gaze on me in the quiet. I’m surprised she hasn’t filled the silence, which has stretched on for a while now.

“Please take off your sunglasses. I can’t see your eyes.”

I turn and look at her, arms crossed.

After a few beats, she slides off the glasses to reveal the purple-red remnants of a black eye that even her heavy makeup can’t cover.

“What the hell? What happened to your eye?”

She touches it gingerly, then cups her hand around it as if shielding it from my scrutiny.

“How did you hurt your eye?” I ask.

“I ran into a door.”

“Really?”

At Gram’s funeral, I remember noticing a bruise on her leg and seeing Don pinch her arm in the church when they were having a quiet disagreement. I know she’s lying about the door. But the teakettle is whistling. I remove it from the burner and pour the water into the teapot.

“Aren’t you fancy?” I know she’s trying to change the subject. “I usually drink Lipton.”

We sit in silence again until the tea has steeped. I pour it into the mugs and slide one in front of her. Her cup says, THERE IS NOTHING LIKE STAYING AT HOME FOR REAL COMFORT—JANE AUSTEN.

It’s a quote from Emma.

Marla squints her blue eyes. Her lips move as she reads. “Is this from your work? That tour thing you do?”

“A couple who took my Jane Austen tour last year gave it to me as a thank-you gift. You must have hit the door pretty hard for your eye to bruise like that. Did you have it checked by a doctor?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She blows on her tea and takes a noisy slurp.

“Did Don hit you?”

She sits perfectly still for a long moment before her face crumples, and she nods. “That’s why I called off the engagement.”

She won’t look me in the eyes. Head bowed over her cup, she blows on her tea and slurps again.

“Is that why you came to London?”

“One of the reasons. Hannah, I need your help.”

Her words are quiet but matter-of-fact. They lack the usual melodrama she uses when she’s trying to convince others of how trying her life is. “I can’t go back to Orlando. I’m afraid Don will kill me.”

And cue the theatrics.

“You can’t move in here.” I realize how utterly cold I sound. “I’m sorry. The town house doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to Cressida’s family.”

I start to tell her that I could never find another place like this for the rent I’m paying, but then I realize that would only make Marla more determined to stay.

“I’m not asking to move in with you.”

Marla swallows hard, then studies the mug again.

“They must really love you to give you a gift like this.”

I sip my tea, unsure of what to say.

“No, seriously,” Marla presses. “I’ll bet you’re really good at what you do.”

“I try.”

“You’re so smart, Hannah. I think you got that from your grandma. It must skip a generation.” She holds her mug with both palms, as if warming her hands.

I fight the urge to fill the silence, to ask her about the other reasons she’s here.

She said Don was one of the reasons.

Since Gram is gone, maybe this is the only place she could go to get away from him. I don’t know if she’s being dramatic about him wanting to kill her. He certainly left a mark on her face. That’s not something to test.

“You can stay for one night. One. Not a moment longer.”

Tomorrow, I will find her a hotel room and personally move her bags if I have to.

“Thank you, Hannah.” She’s tearing up. “Oh, thank you.”

I half expect her to fling her arm over her forehead and succumb to a case of the vapors.

But suddenly, she sets down her tea.

“Hang on,” she says. “I have something to show you. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.”

She ignores my sarcasm and returns a moment later clutching a large manila envelope. She sits down, puts it on the island, and places her clasped hands on top of it.

I take the bait. “What’s that?”

She hands it to me. “This is the other reason I’m here. Open it.”

March 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

The interview was a disaster.

I was so full of hope when I set out this morning toward Mademoiselle Chanel’s atelier at 31 rue Cambon to meet Madame Jeanneau, who had responded to my query for a position.

In her letter, she had instructed me to use the steps that led to the back door. I had paused at the top of the stairs when I heard a clatter behind me. A woman pushed past me, threw open the door, and raced into a workroom.

Right in front of everyone, a stern old crone reprimanded the poor, breathless woman, whose name, I learned, was Brigitte. Apparently she was late for work again. Brigitte pleaded with the woman, whom she addressed as Madame Jeanneau. Alas, it was futile, because Madame dismissed her on the spot, saying her services were no longer needed.

Next, Madame Jeanneau turned her ire on me and bellowed, “What do you want?”

I raised my chin, hoping to look more confident than I felt, and told her my name and that I had an appointment to interview for a job. I did not want to celebrate poor Brigitte’s misfortune, but I couldn’t help but feel hopeful since clearly there was an available position.

She motioned for me to follow her down a hallway papered with fashion sketches that were unmistakably