Paris Lights Read online

  I could feel myself holding my breath as she examined the screen, waiting for her expression to either lighten with hope or crease in despair. I had no plan B; everything in my life now was an utter unknown.

  Then her face creased in despair. ‘I am so sorry. We are fully booked.’

  I felt the world turn; my head was light and I didn’t know if I had even answered Cecile or just gripped the side of the desk to stop the room from spinning. I felt hot, white spots dancing in my vision. Okay, breathe, Claire, just breathe; we can figure this out, no problem.

  I heard Cecile’s panicked cry – ‘Gaston! Gaston!’ – and then blackness descended.

  The next thing I felt were the waves of air hitting my face as I slowly blinked my eyes open. I felt a strong grip around my shoulders, sitting me upright on the cool marble tiles. Cathy from the restaurant was frantically waving a newspaper in my face.

  ‘What happened?’ I tried to break from Gaston’s hold but he was adamant to keep me still.

  ‘Ne bougez pas!’ he said, which, at a guess, meant ‘stay put’.

  ‘You fainted,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I what?’ Oh God, it was mortifying.

  ‘Do not worry, Mademoiselle Shorten, just get up very slowly.’ Cecile moved to my other side, helping me to my feet. I had never been so grateful to them for being an anchor as the room continued to spin. Little did I care; dignity was severely underrated anyway. They guided me to a chair near the tourist brochures, where they made me sit before a glass of water was thrust into my face.

  ‘Thank, ah, merci,’ I corrected, taking the glass with a shaky hand.

  I grounded myself with that glass of water, sipping on it as chaos swarmed around me in a flurry of French words that I had no hope of understanding.

  The conversation died, and now they stood around me. It was like they had no idea what to do with me. I had to get my shit together. A few more moments and I would be fine; I would work it out. I was a big girl. There had to be somewhere they could recommend.

  Gaston turned to Cecile, his expression uncertain. ‘Le sixième ètage?’ he said. I didn’t know what that meant but Cecile’s eyes widened, like whatever he had just asked was completely ludicrous, and yet her mind seemed to be ticking, as her gaze drifted from Gaston to me. I no doubt looked a sorry sight: bloodshot eyes, white as a ghost, nursing my glass of water; all I needed to do was tremble my chin and I would be truly pathetic.

  Cecile’s mouth curved into a small smile. ‘Gaston, grab Mademoiselle Shorten’s bags.’

  Cathy gasped, stepping forward. ‘No, Cecile.’

  Cecile cut her a dark look; it was the first time I had seen anything like that from her, but she was definitely not to be trifled with.

  Gaston smiled, going to the front door to gather my bags, but instead of taking them outside to be unloaded into the next taxi like I expected, he carried them in my direction, coming to stand beside me. I blinked in confusion.

  Cecile’s blinding smile was back, shuttering over any darkness from a minute before.

  ‘Gaston, please escort Mademoiselle Shorten to the sixth floor.’

  My last glimpse of the reception area was of Cathy’s horrified expression, then the door of the lift blocked my view of her. I suddenly felt very nervous – was Gaston leading me to certain death? Could this elderly lift possibly handle two more floors? Me, Gaston and my luggage in this confined space was enough to make the dizzies kick in again, but I stayed the course and pushed my mind forward. Stop being such a bloody sook, Claire.

  ‘You will like the sixth floor,’ Gaston said.

  ‘Well, I don’t think Cathy was too impressed about it.’

  Gaston laughed, but said nothing more.

  ‘Does she want to stay on the sixth floor?’ I said, mainly to myself, as I tried to wonder why Cathy had taken it almost personally. The lift came to a shunting stop and the number six was illuminated above the door. The door opened, then Gaston stepped onto the landing with my bags.

  ‘No one stays on the sixth floor. It is forbidden,’ he said cryptically.

  I swallowed, almost tripping as I followed Gaston down the long hall. ‘Um, then why are you bringing me here? I don’t want to be in any trouble.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be a good turn to send a girl who has fainted out onto the streets of Paris, would it?’

  ‘I feel much better,’ I said, taking in the vast differences of the sixth floor to the one my previous room had been on. It was flooded with natural light from a large window, which shone onto a small, ornate table set with fresh flowers. The floor was a beautiful herringbone French oak parquet, unlike the other floors’ crusty, worn carpets, and the walls were all painted a crisp blinding white; framed black-and-white pictures of Paris lined the halls, pops of black and grey against the stark white. It was almost as though we were in a completely different hotel altogether, like a secret world at the top of the building. Not only was it seemingly forbidden to others but I certainly felt like an imposter.

  ‘Ah, Gaston, I am honestly so grateful, but I don’t think that I am going to be able to afford the nightly rate here.’

  Gaston laughed; for all I knew I was about to be entrapped in a twenty-year time-share lease.

  He stopped before a door, placed my bags on the ground, and retrieved a key from his pocket.

  ‘Get some rest. Cecile will stop by at the end of her shift to check on you,’ he said, unlocking and pushing the door open. He stepped to the side, allowing me to enter first.

  I entered the room tentatively, my eyes widening at the unexpected grandeur inside. We definitely couldn’t be in the same hotel.

  The room was like a mini apartment. There was actually space to move and there was no carpet stained by a leaky old AC unit, or mission-brown built-in wall desk. The room was only partially painted and exposed electrical wiring dangled from a wall light. A picture leaning against the wall next to a power tool suggested that they weren’t exactly expecting company.

  Gaston scoffed with embarrassment. ‘Ah, yes, the room is undergoing some improvements,’ he said, quickly moving to pick up the drill. Seeing as I had been homeless I wasn’t about to complain – even in its unfinished state, the room was glorious.

  To my left there was a large marble-tiled bathroom, with a shower and separate bath, which I was already fantasising about submerging myself in. The room was bright and white like the hall, with accents of black and gold from cushions and fabrics. Even the curtains were plush – I vowed to keep away from them. Well, I would just be more careful, I thought, as I was instantly lured to the double balcony doors. I peeled the lace curtain across to reveal a patio, complete with table and chairs and—

  ‘Oh God.’

  Gaston came to stand beside me. ‘Nice view, eh?’

  There she was, in all her glory: the Eiffel Tower. Most people would kill for a view like this; I wanted to recoil and draw the curtains.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I stammered, not wanting to seem ungrateful. I was waiting for the massive catch, like having to sign a contract in blood. I wondered if in future I should faint at airports to get an upgrade?

  Either way, there was one thing that I knew: despite all the foreign words exchanged, I knew it was Gaston who had suggested the sixth floor, and I had never felt so grateful in my life. Considering the way the day had started, he would never know just how he had saved me.

  Gaston was probably in his thirties, dark skinned, slender, yet not much taller than me. He had been my first introduction to the hotel, and he had been a champion in looking after me since.

  ‘Merci beaucoup, Gaston,’ I said, trying not to smile.

  Gaston nodded, looking suitably impressed. ‘Make yourself at home. If you need anything, dial nine for reception,’ he said, handing me the key before heading to the door and leaving me standing in my own little piece of Parisian paradise. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand, hoping that I wouldn’t wake up from my dream, but the sixth floor was very, very
real.

  Chapter Five

  If just for the night, I was going to make every minute of this count.

  After a long, hot shower, I engulfed myself in the fluffy white robe and complimentary slippers that were at least three sizes too big for me. I raided the minibar, hitting on all the things not provided in my old room. This really was the penthouse experience, despite its half-finished state and the fact I could smell the paint fumes. The linen was so silken and smooth to touch, I was almost too paranoid to sit on the bed out of fear of wrinkling the expensive fabric.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I dived onto the bed, sinking into the plush, feather-top mattress, and rolled over onto my back, punching the feather pillows into the right shape to lounge against. But the instant droopiness of my eyes failed me.

  Maybe I dozed for an hour, maybe five, I couldn’t be sure; all I knew was that the sun had dipped and a darker shade of daylight filtered through the window. Much like the day had changed yesterday, a storm was brewing. I looked at my watch, and the first thing that came to mind was that Liam would be back in London by now, back to his thoroughly watered pot plants, back to her. My chest tightened and hot tears welled in my eyes as Liam’s betrayal boiled my blood. As much as I’d tried to mask it by burying myself in the luxurious pleasure of the sixth floor while sipping on mini bottles of alcohol, there was no escaping it – Liam had smashed a hole in my heart the moment he had confessed the reason, the real reason, we were through. Oh God, I couldn’t even think about it.

  I groaned, rolling over to bury my face in the pillows. The hungry growl of my stomach was almost as loud as my muffled voice. I pulled myself into a sitting position, thinking of my next plan of attack. I was almost afraid to go down to reception out of fear that there had been such a huge mistake – what if they told me to pack my bags and get out? – but even I knew ignorance was not always bliss.

  I didn’t know when Cecile was due to finish her shift, but now I was rested and somewhat less manic than this morning, I owed it to her to go down and see her. Work out a plan, though I had no idea where to begin. All I knew was, I didn’t want to go back to London, not yet. How could I? Face him, face her: it was the last place on earth I wanted to be. I would sooner head home to Melbourne, which was a definite possibility. But more than that, I really didn’t want to leave Paris like this, I didn’t want to give Liam the satisfaction of tainting the one place I had dreamed about since I was a little girl. As much as I didn’t know what I was doing, there was a fire in my belly to find my way – or wait, was that hunger?

  No, it was definitely determination.

  A true sign that I was making myself at home was the unpacking of my toiletries in the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, looking at my puffy eyes. I barely recognised my sullen reflection.

  Come on, Claire, time to put on your brave face.

  I gathered my hair up into a sweeping ponytail. Dressing in my navy linen shorts and white sleeveless blouse, I stepped into my ballet flats and grabbed the room key and my turquoise bag. The afternoon deserved an umbrella and a stroll to a nearby café; if that wasn’t enough to give me time with my thoughts, then nothing would be.

  Walking into the lobby, there was a different kind of buzz about the place. There seemed to be more staff swarming in their burgundy vests. Cecile, who wore a burgundy jacket thanks to her manager status, stood next to a burgundy-jacketed man, one I had not seen before. He was rummaging through papers as Cecile spoke, quickly and frantically down the phone, in French. Cathy and Simone were busying themselves in the restaurant, Gaston was cleaning the front door with a rag and a cleaner was busy buffing the polished tiles in reception. I didn’t know what was happening; maybe this happened every Sunday before the beginning of a new week?

  I couldn’t gain Cecile’s attention, she seemed so stressed and anxious about her task, another side of her I had never seen, that I thought it best to catch her on the way back. I tiptoed around the buffer, careful not to leave any marks. This time I made sure to reach for a complimentary umbrella as I stepped into yet another cloudy, grey day in Paris.

  ‘Bonjour, Gaston,’ I said, opening my umbrella and resting it on my shoulder.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Shorten,’ he said.

  I winced at the formality. ‘Please call me Claire.’

  ‘Oh, well, bonjour, Claire.’

  ‘So, what is with all this? Is the queen coming to town?’ I laughed, waiting for Gaston to laugh too. Instead, he straightened, his brows furrowed as if he too was worried, preoccupied somehow. He went to speak, but was drowned out by a fast-approaching London accent – Simone.

  ‘I don’t give a shit. I am going for a smoke before I bloody claw someone’s face off,’ she yelled behind her, bringing out her packet of cigarettes.

  Gaston gave her an annoyed look.

  ‘I don’t care, Gaston. It’s bloody bullshit. I should have knocked off four hours ago, I didn’t sign up for this,’ she said, leaning against the hotel exterior, taking a deep draw. In the natural light, Simone wore heavy, unblended makeup, with black eyeliner arcing up at the corner of each eye. She looked like and kind of sounded like the love child of Amy Winehouse and Adele; her voice definitely cut through the air in the Paris street.

  ‘What ya reckon, Claire, do you think it would be a bit sus if I fainted in the kitchen to get out of work?’ She said it with a wink, aiming for a joke.

  ‘Well, I don’t recommend it,’ I said quietly.

  ‘So how’s life on the sixth floor?’ she asked, waving the excess ash from her cigarette. ‘Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘It’s lovely. I had a good sleep. I feel much better now.’

  ‘Yeah, well, lap it up, luv, because you see that cloud creeping in over your head?’

  I followed her long-nailed finger to the clouds above us.

  ‘That ain’t nothing compared to the black cloud that’s coming over this place tomorrow.’

  I looked back at her confused – was she giving me a weather report?

  ‘Shouldn’t you be helping Cathy in the restaurant?’ Gaston said, his tone firm.

  ‘Ha! There ain’t no amount of help going to save our necks,’ she said, throwing her cigarette into the gutter. ‘You can scrub all you like, it won’t make any difference.’ She spun on her heel and headed inside.

  Gaston glared at her. I felt like a massive third wheel; perhaps I should have stepped away from the conversation, but it had certainly intrigued me.

  ‘What does she mean, there’s a black cloud coming? She’s not referring to the weather, is she?’

  Gaston shook his head, turning his attention back to the glass pane. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. His mood seemed to be dark now, as if he was weary and the lighthearted welcomes and smiles of hospitality had all but dried up. Or maybe I was just a part of the furniture now and he didn’t see the need to put on his professional face with me.

  I wanted to press further, but thought better of it. ‘Well, I’ll see you later. If Cecile is looking for me, can you just tell her I’ve gone to get something to eat? I won’t be too long.’

  Gaston grunted, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t pressed for more information. Whatever Simone had alluded to only seemed to add to the stress of what was going on. Whatever it was, it was none of my concern; I would reside quietly on the sixth floor until I worked out what I was going to do next. I would catch Cecile in a better moment when I returned, plus I would be more nourished and clear-headed. I hoped.

  One comfort I had was my very vivid memory. The first morning of our stay, as Liam grumbled over the mystery of how to connect his laptop to the wifi, I had taken my first solo expedition to hunt and gather breakfast for us. It had been a welcome distraction from our cramped quarters and Liam’s outbursts. Today, the sun was still battling the clouds, as I turned right, following the path I’d taken a few days ago, making my way into one of the busier avenues. I felt a certain power, knowing where I was going and what I wanted, instead of seemin
g like a confused tourist aimlessly wandering the streets.

  I took note of the street sign: Avenue Kleber. It seemed important to know these things, seeing as I was on my own now. I waited to cross the busy road to one of the best patisseries I had ever been to. When once again I stood in front of the window of the boulangerie patisserie, the enticing treats displayed behind the glass made my stomach rumble. Having had nothing more than a cup of coffee and a dry piece of toast for breakfast at a time when my appetite had well and truly deserted me, my focus was now on a crispy French baguette spread with camembert, then I’d stray to other delights: croissants, pains au chocolat, chausson aux pommes, pain viennois, brioches; so much goodness I didn’t think my heart could take it. Mercifully there was a smaller line on a Sunday afternoon, and I hit the counter to point and mime my requests in no time. I was soon sitting at one of the small outside tables facing the street, watching all the late-afternoon traffic go by.

  I inhaled and watched a French flag above my head furl and unfurl against the wind. I heard my coffee and plate touch down on the table and my mouth instantly watered. I bit into the dense bread and creamy goo of the cheese and closed my eyes, euphoric, as I enjoyed the solitude of a place that bore no memory of Liam. This was mine, and I felt a lightness in my heart knowing that I had made it so. For as long as it took to eat the baguette, I could almost forget why I was here and why I had chosen to go for a walk and get some space.

  Oh yeah, that’s right. I had to think about what I was going to do with my life, that’s all. Nothing heavy, just my entire future rested on this baguette. So far it was making me very happy indeed. Now all I had to do was think.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  I flipped the serviette over. I would write a list of options; lists were always good. Rummaging through the never-ending depths of my bag for a pen, my fingers brushed against a crinkled, folded-up piece of paper. Yanking out the paper my eyes locked onto it – a folded-up map of Paris. Placing my bag aside and thinking nothing more of the pen, I unfolded the map, taking note of all the scribblings at each location. Manic, excited scribblings from a pre-Paris Claire, who’d had all the hope and wonder of too much to discover in a short amount of time. But now there were no time restrictions, no deadlines and nothing and no one holding me back. My trip planning had always annoyed Liam, but it really was an occupational habit. Back in Australia I had worked as an events coordinator, a time that seemed like a lifetime ago. Then I’d taken a rather large pay cut to work at a small London pub. I had never resented giving up my career so Liam could find his – my sacrifice was a part of the bigger picture. Now the bigger picture was a really murky one.