The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  “Okay, I’m sitting down…”

  “Listen, I wasn’t joking before. Captain O’ Hare has given you the green light. You have five days off. Well, six actually, but we only need five. Tom, I have a surprise for you.”

  Tom sat patiently at the kitchen table, anxious to hear his wife’s news. “Cindy is going to take care of Shmitty, so you needn’t worry about him.” Tom looked at Cindy, who nodded and smiled at the still confused firefighter. “You don’t need to worry about spending money on hotel costs or anything like that because it’s all taken care of.” Kelly was smiling broadly, hardly able to contain her own excitement. “Tom, we’re going to Paris,” Kelly screamed. She jumped up and down and clapped her hands in exactly the same excited way she had done when she had discovered she’d won the trip. “Oh, my God!” she cried elatedly. “I’m going to Paris!” She placed her hands over her mouth as if curtailing a scream of delight.

  Tom didn’t respond. He raised his cup of coffee to his mouth and took a drink. He lowered his cup and then looked over to where the two packed suitcases sat. Ignoring his wife’s uncontrolled whoops of delight and Shmitty’s excited barking, brought on by his mistress’ excitement, Tom shook his head slowly. He raised his cup once again and took another sip of coffee before he spoke.

  “There’s only one problem,” he said quietly, replacing the cup on the table. “I don’t have a passport.”

  Chapter 9

  Kelly cried all the way to the airport, all the way through check-in, and during the flight to New York. She stopped crying long enough to board her flight to Paris, before she cried again. She was inconsolable. The stewardesses on both flights had tried their best to cheer the pretty but forlorn woman, but to no avail; she couldn’t be comforted. What a disaster! It was a disaster of the largest magnitude. Kelly couldn’t think of any other disaster worse than this. It was simply awful.

  Tom and Kelly had spent at least half an hour arguing over whether she should go to Paris alone. She had said that there was no way she was going to go without her husband, the man she loved. That was the whole point. It was why she had planned it this way: as a romantic surprise. How could she go alone? She would be miserable the whole time and would miss him too much. She would rather spend five days with him in Savannah than one day in Paris without him.

  Cindy had agreed with Tom. It was the chance of a lifetime for Kelly. She had always dreamed of visiting Europe, especially Paris. She loved French fashions, French perfumes, French fries, and was quite fond of Elliott’s French poodles.

  Tom told Kelly he was fine with her going alone, that it would be an absolute waste for her not to go. Cindy promised she would make sure Tom ate well and waved Kelly off. Kelly’s tears had started the moment Tom switched on the car engine and began the twenty-minute drive to the airport.

  During the drive Tom had reassured his pretty bride. She was the one who had won the prize in the first place, and really, it wasn’t a big deal. He told her that he would be more devastated if she didn’t go. In fact, he said, he would be more upset if she missed out on the trip of a lifetime because of his failure to own a passport.

  She managed to stop crying at check-in, going straight to the front of the line, courtesy of her first-class ticket, but had burst into tears as soon at the girl at the check-in counter had wished her a great trip. Tom did his best to console her, and at one point while they were waiting in the atrium of the Savannah airport, prior to Kelly’s security check, he considered taking her home. But he persevered through her sobbing and breathed a sigh of relief as she disappeared through the metal detectors of the security check area and into the area for those who possessed a boarding card.

  Kelly’s tears finally stopped as the Paris-bound aircraft took off. She had drifted off to sleep in the comfortable and spacious first-class seat. Her dreams had been filled with catwalks, photographers, and flashing lights. The flight attendant assigned to Kelly’s seating area in first class placed a blanket around her and marveled at the smile on her face. Kelly’s smile grew larger once she was gently awakened, informed the flight was entering French airspace, and asked if she would like a drink.

  It was at that moment that a young boy crept up from coach class and asked the flight attendants if he could get the autograph of the famous model who was sleeping in first class. Kelly had heard the young boy’s request and watched as he was led through the cabin. Kelly sat up in her seat, trying to see where the model was. Wow, she thought, a famous model on the plane, I wonder who she is?

  The small boy stopped when he reached Kelly’s seat. He handed her a pen and a little red autograph book. “Could you sign it, please?” he asked Kelly, a smile nearly as wide as the Atlantic itself spread across his face.

  “Me?” said Kelly, surprised. “Oh dear, I’m no one special, I’m just, well, me.” Kelly smiled sweetly at the small boy. He didn’t move. Instead he just pushed the pen and book further toward Kelly. She shrugged her shoulders and signed his book. She simply signed Kelly. He looked at her signature and his smile grew wider.

  “Thank you,” he said and ran back to his section of the aircraft to show his most recent autograph to his parents.

  That was just the start of it. The rumor spread around the first-class cabin that “Kelly” was onboard. One passenger said he had read somewhere that she was a model off to Paris on a photo shoot. Another had heard she was on the way to Paris to film a commercial for jeans. Eventually Kelly even signed autographs for the pilot and copilots. A French passenger took her photograph, and the flight attendants flitted around her for the last few minutes of the flight. When the aircraft eventually touched down on French soil, the aircrew arranged for her to leave the aircraft first, so she could avoid the crowds. She was ushered quickly through immigration, and her bags were the first on the carousel. She was asked whether the airline could provide a car for her, but Kelly had told them no, that would not be necessary. The prize had included a complimentary limousine transfer to the hotel from the airport. This added to the illusion that Kelly was a celebrity, when the sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the curb. Kelly could hear the clicking of cameras, all aimed at her.

  Kelly had to admit she was enjoying the attention. She hadn’t lied to anyone; they had all just presumed that she was a famous model. Though her fans couldn’t recall ever seeing Kelly in anything specific, they just knew she was famous. Flying first class, limousine at the airport—it all seemed to fit. Kelly was no longer crying. For the past hour she had forgotten about Tom and that he had no passport. After placing her small bag and suitcase in the trunk of the Mercedes, the limousine driver welcomed her to Paris. He said he hoped that she enjoyed her stay and remarked that the facilities at the Hotel Bonaparte were the best in the whole of Paris.

  The drive from the airport to the Hotel Bonaparte took just under an hour. Kelly watched as suburban Paris turned into the city she had read so much about. It was a far cry from Savannah and Gordonston, though the tree-lined avenues reminded her a little of her neighborhood. Her limousine driver, Jean-Paul, pointed out various sights and places of interest during the fifty-five minute drive: the Eiffel Tower, the famous museums, and other monuments. Kelly smiled, but again her feeling of loneliness returned, and she fought back tears when she thought of how Tom would have loved to see what she was now seeing.

  The Hotel Bonaparte was far more luxurious than Kelly could ever have imagined. The entrance seemed to Kelly to be more like that of a palace than a hotel. The tall columns that rose skyward to support the intricately painted ceilings seemed to come from below the marble-encased tiled floor. Plush red carpets led to the large reception desk. Antique-style furniture—chairs, sofas, and chaise lounges—was sporadically but tastefully placed throughout the foyer. The hotel was vast, with signs pointing to restaurants, cafés, spas, and shops. There was even an Olympic-sized swimming pool housed within the walls of the gothic-style building. Kelly stood open mouth
ed as bellboys attired in military-style uniforms carried bags and escorted guests to various locations within the hotel.

  The reception area was alive with people. Elegantly dressed ladies, men in business suits and dinner jackets, and camera-laden tourists of all nationalities paraded through the reception area. Kelly breathed in her surroundings. She could smell the aroma of exquisitely cooked food coming from the hotel’s three restaurants, one of which was the best in Paris. In one of Kelly’s guidebooks it had even been touted as the best restaurant in the world. Even Conrad Brown, the famous food critic, had given the food five of his coveted stars. To her right, as she traveled along the red carpet toward reception, she could see boutique windows that formed a parade of hotel shops, selling jewels, watches, and designer clothes and handbags. Goods with names that she recognized from magazines—Hermes, Rolex, and Cartier—were on display at prices that only those who didn’t have to worry about paying the rent every month could afford. She had never seen such a place before. There was certainly nothing like it in Savannah.

  Jean-Paul had informed Kelly that he would ensure that her bags were sent to her room and that all she needed to do was present herself to reception. She thanked her driver for his welcome and for the tour he had given her en route. He bowed and wished her a happy stay in Paris. Before he left her, he told Kelly the hotel was expecting her and was honored to have her as a guest.

  The pretty receptionist who greeted Kelly spoke perfect English, and her smile seemed painted on. “But where is Monsieur Hudd?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice as she handed Kelly her room key and various pieces of literature containing information about the many amenities the hotel had to offer. Kelly fought back the tears and composed herself before replying, “I am afraid he couldn’t make it.” Kelly took a deep breath; she could feel herself about to cry. “He didn’t have a passport, so I’m here all on my own.”

  Kelly burst into tears as soon as the words had left her mouth. The receptionist looked concerned and left her position behind the reception desk to join Kelly in the reception area. She placed her arm around the crying American.

  “Oh please, Madame, please don’t cry,” said the concerned receptionist. Kelly blew into her handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry,” Kelly said. “It’s just that I miss my husband so much, and I’m so sad he’s missing all this.” Kelly once again blew into her handkerchief as she indicated with her other hand the hotel scene.

  “Can I be of any assistance?” Kelly looked to see where the voice had come from. The man wore a blazer similar to that of the receptionist, who still comforted her. “My name is Henri Dubois, and I am the head concierge of the hotel,” announced the large man. Henri nodded at the receptionist, who returned to her post behind the reception desk. “Please, allow me, Madam,” said Henri, offering Kelly a fresh handkerchief, the hotel’s motif of a crown entwined with roses stitched into the cotton.

  Henri was an older man; probably in his late fifties, supposed Kelly. He reminded her of her Uncle Rick. He was tall and large, not fat—just big—and he looked friendly. She knew straight away he was her friend.

  “Would you care to explain to me why such a beautiful young woman as you, Madame, in the most beautiful city in the world, at the most beautiful hotel in the world, is so distraught?” asked Henri kindly. So Kelly told him. Henri listened to her story intently. Nodding and shaking his head, smiling and looking up to the sky, Henri followed Kelly’s story. After Kelly had finished her tale of woe, she wiped away her tears with the handkerchief Henri had given her. She offered it back to him, but he shook his head.

  “Please, keep it,” the Frenchman said smiling.

  Just talking about Tom and how she missed him had made her feel better, and she blew her nose into her new handkerchief.

  “Your husband is a very lucky man indeed,” announced Henri, once Kelly had finished speaking, “to have such a beautiful and caring wife as you.” Kelly flashed a smile at Henri. “But I am sure he would be heartbroken if he knew that his pretty bride was so sad. I think the best tribute to your absent husband is for you to make the most of your time in our wonderful city and enjoy all it has to offer.” He smiled kindly. “I will make it my personal mission to ensure you enjoy your stay in Paris,” continued Henri.

  Kelly smiled back. Henri was right. Tom would be distraught if he knew she was crying like this in front of total strangers, even if they were the nicest strangers she had ever met. She vowed then and there that she would forget about Tom’s passport and just enjoy herself.

  Henri clicked his fingers, and a bellboy arrived. “François will take you to your suite,” Henri informed Kelly. “You have a beautiful suite, and I just know you will enjoy your stay with us here at the Hotel Bonaparte.” Kelly thanked the concierge, who made her promise again that she would not cry anymore while she was a guest in his city. He told her that if she needed anything, she should see him, and that if she couldn’t find him, then to send one of the bellboys to do so.

  François led Kelly to the elevator, and as she waited for the elevator doors to swish open, she waved at both Henri and the friendly receptionist. Henri looked across to where the receptionist stood; he shrugged and winked at the pretty girl, who smiled back at him as Kelly disappeared behind the closed elevator door.

  The suite was spectacular. It had four rooms and was the best the hotel had to offer. As soon as Kelly walked through the door, she was in a spacious sitting room. Antique furniture and ornately decorated objects were elegantly placed throughout the room, and there were sumptuous rugs underfoot. Original artwork painted centuries ago filled the walls, and a large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. François led Kelly through the sitting room and showed her the rest of the suite. The bed was the biggest she had ever seen; it could have slept Tom, Shmitty, and her three times over. It had a canopy fit for a princess and was made up with silk sheets and adorned with fluffy, soft pillows. Kelly ran her finger along the sheets and then pushed down on one of the pillows; it was the softest she had ever felt. The bathroom was also enormous, five times the size of the one in her home in Gordonston. The gold taps sparkled as François switched on the light and explained to Kelly how the whirlpool in the corner bath worked. He showed her where all the switches were and told her that instructions were printed in English in her welcome documents, which she would find in the top drawer of her dressing table. The bathtub was the biggest she had ever seen, and Kelly estimated at least four people could have bathed together in it. A smile formed on her lips as she imagined herself, Tom, and Shmitty, all splashing around in the bath.

  François could see that the young woman was impressed, but he had saved the best for last. He led Kelly back to the sitting room and flung open the double doors that led onto the balcony. The view was breathtaking. From her balcony she could see the whole of the Paris skyline. It had to be one of the best views of Paris, and it was hers. Kelly put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God!” she said. “This is fantastic.”

  François nodded, indicating that he agreed with her statement. The balcony had a small table with two chairs in the corner. “It is a great place to take breakfast,” he said. “You can smell Paris from here, feel its character, hear the traffic, and enjoy the hustle and bustle of the streets. It is the best room in the hotel.” François handed Kelly the keys to her room and bid her goodnight. As he was about to leave the room, her bags arrived, courtesy of a second bellboy. She told them both goodnight and offered them five dollars each as a tip. They smiled at her gratefully. “Madame,” said François, “please, your gratuity is not needed. It is my pleasure to have been in the company of such a beautiful woman. It is I who should be paying you.”

  Kelly thanked François for his compliment and once again bade him and his fellow bellboy goodnight. Kelly’s mood had improved greatly, in part due to the kindness of the hotel staff. But her spirits had been lightened most by the room. She felt like
a queen. She hadn’t noticed before, but a bottle of champagne sat chilling in a silver ice bucket on one of the tables in the sitting room area, along with a basket of delicious-looking fruit. She read the note that accompanied the bottle of chilled champagne. “Welcome to our honored guests, Mr. and Mrs. Hudd. Enjoy your stay at the Hotel Bonaparte.”

  A few minutes earlier Kelly would have burst into tears if she had seen a note welcoming her and Tom to the hotel. It would have reminded her that Tom was missing their romantic trip. It surprised her when she realized the welcoming note hadn’t made her feel sad. She was here and Tom wasn’t; there was nothing she could do about that now, and she was determined to make the most of her trip.

  Kelly had no idea what time it was in Savannah. In Paris it was nearly eleven, and she was tired. She took a shower; she would wait to use the bath until morning, when she could soak without fear of falling asleep. She climbed into bed and picked up the phone on the bedside table. It rang for what seemed like ages before a tired and confused-sounding Tom picked up.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello, honey,” Kelly said.

  “Hey. What time is it there?” Tom asked.

  “Eleven. Why? What time is it there?”

  “Five in the morning,” said Tom. Kelly heard a click in the background, which she guessed was Tom switching on the bedside light. “Yeah, it’s five,” he said yawning.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kelly. “Did I wake you?” It was obvious that she had, and Tom ignored her question.

  “How is it? How was the flight? And how’s the hotel?”

  Kelly explained to Tom about the flight and how she had been mistaken for a model. She also described the luxurious hotel and her room. She told him about Henri and François and how kind everyone had been to her.

  “Well, that sounds great,” Tom said, pleased that his wife was having such a good time.