by C. J. Duggan
Philippe winked and nodded, just as high spirited as Cecile was. Oh God, did they not get the memo? Surely Cathy or Gaspard had updated her on yesterday; oh, please, tell me they had. But as I took a seat next to Cecile in the lounge, Cathy miraculously appeared with a basket of pastries and a pot of coffee and put them on the coffee table in front of us. She too seemed all smiles and winks. Was I living in an alternative universe, I wondered, because none of this made any sense. I had prepared for the world to hate me, not usher me into the lounge and offer me baked goods.
‘So, you wanted to see me?’
‘Oh, Claire, I don’t even know where to begin,’ Cecile said, taking my hands in hers. The shininess in her eyes made me uncomfortable.
‘How about you begin from the beginning,’ laughed Cathy, who was busy topping up someone’s coffee at one of the breakfast tables.
‘No, no, be quiet,’ Cecile insisted, holding her finger to her lips. Whatever the cryptic nature of our meeting might be, she wanted to be the one to tell me.
‘Cecile, you’re kind of freaking me out.’
Cecile laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, please do not worry. I bring most excellent news.’
I straightened in my seat.
‘Louis Delarue’s production team contacted us this morning, and they unfortunately can’t fit us into the schedule for the television series.’
I blinked, completely confused by Cecile being happy about this. Maybe she had misinterpreted the meaning and gotten her English mixed up. Maybe I had saved the day and they really didn’t want Louis Delarue here.
‘And this is good because?’
‘Oh no, it is terrible news, the worst!’
Okay, I really would never get my head around the cultural divide. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’
Cecile could barely contain herself, leaning forward as if to share a secret. ‘They can’t fit us in, but Louis has insisted that they make it happen.’
My eyes widened. ‘He’s going to help?’
‘Oui, he is coming back.’
‘Wow,’ I said, remembering yesterday, thinking maybe our exchanges hadn’t been that bad, but of course they had. Maybe he wasn’t that big a tyrant after all; he clearly didn’t hold a grudge. I could almost feel my shoulders sag in relief, knowing that these wonderful people were going to get the opportunity of a lifetime to not only learn from one of the greats, but to bring the Hotel Trocadéro into the modern day. I was excited for them and so utterly relieved that my idiotic actions yesterday had not completely sabotaged them, and better still, I didn’t even have to apologise to Louis Delarue. If I never saw his face again, it would be too soon.
‘It sounds amazing, almost too good to be true.’
Cecile’s smile faltered, the sparkle in her eyes dimming. ‘Ah, well, there is one thing.’
Oh, here we go. I crossed my arms. ‘What? He wants you to pay him? Or wait, he wants his initials embroidered into the bed linen, or his name embossed into the hotel letterhead. Gosh, I just knew there would be something with him; please tell me you haven’t sold your soul in order to work with the devil.’
‘Well, not exactly,’ she said, looking at her hands clasped in her lap.
I stiffened, suddenly unnerved by Cecile being unable to look at me.
‘Well, what’s the catch then?’
Cecile finally lifted her eyes to meet mine. ‘There was a stipulation.’
‘Yes?’
‘Louis requested he work exclusively with the hotel’s maître d’.’
I watched her carefully until suddenly it became blindingly clear. And before my jaw hit the floor the severity of the situation sank in.
They hadn’t sold their souls to the devil – they had sold mine.
Chapter Fifteen
What is French for ‘over my dead body’?
If Sammi thought me capable of throwing a tantrum, then the staff of the Hotel Trocadéro and their big, hopeful eyes were about to witness one of epic proportions, as soon as my voice came back. My mouth gaped and the connection of obscenely knitted together sentences in my head failed to make it to my tongue.
Cecile shifted nervously, glancing at an equally worried Gaston, who hovered, pretending to straighten tourist pamphlets.
‘You are probably overwhelmed, Claire. It is a great honour.’
I breathed out a laugh, probably the only time I’d breathed at all in the last few moments.
‘That’s not exactly the thought that went through my mind,’ I admitted grimly.
Cathy was standing nearby, looking at me warily; in fact, everyone seemed to be on tenterhooks. Surely they weren’t surprised by my less-than-thrilled reaction? Seriously, had they not seen Louis Delarue on YouTube? I would sooner be back in London watering Liam’s pot plants while he went on a date with the hippy upstairs.
‘It would be a great experience for any maître d’,’ added Gaston encouragingly.
‘That’s the thing, I am not a maître d’!’ I insisted. The closest I’d come was pouring a pint at the Gloucester Arms Hotel near our London home. This was something else altogether.
‘It will only be for two weeks,’ Cecile insisted. ‘Think of all the sights you can see in that time.’
Oh, she was good: clever and cruel, using the lure of Paris to make me stay.
I shook my head. ‘I can’t afford to—’
‘You can stay on the sixth floor.’
I laughed. ‘Like I said, I can’t afford—’
‘You will be our guest. I can’t pay you a full-time wage as such but I can offer you board and food in exchange for your help. Work with Louis and you can stay in the heart of Paris for as long as you like.’
Oh, she was really, really good.
Arrogant monster chef aside, the time away from the perils of my less-than-ideal reality called to me. A chance to keep busy and time to work out what I was going to do. Two weeks rent free in a luxe Paris hotel room bigger than most apartments I had seen. I could get properly acquainted with Paris, this time on my own terms. I could tick all the art museums off my list, all the ones Liam hadn’t wanted to see. I felt a little anxiety spike in my chest thinking about what it would mean to make a decision that was fully my own. I had been so dependent on Liam thinking for me on so many things, I barely knew how to clearly function without him. It was … overwhelming.
Cecile tilted her head to the side, trying to peek under the lashes of my downcast eyes as I sat, far away in thought, biting my bottom lip. She smiled, because she knew her words had made me really think.
I squared my shoulders, sweaty hands resting on my kneecaps. ‘Two weeks?’
My question caused Cecile to break out in a bright smile, one that she tampered down quickly so as to not seem overly confident. Then she plastered an all-business glower across her face as she nodded.
‘Oui, two weeks.’
I sighed deeply. I was defeated, and she knew it.
‘I don’t want to be featured on the show,’ I said adamantly. I could actually think of nothing worse than having to be humiliated on national television. ‘I’ll do behind-the-scenes stuff but I cannot be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth when dealing with that man.’ That impossible, infuriating, arrogant, control freak of a man.
‘Okay, I will let Louis know,’ said Cecile. ‘Just act exactly how you did yesterday, it obviously was enough to impress him into coming back.’
I laughed. ‘What? You want me to pour cold water over his genitals?’
‘Actually, I would prefer if you didn’t,’ said a masculine voice from behind me.
My head spun around so fast I swear I nearly pulled a muscle, but any pain was completely forgotten when I saw who that voice belonged to: Louis DelaHubba-Hubba, as Sammi put it.
He looked like he was about to walk the runway, not conduct business in an aged hotel in urgent need of a makeover. He stood in the archway connecting the foyer to the lounge. Gone was the formal suit, instead he wore dark jeans a
nd a white shirt, his collar open and casual underneath his navy jacket. The shiny tips of his expensive brown leather shoes made the entire outfit scream well-groomed wealth, and the devilish smirk on his face was the mark of a confident man.
I, on the other hand, had just been caught out talking about his genitals, so my confidence was not at an all-time high.
‘Oh, Monsieur Delarue, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’ Cecile stood, smoothing the invisible creases from her skirt as she walked quickly to where Louis stood. His attention remained on me, a knowing smugness entering his eyes upon seeing the red tinge to my cheeks. I wanted to look away, but mercifully I didn’t have to as he lazily turned his attention to Cecile. She was a little slip of a shadow next to him; even in heels, her petite, feminine frame was overshadowed by his lean, graceful stance, his shoulders square and proud.
‘Is there somewhere we could speak in private?’ he said to Cecile. Apart from his little dig at me, he hadn’t so much as acknowledged anyone else’s presence in the room. Even the people at their breakfast tables in the restaurant seemed to gawk and whisper in wonder; none of them dared approach for a selfie or autograph. They weren’t that dense; Lord Louis’s vibe was anything but approachable. Even Cecile seemed frazzled by being asked to speak in private.
‘But of course,’ she stammered, trying to get her bearings as to where to lead him, accidentally heading in the opposite direction to where she actually wanted to go before realising and doubling back, almost bumping into Louis, who seemed vaguely annoyed at her lack of composure. Cecile escorted him to the door near the lift, which led a small office where you would catch staff munching on snacks in their break.
When the door closed everyone took a collective breath, but relief wasn’t afforded yet – that wouldn’t come until the sound of Louis’s Audi disappeared down the street.
Cathy came to stand beside me. ‘I wonder what he is doing here so early?’
Maybe he was requesting that he didn’t want to work with me after all, I thought hopefully, maybe he was in there demanding that unless I was gone he would not offer his services. It would be awkward for Cecile to have to ask me to leave, but I would happily do so. It didn’t matter that the thought of having to go back to London to face the music didn’t exactly thrill me, nor that the very brief daydream of living in that plush apartment was still vivid in my mind. Although, if anything bad was going to happen, let it be now and not later. The suspense was killing me, killing all of us. I was suddenly grateful that Gaspard and Francois were locked away in the kitchen, although I did hope they wouldn’t mind if I was sticking around to help out. From what I could gather, Cathy didn’t seem to – if anything, everyone seemed excited about it.
Then it dawned on me – was I going to be Louis’s punching bag? The decoy for rants and forked-tongue accusations? Maybe they had thought I could handle it. But I didn’t want to be treated like that again. Sure, Liam hadn’t been a celebrity chef–level tyrant but he sure as hell was a control freak, eager to tell me what to do and how I should feel about something. And now what? I was expected to take another dose of that multiplied by a million? I don’t think so. Now was my time, for me, and as much as I liked the people here and appreciated how they had helped me, it was time to start helping myself. And to do that, I didn’t want to be bowing down to the likes of Louis Delarue and praying that I wouldn’t be responsible for whether he helped or not.
My mind was made up; the message clear. I was not going to be anyone’s doormat any more. I stood from my chair and marched a determined line to the closed office door.
Tears – Cecile was in bloody tears!
They had barely been in the room for two minutes and Cecile was a blubbering mess. I stood in the doorway, my hand still clasping the door handle, my accusing stare shifting to Louis, who sat on the opposite side of the desk, sighing heavily. He leaned forward and drew a tissue from the box by the computer screen. He seemed merely inconvenienced by her emotion, I thought, until his gaze turned to me. It was not clear if he was actually annoyed with me and my seemingly unprofessional, unannounced entrance. His brows rose in a silent question – What do you want? I almost faltered, feeling rather foolish and embarrassed because he could cut me down with one angry look. And then my attention went to Cecile blowing her nose and my anger mirrored his.
‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’ I said, crossing my arms.
This time only one of his brows cocked but again he didn’t speak. If I hadn’t known better, I would swear he didn’t speak English at all; his broody, stone-cold silence was infuriating.
‘You just don’t seem to operate without somehow demeaning someone else. Tell me, Monsieur Delarue, does it make you feel almighty and powerful to make a woman cry?’
‘Claire.’ Cecile sniffed, but her words were cut off by Louis raising his hand. He didn’t even look at her; it was a manoeuvre born from complete and utter disrespect for anyone or anything. I didn’t care that he was impressive on paper – I’d be damned if I would be intimidated by a bully like him. The speech inside my head seemed so impressive, I was as fierce as Beyoncé, until Louis stood, casually buttoning his jacket.
I braced myself for retaliation, a dressing down, a dismissal at least. He stepped forward to stand before me, and I looked defiantly up at him; by now I was somewhat of an expert at looking into those eyes, I had memorised them – dreamed of them even.
‘You could be a problem,’ he said, a small twitch to the corner of his mouth.
‘I’ve been told that before.’
‘Do you always jump to conclusions?’
‘They are rarely wrong.’
‘So you think you are a good judge of character?’
‘I am an excellent judge of character,’ I said.
‘Well, that’s something we have in common then.’
I breathed out a laugh. ‘I seriously doubt we have anything in common.’
Louis smirked. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said, bowing his head ever so slightly before glancing at a red-faced Cecile.
‘A demain,’ he said.
‘Oui, see you tomorrow.’ Cecile gave a small smile.
I stepped aside, letting Louis brush past me in the small space. The lightest touch of his jacket skimming across my skin felt strangely intimate, as did the musk of his cologne that lingered with a trace of vanilla and cedar. He had good taste, I’d give him that.
I wasted no time shutting the door behind him and closing the distance to the desk, taking the very same seat Louis had sat in. My manic thoughts ran through a number of scenarios. Had he wanted to see the books? Had he been horrified by the state of this squashed and chaotic space? Had he changed his mind, insulted her intelligence – what?
‘Are you okay? What did he say to you?’
‘I am just …’ Cecile’s chin trembled.
‘Go on,’ I encouraged.
‘I am just so happy,’ she said, passing a piece of paper across the desk, which was, surprisingly, not smudged by her tears.
I looked down at the expensive paper with a gold embossed L at the top. My confusion was present even after briefly skimming it and giving it back to Cecile. I shrugged. ‘It’s in French.’
Cecile laughed, taking it from me. ‘Oh, pardon, I forgot. Monsieur Delarue has organised a private fitting for all staff to be clothed by Madame Delair.’
Cecile turned the paper and tapped a sentence; I tilted my head to the side to best see the cursive writing.
‘Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré,’ I read in a painfully horrific French accent.
‘Do you know what that is?’
‘What?’ I laughed, her transition from tears to smiles was contagious.
‘La Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré is a long and narrow street bordered on both sides by the most luxurious shops in the world, art galleries, nice cafés and restaurants. It is everything you can’t afford all in one place.’
‘Sounds dreamy,’ I mused. ‘So this letter is lik
e a golden ticket?’
‘He has set up an account for us.’
I frowned, thinking it all very reminiscent of the Pretty Woman plotline.
‘Oh, Claire, it has begun: Hotel Trocadéro is going to be everything we ever dreamed it could be.’ Tears began to well in her eyes again. I really respected her passion. Cecile was Hotel Trocadéro, as much as Gaston, and Gaspard were.
And then something really awful twisted at my insides as I stared at the letter.
‘What is it, Claire?’ Cecile must have read my grim expression.
‘So, in other words—’ I lifted the letter ‘—Monsieur Delarue did a very nice thing just now.’ My shoulders slumped.
‘He is a very generous man.’
I closed my eyes, wishing she hadn’t just confirmed the very thing I feared. I would have given anything for him to have come in here and been the absolute villain I had pegged him as. My sudden dramatic outburst and sarcastic accusations were once more out of line. I had yet again humiliated myself in the most epic of ways.
I sighed, slapping my hands on top of my knees. ‘Well, it seems utterly clear then.’
‘What is that?’
‘I am a dreadful judge of character.’
Chapter Sixteen
There was no talking myself out of it this time.
I, Claire Shorten, was going to do it. I was going to apologise to Louis Delarue.
He was due to show up at some point today to check in and take stock of the hotel before the camera crew arrived next week. I didn’t feel anxious about this visit, because I had seen a glimmer of humanity in him, even if it had been dished out in the dingy back room for no one else to see. Perhaps his ogreish outbursts were reserved for the cameras? Maybe he saw real promise in the hotel, in the staff, and maybe this was going to be a painless, flawless expedition into change?
Oh, how wrong I was.
Louis Delarue arrived in the evening, descending on the hotel like a cloud of doom. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but I’m not – Louis arrived in a big, bad way. Storming through the foyer, straight past a welcoming Gaston, he ran his hand through his rain-dampened hair. His jacket collar was turned up to ward off the evening chill, the jet black really setting off his dark demeanour as he aggressively slammed his hand on the reception bell, even though Philippe and Cecile were close by. It was like he hadn’t seen them.
