Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

After toweling off and getting dressed, I make up my mind. Rats and unemployment it is.

  “Why do you have your suitcase?” Jean-Paul asks when I walk up to the concierge desk.

  Before I can answer, a middle-aged man wearing a business suit steps in front of me and brusquely asks Jean-Paul to organize a skydiving excursion near Paris. I feel a shudder course through my body. I’ve had to fly a few times when car, train, or bus travel wasn’t an option, but it’s always involved a panic attack that not even a giant-size Toblerone chocolate bar can cure. Voluntarily getting into a plane, then choosing to jump out of it? Wow, talk about insane.

  Jean-Paul asks one of the other concierges to escort me to the art gallery while he assists the businessman with his high altitude death wish.

  The Galérie d’Art Animalier is located on the ground floor of the hotel. When the concierge leads me through an entrance off of the lobby, I immediately understand why the gallery has the name it does. Everywhere I look are paintings, photographs, and sculptures of various animals. The styles range from serious to whimsical. Something for every animal lover, regardless of their stylistic preferences.

  I spot a woman lightly running a feather duster over a picture frame. Everything about her screams elegance. Her makeup is flawless, her silver hair is pulled back in a classic chignon, and her tailored suit looks like it came from a chic boutique. When she sees us, she sets the duster down, then gracefully walks over to us.

  After the concierge makes the introductions, Amélie kisses me on each cheek. “Enchantée.”

  I try to dredge up the correct response from my high school French days. “Ç’est un plaisir faire votre connaissance.”

  She waves a perfectly manicured finger at me playfully. “No French, please. I need to practice English. That is one of the reasons I hired you. I would like to improve my English.”

  “Uh, about that. I don’t think I can take the job.”

  She presses her hand to her chest. “What? No, I am counting on you. Madame Vernier is counting on you. All the ladies are counting on you. Not to mention the dogs. The dogs are counting on you.”

  I press my fingers underneath my eyes. “Who exactly are all these people and canines, and why are they counting on me?”

  “Didn’t Pierre tell you?” When I shake my head, she shrugs. “Ah, perhaps he wanted to surprise you.”

  “Yes, he’s full of surprises,” I mutter.

  Amélie places her hand on my arm. “I knew you would be perfect for this job when I read your articles on Art Girl Moderne.”

  I’m stunned. Art Girl Moderne is an obscure webzine run by a friend of mine. Its readership is small. I mean, really small. You could fit all of them on a sectional couch from Ikea and still have room for Lou and his bag of potato chips. How the manager of a chic art gallery in Paris stumbled across it is beyond me.

  “Your take on Rembrandt’s brush strokes was . . . what is the word I am looking for?”

  “Boring?”

  “Non, not boring.” She smiles at me. “I could tell from the minute I make your conaissance that you could never be boring. It was insightful. That is the word—insightful.”

  Considering I’ve never been called insightful in my life, I’m still pretty sure that the word she meant was “boring.”

  “I received your paperwork and a copy of your work visa and everything is in order. Normally, we pay employee salaries in arrears. But, you probably have many expenses settling into a new city.” Amélie hands me a pad of paper and a fountain pen. “Write down your account details and I will arrange for an advance to be transferred to your account.”

  And just like that, I’ve been bulldozed into accepting the job in the most charming French way.

  * * *

  “Mia, Mia, are you there? I can’t see you.”

  Celeste is on the other end of the phone, trying out her new video chat app, while I’m walking along the Seine River back to my rat-infested apartment. It’s a long walk, especially with luggage in tow, but taking a taxi is out of the question. Even though Amélie is going to give me an advance on my salary, things are still tight financially.

  “Turn the phone around. Good, there you go. Now I can see your face. Can you see mine?”

  “I can. Don’t you look pretty, dear. Paris must be agreeing with you.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve been here less than twelve hours and my life is a mess.” I slump down on a bench, being careful to avoid stepping in a pile of dog poop. It reminds me of the guys Ginny was stuck next to on the train from Rome to Bologna. Their overpowering body spray smelled like a cross between dog poop and bubblegum. Not a winning combination.

  “A mess?” A crease forms on Celeste’s brow. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “Oh, never mind. I’m fine, really.”

  “Fine is what donkeys are after they’ve had a carrot. You, young lady, are not fine.”

  “Donkeys? Carrots?”

  “Haven’t you ever fed a donkey a carrot?”

  I chuckle. “Not that I can remember. Do guinea pigs count?”

  “No, dear. Donkeys and guinea pigs are completely different when it comes to carrots.”

  “They are?”

  “Trust me on this one. Anyway, let’s get back to what’s wrong.”

  My feet are aching and I could use a break, so I settle back against the bench and fill her in on everything that’s happened with Pierre, from the bouquet of croissants he presented me with to discovering he has a secret life.

  “You know what George Burns said about love, don’t you?”

  “Who’s George Burns?”

  Celeste blinks her eyes rapidly. “Did you just ask who George Burns is? He was only the funniest man in show biz. Sexy too.”

  “I think you mean Bruce Willis. The perfect combination of deadpan delivery and a receding hairline.”

  “Bruce who?”

  “You know, Die Hard.”

  “Die hard? Why would I want to do that? I’d rather die soft. Like a Tootsie Roll.”

  I shake my head. “I think we’re talking about two different things.”

  “I was talking about love.”

  “I thought you were talking about George Burns?”

  “I was. Anyway, he said that love is like a toothache. It doesn’t show up on x-rays, but you know it’s there.”

  “My teeth feel fine.”

  “But your heart doesn’t. You’ve grown attached to Pierre. It always hurts when we find out someone isn’t who we thought they were. That’s what happened to me with . . . never mind.”

  “Hurt seems a stretch,” I say. “He’s just a guy.”

  “He’s more than that.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it. I thought he was my friend. But friends don’t deceive each other like that.”

  “Did he tell you he was poor?”

  “Well, no, not exactly in so many words.”

  “So how did he deceive you?”

  “By not being . . . well, who I thought he was.”

  “How is he different now that you know he has money?”

  “He’s a stuck-up snob.”

  “He’s the same person, dear. It’s just your perception of him that’s changed. Love is about seeing who someone is, despite their outer trappings.”

  “I’m not in love with him,” I scoff. “I’m . . .”

  “You’re what?”

  “I was attracted to him, okay? But that’s it. Insta-attraction, but not insta-love. Fortunately, there are a million cute guys in Paris.” I scan the area, then turn the phone so that Celeste can see. “Like that one there.”

  “You mean the mime, dear?”

  “No, not him. The man next to him. The one putting something in the trash can.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think he’s throwing something out. He’s going through the garbage. Poor soul, I think he’s homeless.”

  The guy I had been talking about has already walked away, but Celeste is
right. There’s another man standing by the trash can. I take a closer look and frown. “Oh, I think you’re right. He looks like he sleeps on the street. I might end up sleeping on the street too if my apartment doesn’t work out.”

  “But you’re not homeless, dear. You have a lovely hotel suite to stay in while you get your feet on the ground. If I can offer some words of wisdom, you’ve been fortunate enough to have been given some unexpected blessings. Don’t let your pride get in the way. Take the job. Take the offer of temporary housing. Then prove everyone wrong. That’s something you like doing, right? Proving people wrong?”

  After a few more minutes of motherly advice, Celeste hangs up. I’ve decided she’s half-right. I’ll keep the job at the art gallery, but staying at the hotel is a step too far.

  I scrounge in my backpack to see if I have any loose change. My feet are killing me and I still have a long walk to my apartment. To my surprise, I find a twenty-euro note tucked in a zippered compartment. I have no idea how it got there, but I don’t care. It’s my lucky day. I can afford a subway ticket and dinner.

  As I head toward the Pont Neuf Métro station, I think about my recent spate of good luck. I look down at the money in my hand, then tap the homeless man on the shoulder and hand it to him. Time to pass some of that good luck along. A little more walking won’t hurt me.

  After what seems like an eternity, I finally arrive at my apartment building. There have been some changes since I was here earlier. Instead of waiting for me inside, the rats are sitting on the stoop like some sort of welcoming committee. I think the price of entry is a croissant. The smell of the garbage has a more nuanced quality to it. “Nuanced” being a polite way of staying that the stench is unbearable. And there’s a new front door.

  I distract the rats with a roll of breath mints, then try to open the door. But it won’t budge. Probably because it’s not so much a door as it is a piece of plywood firmly nailed in place. And this time, I don’t have Pierre to help me pry it off.

  After breaking a fingernail, I notice a sign affixed to the side of the building. My heart sinks when I read it—bâtiment condamné.

  Swell. The building is condemned, the rats have devoured the breath mints that I was going to have for dinner, and my feet are killing me. But what’s even worse is that I’m going to have to swallow my pride and accept Pierre’s offer to stay at the hotel.

  6

  Pastry Overload

  It’s been a long couple weeks of hide and seek. Pierre keeps looking for me, and I keep hiding. Easier said than done when you work in the same hotel. Fortunately, he’s been on the night shift while I’ve been working days. It also helps that both of us have been crazy busy in our spare time. He’s been focused on projects related to the family business, while I’ve been completely absorbed helping Amélie and Madame Vernier curate an exhibition at the gallery.

  I’m pretty excited about the exhibition. It’s right up my alley—photographs of animal-inspired tattoos—and what’s even better is that all the proceeds are going to be donated to a no-kill dog shelter. Working with the premier tattoo artists in Paris and world-renown photographers has been a dream come true. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing and, more importantly, that I belong in the art world.

  But there’s a lot to get done. Everything has to be ready in time for the launch party. It’s the perfect excuse for avoiding Pierre. While I had sent him a gracious text thanking him for helping me land the job and finding me a place to stay, I haven’t wanted anything else to do with him. Hence, the elaborate game of hide and seek we have going on.

  By the time the end of my second week at the art gallery rolls around, I’ve become a pro at it.

  I’m in the back room on Sunday afternoon framing photographs, when I hear a familiar voice ask Amélie, “Is Mia here?” Setting aside the mat board and cutter I’m using, I crouch behind some large canvasses propped up in the corner.

  Amélie rats me out. “I think she’s in the back, cheri.”

  I hear him walking toward the rear of the gallery, each of his custom-made leather shoes making a distinctive sound as he traverses the marble floor. Can footsteps be sexy? If so, his certainly are. As his firm, confident, masculine steps near my hiding spot, I inch backward and hold my breath. There are times when being as short as I am comes in handy, like today. Squeezing into tight spots has become a new specialty of mine.

  After a few moments, I hear Pierre’s footsteps retreating back into the gallery.

  “She’s not there,” he says to Amélie. “Can you let her know I stopped by when you see her? I texted her last night, but she didn’t respond.”

  I continue to stay hidden. Pierre may be trying to outfox me, leaning against the counter in the gallery, waiting patiently for me to reveal myself. After ten minutes, I decide the coast is clear. But before I can emerge from behind the canvases, I hear the sound of a pair of shoes coming into the back room. It’s not Pierre. These footsteps are brisk and impatient, with a sharp staccato clicking noise that high heels make.

  They’re followed by two other sets of footsteps. The first is another set of high heels, but they have a more gentle quality to them. I know this sound—those heels belong to Amélie. The other set is unfamiliar to me.

  My legs cramp up as Amélie and the other woman discuss a display of textile art. Apparently, it’s not up to the standards that this other woman expects. Amélie handles the criticism gracefully. If I was in her place, I would have bopped the other lady in the nose by now.

  But as their conversation progresses, I realize why Amélie is being so conciliatory. The other woman is la directrice de l’hôtel. Generally, it’s not a good idea to bop your boss in the nose.

  I massage my calf, willing the two of them to stop talking and go on their merry ways. As I reach down to rub my ankle, something licks my hand. Stifling a yelp, I pray that it’s not an extraordinarily large rat looking for a croissant. I curl up into a tight ball and close my eyes, but the creature continues to advance toward me, panting heavily in its quest for French pastries.

  “Lyonette, ici,” the hotel director orders.

  Lyonette ignores the command, instead pushing its face into mine. That’s when I realize, much to my relief, that this isn’t a giant rat, it’s a poodle.

  “Nice doggie,” I whisper.

  The poodle responds by growling at me. Okay, not such a nice dog after all. As the growls increase in intensity, the poodle shakes, as though it has just had a refreshing swim in the lake. With each shake of its body, the canvasses rock back and forth. I try to stroke the dog to calm it down, but as I place my hand on its fur, it barks loudly and lunges at me. The canvasses crash to the floor, my hiding spot with them.

  “Mia, what are you doing down there?” Amélie asks.

  I feel my face grow warm as I look up. The director is tapping her foot, her arms folded across her chest. Like Amélie, she has that effortless Parisian chic vibe to her. Her burgundy Chanel suit is accessorized with pearls, and her dark hair is pulled back into an elegant twist.

  Lyonette has a similar chic vibe going on with a classic poodle cut, a pearl collar, and burgundy bows on her ears.

  “Uh, I dropped something?” I make a show of searching the floor, crawling on my hands and knees and poking under shelves and tables.

  “Assis,” the directrice commands.

  So I sit on my haunches. The dog does too.

  She smiles approvingly at Lyonette, then frowns at me. Turning to Amélie, she tells her to take care of the problem.

  “Oui, madame,” Amélie says before following her back out to the main gallery.

  I look at the dog, trying to decide which one of us is the problem that needs to be taken care of.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” I ask Lyonette.

  The poodle gives me a haughty look that seems to say, “Duh, of course it’s you.”

  A deep voice with a British accent says, “I don’t think she li
kes you.”

  I raise my eyes and see Pierre leaning against the door frame, a bemused look on his face. I can’t tell whether he’s bemused by the ridiculous bellboy uniform he’s wearing or by the fact that I’m sitting on the floor trying to interpret dog expressions.

  “Who? The dog or the hotel director?”

  He laughs. “Possibly both.”

  Amélie scoots in behind him and helps me to my feet. Then she snaps her fingers and tells Lyonette to go find her mistress. As the dog departs, she gives me a look that says, “So long, loser.”

  Avoiding eye contact with Pierre, I brush dust off my black high-waisted trousers and smooth down my fuchsia leopard print top. “Oh, well, it’s not like it matters since I’m not going to be working here anymore.”

  Amélie gasps. “You cannot quit.”

  “I’m not quitting. You’re firing me.”

  “Why would I fire you?”

  “Well, I assumed by the way your boss told you to ‘take care of the problem’ that I didn’t have a job here any longer.”

  Amélie smiles at Pierre. “If people were fired every time they displeased her, there would be no one left working at the hotel. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  “Whose bite? The dog’s or the director’s?”

  “Both,” Amélie and Pierre say in unison.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Amélie says. “Within an hour, she will have forgotten that you were crawling on the floor. What did you drop, by the way?”

  “Oh, I don’t think she dropped anything,” Pierre says. “I think she was hiding from me.”

  “Why would I hide from you?” I ask.

  “I text, I call, but you never respond. Whenever I come to the gallery to speak to you, you’re mysteriously on break. It’s obvious. You’re avoiding me. And I want to know why.”

  The last thing I want to do is get into this with Amélie watching us. I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m just busy, that’s all.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it.” As he shakes his head emphatically, his pillbox hat slides off and rolls toward me.