A Perfect Paris Christmas

by Mandy Baggot

  Was Noel serious? Ethan looked at his assistant’s expression hoping to detect some kind of hint of a joke. It sounded the very worst of tacky.

  ‘There will be delightful swags for the reception desk including real blue fir and crystals, plus floor to ceiling diamante icicle curtains framing all the doors to the common places – the toilets, the restaurant and bar, the luggage room…’

  Noel continued to talk but Ethan was starting to zone out. None of what his assistant was saying felt right to him. And he instinctively knew Ferne would have hated all these ideas. He picked up his coffee mug and filled his mouth with the dark, bitter blackness. He knew he couldn’t wholly rely on what Ferne would have done going forward. He also knew he hadn’t wanted any part in the Christmas decoration at Noel’s meeting last week. But his lunch with Silvie had changed things. Once he had processed – and processing consisted of drowning his insides with fine wine, not so fine wine and calvados – he realised two things. Hell would freeze over before he let Louis Durand ruin the business he and Ferne had worked night and day to make a success. And he was having absolutely nothing to do with this visitor with part of his best friend inside them.

  ‘… and there will be someone dressed as a decadent swirl of chocolate praline from Maison Paradis du Chocolat handing out small treats I have managed to secure for a good price. Then, as we enter the middle of December there will be…’

  ‘Noel, stop,’ Ethan begged. ‘I… you… are hurting my ears.’ He wanted back into the bubble containing the comforting sounds of the coffee machine, the jazz playing from the radio and the condensation on the windows.

  ‘You do not like my advent of activities?’ Noel asked, his voice full of concern. ‘You said you wished me to go ahead and make things happen. You said you did not want to think about the arrangements.’

  He had definitely said that, there was no getting away from it. He had also said something very similar in response to every new suggestion Noel had made to try to improve things throughout the year.

  ‘I know,’ Ethan answered, putting down his coffee mug. ‘I did say that.’

  ‘And you did not answer any of my calls over the past three days.’

  That was true too. In between the calvados and the not fine wine there had been a flat phone battery and a stripper called Celine…

  ‘I know,’ he repeated. ‘But now I would like to help.’ No, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t want to help. He wanted to lead. Like the CEO he was. Like the head of a small hotel chain Ferne had tried to teach him how to be. But, from buying him his first business suit, to sending him on a training course he had never fully understood, she had been by his side and now he just felt… incomplete. Ferne had represented the only good thing in his life. Without that connection he was back to being Ethan Bouchard, the orphan again.

  Noel folded his arms across his chest and set his expression to ‘quite agitated’. Noel did a good line in degrees of agitated. This one probably hit about medium on the scale.

  ‘Louis Durand is coming back,’ Ethan said in a rush. It was like the man’s name had the ability to scorch his lips if he hung on to the syllables too long.

  Straightaway, Noel’s expression flipped from ‘quite agitated’ to ‘full-on terrified’. ‘What?’

  Ethan nodded his head, pushing away his plate of half-finished pancakes for something to keep his fingers busy. He drew in a breath and continued. ‘You did not know.’ Although Ethan had wondered if Louis would take up residence in one of the hotel’s suites rather than the Durand family home on the outskirts of the city so he could be at the centre of operations. If Silvie had made a reservation it definitely wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by Noel.

  ‘Is he staying long?’ Noel asked, his words clipped.

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ He checked himself quickly. Noel was his closest confidante at the hotel, but was he a friend to be trusted? Ethan swallowed. Friends weren’t something he made very easily. And he didn’t want to blur the lines between employer and employee. ‘What I meant to say was… Madame Durand has invited him and he will be visiting the hotels, no doubt. I just want to make sure that we are ready.’

  ‘He will inspect everything,’ Noel said, sounding like his life essence was slowly draining out of him. ‘The last time he was here he checked for dust behind the picture frames. Behind them. As if there was going to be the contents of a vacuum cleaner on the wallpaper. What kind of individual does that?’

  And now for the harder blow. Ethan looked directly at Noel. ‘He’s arriving this afternoon.’

  Noel made a sound like someone who had caught their finger in the car door but had taken a vow of silence. It was high-pitched, slightly muted, but still sounded of the whole world’s pain and suffering.

  ‘I need something in place before he gets here,’ Ethan admitted. ‘Something great. Something that speaks of the luxurious brand Perfect Paris is meant to be.’

  Noel had clicked on his pen and it was now hovering above his portfolio pad as if he was waiting for the starting pistol at the beginning of a race. ‘In all the hotels?’

  ‘Opera for today,’ Ethan decided. ‘Then we think about the others.’

  ‘That is why we are meeting at 8 a.m.,’ Noel deduced.

  ‘That is exactly why we are meeting at 8 a.m.’ Ethan sighed, his gaze going over Noel’s shoulder as he looked to the outside where this area was starting to wake up. Here on this street where the graffiti art was a new type of tour for a city usually obsessed with museums and relics, the vibrant street culture was a treat to behold. People were already stopping to take photos for Instagram, admiring the shop fronts that acted like canvasses and the planters decorated with mosaic tiles. One spray-can-painted effigy caught Ethan’s eye, evoking a memory from the past…

  ‘Noel,’ he said, a glint in his grey eyes. ‘Do you think, before this afternoon, you could procure a penguin?’

  Ten

  L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris

  ‘Wow! I mean, W-O-W!’

  Rach had scrambled out of the car first, before their driver – yes, they had a driver – could get out from behind the wheel to open the door for them. It was freezing and Keeley quickly did up the zip on her new, bright red, three-quarter-length padded coat her mum had insisted on buying her before she ‘ventured into the unknown’. Keeley thought it resembled a sleeping bag or perhaps a survival tent for those seeking shelter after an avalanche. Yes, Lizzie was still insisting this trip was somewhere between a hostage situation and an invitation to a cult, but at least the front door back in Kensington hadn’t been barricaded or reinforced with steel to prevent Keeley leaving at all. She had promised to text as soon as she arrived in Paris but, in front of this scene, she wasn’t going to start dipping her head to her phone screen right now.

  ‘Look at it, Keeley!’ Rach exclaimed. ‘Look. At. It.’

  Keeley linked her arm through Rach’s as they admired the Parisian skyline laid out before them. It might be close-to-zero temperatures coupled with a keen wind, but there was a bright, crisp blue sky as a backdrop to this city’s – if not this country’s – most famous landmark. Paris life was going on around them, cars and mopeds zipped up the street, tooting horns, revving engines. Pedestrians, the inhabitants of Paris, rushed – coffees in hand – from A towards B. Tourists moved slower, focusing cameras at the impressive sight before them, taking their time and letting the French capital sink in…

  ‘The Eiffel Tower,’ Keeley breathed, her eyes drawn in and captivated by the iron structure that, she had read in a magazine on the Eurostar, had been standing strong since 1889. She swallowed. This icon was the first thing she had thought of when she had found out her donor had been French. Now, standing here, so close, it was a little overwhelming.

  ‘Wonder when we’re going to see an onion seller with a thin curly moustache in a blue and white T-shirt, riding a bike?’ Rach asked, nudging Keeley’s ribs.

  Keeley smiled. She had Ra
ch for all the clichés. But Keeley was determined to look deeper, not second guess – experience everything, all in – exactly like she had promised Erica.

  ‘Madames,’ the driver said, indicating their trolley cases on the pavement.

  ‘Do we have to tip him?’ Rach asked quite loudly.

  The driver smiled and touched the peak of his cap. ‘Please, this is not necessary. Madame Durand has taken care of everything.’

  Rach looked at Keeley and raised her eyes. ‘It’s like being a royal… you know… the ones who are still active… and not Prince Andrew.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Sebastian,’ Keeley replied to the tall, slim twenty-something who wasn’t exactly uneasy on the eye. He had greeted them at the Gare du Nord, no cheap cardboard sign with her name written with a Sharpie, but an iPad, the words ‘Keeley Andrews’ in large font, blinking on and off. And she had managed to introduce herself without saying something like ‘I only have one kidney so drinking games are like Russian Roulette’. Yes, she had said that once. No one had laughed.

  ‘You are welcome,’ Sebastian answered. ‘And Madame Durand asked for me to tell you that she invites you to take afternoon tea in the hotel restaurant at 3 p.m. With her compliments, of course.’

  Afternoon tea with the mother of her donor. Keeley felt a dart of panic prick her chest. It felt too soon. Yes, the principal reason she had travelled here, the whole point of the trip, was to meet with Silvie Durand, but she hadn’t really thought it would happen this quickly. Keeley had half-hoped she and Rach could settle in, have a night to themselves, a chance to get grounded and comfortable with this winter escape. But, on the other hand, she hadn’t paid for the train tickets. And she wasn’t paying for the hotel so…

  ‘Afternoon tea! I love a scone or six,’ Rach admitted. ‘How about you, Sebastian? Or are you more of a cream horn kind of a guy?’

  Keeley pulled Rach away from the black town car, catching the handle of her trolley case too. ‘Let’s go and unpack.’

  ‘I’m thinking of you here, Keels,’ Rach whispered. ‘He’s quite cute.’

  ‘And he’s not deaf,’ Keeley replied, desperate to get Rach away. ‘And he can speak perfect English.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He can hear you! Come on!’ Keeley sent a soft smile back to the driver before hauling Rach and her case forward towards a revolving front door.

  Paris Parfait the sign read. It looked a little like the branding for Hotel Chocolat. Succinct, without too much detail. Keeley didn’t know what to expect from the inside. Was this a large hotel or something more boutique? It was hard to tell from the exterior that spoke of days gone by with its ornate pillars and worn stonework. Rach was first in the revolving door, immediately going too fast and halting the motion. Keeley stepped into the pod behind.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ Keeley said through the glass, trying to keep her case from knocking into the moving door too. ‘It just slows it down.’

  ‘What?’ Rach asked, turning her head slightly, but still pushing.

  ‘The door,’ Keeley continued. ‘It moves at its own pace. You can’t make it move faster.’ Surely Rach had been in a revolving door before? Keeley jolted a little as Rach’s eagerness stopped the glass panels yet again and they were stationary once more. There had been a revolving door at the hospital back in 2019. After being inside for eight weeks, coming through that and out into the chill of a London winter had been the best breath of fresh air Keeley had ever had fill her lungs.

  ‘Ow! Ow! Keels! Keeley! My hair is stuck! My hair!’

  Keeley came out of her reverie pretty quickly at that shout. Rach was pushing at the glass again, but this time Keeley could see that her friend’s hair was caught somehow in between the glass and the rubber seal. Was there an emergency button? Not that was immediately obvious and this was a door not a lift. It should have been a case of walking into reception with ease, not high drama.

  ‘Keeley! It’s pulling my hair out and my head is getting closer to the glass! Keeley!’

  Rach was really, fully panicking now and Keeley didn’t know what to do. If she pushed one way it would make things worse. If she pushed the other then would it make things better? What happened if two people got trapped in a revolving door? Then, suddenly, before she could think about moving at all, a man appeared. Next, the revolution of the glass panels stopped immediately. In a flurry of manual pushing, Keeley watched as Rach’s hair was delicately released and her best friend stepped out into the foyer, conversing brightly and flicking around her blonde hair in a way that was not at all like someone who had potential scalp chafing. And Keeley was still in here. She pushed the glass and let it swing around until the welcome opening appeared.

  ‘I’m Rach, by the way, and this is Keeley.’

  Keeley observed their door saviour. He was over six feet tall with neat, short, blonde hair and the build of someone who went to the gym or played sports – maybe basketball given his height. He was wearing smart black trousers and a cream-coloured thin-knit jumper.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Keeley greeted. Instantly, as the French word came out of her mouth she regretted it. She didn’t even know if this man was French and, if he was, all the French she had left to use were the other nineteen top phrases in that Eurostar magazine…

  ‘Bonjour,’ he answered. ‘Ça va?’

  Keeley could feel her cheeks warming to being-able-to-cook-steak levels. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I… think so.’

  The man smiled at her, a small laugh escaping his lips. But it didn’t sound like it was a laugh meant to embarrass her any more than she was already embarrassed. She had only been here minutes…

  ‘It was nice to meet you both,’ the man said, ducking a little like he was paying reverence in a bow.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rach said, smiling widely. ‘For being the prince to my Rapunzel.’ Keeley watched Rach boost up her hair and shake her shoulders a little.

  ‘À bientôt,’ the man replied, heading for the door.

  He’d barely gone before Rach made a sound someone might make in the middle of a booty call.

  ‘What is it with this country? Sebastian was hot. Mystery-Hair-Hero is hot. Are all French men hot?’ Rach asked.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  It was another male French voice that seemed to be directed at them and it was coming from the lips of a slim black man stood behind the reception desk. He was wearing a pristine dark suit with a red silk tie resting on a bright white shirt. He was beckoning them now, with all the finesse of someone experienced in semaphore.

  ‘Hello,’ Keeley greeted, walking over the marble tiles towards him. This area was all high sheen on the floor and antique decadence making up the rest of it. Parisian scenes in thick acrylics were framed in regal gold, the wallpaper was pale with small golden trees in its pattern and rich oak sideboards held the tourist information material. The reception desk was bare of everything except one highly polished chrome bell. ‘My name’s Keeley Andrews and we have a room booked. It’s possibly in the name of—’

  Rach banged her fingers on the bell and giggled as it chimed. She hit it a second time.

  ‘Why are you pressing the bell?’ the receptionist asked very stiffly. He was actually looking at Rach like lasers were going to shoot out of his eyes and carve her down the middle.

  ‘It sounds nice,’ Rach replied with a smile. ‘Old-fashioned.’ She rang the bell again.

  ‘The bell,’ the man told them, ‘is to attract my attention.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Keeley answered. ‘Sorry.’

  Rach rang the bell a fourth time.

  ‘What is your problem?’ the man exclaimed, looking as exasperated as he sounded. ‘At first you cannot manage to get in through the door and I have to stop the operation of it. Then you think it is amusing to ring my bell.’

  Keeley looked at Rach. ‘We’re sorry and…’ She saw Rach’s fingers flex like she was going to chime the bell again, but before she could make a move to stop her, the receptionist had swe
pt the bell off the desk and onto his workspace below. Gone and now completely out of reach.

  ‘The bell,’ he said again, seeming barely able to hold his temper, ‘is to attract my attention… when I am not here!’ The final part of the sentence was barked like an angry Royal Marine commander.

  ‘Alright… Antonie,’ Rach said, reading the man’s name badge on his jacket. ‘Take a chill pill. It’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘It’s ANTOINE! Not Antonie!’

  Keeley shifted a little, making sure she was in the man’s line of sight and Rach… wasn’t. ‘I apologise, Antoine. Let me start again. My name is—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Antoine told her. He began clicking with his mouse, eyes dropping to the screen of his computer. ‘You are guests of Madame Durand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Keeley answered. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You are in one of our best suites on the top floor. Here are your room cards and all the information you need for your stay will be in your room.’ He placed two key cards on the desk.

  ‘Is there a bell in our room?’ Rach asked with a grin.

  Keeley poked her in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Thank you,’ she answered Antoine, picking up the cards.

  ‘The lifts are over there.’ He pointed with flair. ‘I will arrange for someone to bring up your luggage. Madame Durand has booked you in for our world-renowned afternoon tea at 3 p.m. Do not be late. It is very popular.’ He set his expression to deeply serious and Keeley prayed that Rach didn’t laugh. ‘Breakfast is from 6 a.m. until 10 a.m. on weekdays and from 7 a.m. until 11 a.m. at the weekends. Dinner is 6.30 p.m. until 9.30 p.m. every day. I hope you enjoy your stay.’

  ‘Oh, we will,’ Keeley replied. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks, Antonie,’ Rach said.

  ‘Come on,’ Keeley ordered, grabbing Rach’s arm. ‘Let’s get to our room before you upset anyone else or get your hair caught on something.’

  ‘Like on Antonie’s stiff upper Poirot moustache?’ Rach whispered.