Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

to Fitzwilliam Darcy. Maybe one of the hazards of my job is reducing everything to a Jane Austen plot.

More proof of how desperately I need a proper vacation.

Alone.

Or at least one without Marla, who seems to be navigating this party fine on her own. I hear her laugh and spy her sitting on an outdoor sectional at the far corner of the patio under a heat lamp.

She’s wearing her sunglasses and holding court with a handful of guys. I know one of them. His name is Jesse. He’s sitting next to her with his arm casually draped over the back of the sofa, around her, but not on her.

There’s enough room that he could lead Marla to believe he’s man-stretching, but I know for a fact that’s not what he’s doing. This is the warm-up to putting the moves on her.

Ew. She could be his mother. Okay, maybe his older sister. But still.

At one time or another, Jesse has tried with varying degrees of success to sleep with most of the women I know at this party. T hooked up with him a couple of times, and he even tried to put the moves on me once. So I know how he operates.

“Come in when you get back from Paris,” Aiden says. “It’s a standing invitation.”

He smiles and my insides melt. I’d better get home before I do something regrettable.

I glance over at Marla. Now Jesse’s arm is around her, his hand dangerously close to her breast.

Oh geez, Marla. Really?

“That sounds fabulous,” I say. “I’d love to.”

“Let me see your phone,” he says.

“Why?” I ask.

I hand it to him and he punches in some numbers. His own phone rings.

“I called my phone with your phone. Now we have each other’s numbers.”

He ensured this isn’t one-sided, that either of us could get in touch with the other. It makes me inordinately happy.

“Hannah! Come here!” Marla calls over the music, waving her arms and ruining the moment. “I want you to meet Jesse.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Aiden.

I don’t want him to meet Marla. Not yet. Probably not ever.

I glare at Jesse as I walk over. “Jesse, I see you’ve met my mother. Marla, I’m ready to go home. Come on.”

“No, I’m not letting her go.” Jesse puts both arms around her and pulls her against him. I don’t know if he’s high or drunk or a combination of both, but he’s clearly plastered.

“Go ahead without me,” Marla says. “I promised Jesse I’d drive him to his house in his car. He’s in no condition to get behind the wheel.”

“And how are you going to get home?” I ask.

“Hannah, don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m a big girl. I can manage.”

She sounds like she’s sober.

“Remember, they drive on the opposite side of the road here,” I say. “Maybe someone else should take Jesse home.”

She waves me off. “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

I glance at Aiden, still standing where I left him. He smiles at me when our eyes meet.

“Okay, Marla,” I say. “Whatever you want to do. I’m leaving.”

I return to Aiden to say good night and leave Marla to fend for herself.

March 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

On the way to Dingo Bar, Helen told me she met her new men friends after I’d left for my appointment at the Chanel atelier. She’d gone in search of coffee, made their acquaintance, and they’d invited us to meet them at Dingo.

Helen thinks it’s chic to go to a bar in the morning, but I kept wondering what kind of establishment would be open at that hour and what its clientele would be like.

Don’t these people have jobs?

Obviously, I’m not the only unemployed wretch in Paris. At least the outing diverted my thoughts from the dreadful Chanel debacle. But it made more glaring the fact that Helen hadn’t inquired about the interview. Sometimes she can be so consumed with herself.

She can also be unrelenting when it comes to getting what she wants. For example, after I balked at the outing, she plopped her red cloche hat on my head—she knows how I covet it. She said I could have it if I went with her. She pulled it into place, tugging my hair forward over my cheeks. How could I resist? With that, she grabbed my hand and yanked me out the door. I could’ve said no, of course, but… the hat.

It was a long walk from rue du Cardinal Lemoine to Dingo Bar on rue Delambre in Montparnasse. By the time we’d reached the Jardin du Luxembourg, the fresh air and Helen’s effervescence had lifted me out of my mood and I was properly enjoying the mild day and the bright-blue sky. It was such a contrast to the smelly little hovel and the disastrous morning.

Dingo Bar was situated on the ground floor of a white stucco building with shuttered windows and a red awning. Inside, the place was crowded and loud. A jazz quartet played a lively tune. People were dancing, smoking, and drinking as if they were the only things to do at this hour of the morning. The place smelled of sweat, perfume, and stale liquor, which I quickly associated with the aroma of people having a good time. I wondered how many had been there since the night before.

The moment we arrived, Helen spotted one of her fellows seated at a crowded table. He was dark and handsome with intense eyes and an engaging smile.

As we approached, he stood, planted a double kiss on Helen’s cheeks, and sculpted enough room for us in the shoulder-to-shoulder seating arrangement.

His name was Pablo. He was a painter from Spain who lived in Paris. Talking over the music, he announced we had just arrived from London, that Helen was an actress, and I was une créatrice de mode.

I started to correct him and tell him that, at this point, I was merely a seamstress, but he was already regaling everyone with the story of how he had stopped