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

about it,” I say. “Right now, I need to return a work email.”

“I thought you were on vacation?” Gabriel says.

“I am, but I’m sure you understand work doesn’t take a holiday just because you do.”

He nods and leaves me to conduct my business.

A few minutes later, as I’m finishing up, Marla steps out of the bedroom, her arms full with three gilded framed paintings. No doubt the ones of Ivy. She walks over to the sofa table, carefully lays each one down, and begins gently dusting one of them. A woman obsessed.

I relay Gabriel’s plan and confirm she’s okay being here solo.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” she says, holding the painting in both hands and examining it in the sunlight. She leans in. “He’s cute, Hannah.”

He’s only a few feet away doing something on his phone, but I’m glad the vacuums are making enough noise to muffle Marla’s words. He must sense that we’re talking about him, because he smiles at us and closes the distance.

“I’ll have my cell phone with me,” I say. “Call if you need anything. Is your phone charged?”

“Of course it is. I’m not a child.”

I give her the side-eye.

“I’m young at heart,” she says. “Now, you go be young. It’s time you start acting your age.

“Take this daughter of mine away from here and teach her how to have fun,” Marla says to Gabriel as the woman running the vacuum switches it off. Her words virtually ring in the room, dancing off the walls, twirling and swirling with the dust motes that the cleaners have stirred up.

Gabriel grins his Clooney smile. “I am happy to oblige. I am a very good teacher.”

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

It’s been a week now, but posing for Pierre is still awkward. I doubt it will get easier lying naked in front of a stranger with a lousy disposition who refuses to play by the rules.

Today, he crossed the very clear line I drew before accepting the job.

Helen warned me he might. Lo and behold, one week in and he felt emboldened to take freedoms with my naked body.

Here’s what happened: I was having trouble arranging myself into the pose he was trying to describe. He came over and took my left arm and placed it over my head. Then he lifted my chin to a precise angle. As he did, his hand trailed down my neck, past my collarbone. Before I knew it, he was cupping my breast.

I smacked his hand away, jumped off the divan, and grabbed my clothes, telling him he was never permitted to touch me.

He smiled sheepishly, murmuring that it was my fault for being so alluring. I had tempted him. How was he supposed to help himself?

I told him he could help himself to a new model because my work with him was finished.

I have never dressed so quickly in my life.

When he realized I was serious, he begged me to stay, saying without me he could not finish the series. I told him he should’ve thought of that before taking such liberties.

Then he slumped down on his stool and put his head in his hands, mumbling to himself. Je suis un idiot.

He is an idiot. I did not dispute him. Instead, I grabbed my handbag and sketchbook and walked out the door.

He ran after me, begging me to reconsider. When I kept walking, he told me I could take the rest of the day off and he would pay me for a full day if I would come back tomorrow. Then, we would start anew. He told me that he knew I was not like the others and he would never touch me again.

I slowed my pace.

The next thing I knew he’d raced back into the studio and came out rattling the rusted can he keeps on the shelf. He handed me a fistful of coins. I stopped, but I refused to look at him. I kept my gaze pinned on the coins in his outstretched palm.

He said it was more than what we had agreed, but he wanted me to have it to make up for his blunder.

He transferred the coins into my hand and begged me to come back tomorrow.

I told him I couldn’t because I felt unsafe alone with him.

Then he sweetened the pot by offering to introduce me to someone who could open doors to the world of Paris fashion. He said the meeting would happen tomorrow evening.

I told him I would think about it. The last thing I want is to feel indebted to Pierre, but would accepting his help be any less dignified than retreating to Bristol? Because that is what I will have to do if I don’t return to Pierre’s atelier. Even so, as I write this, I do not know if I will return tomorrow or pack my bags for home.

Twelve

January 3, 2019—11:30 a.m.

Paris, France

I go back to the hotel and take a quick shower to rinse off the apartment dust. I have just enough time before Gabriel collects me for our adventure to put on some makeup and change into my velvet wrap dress. Cressida helped me pick it out. It’s red and hot pink with bold black letters stenciled into the pattern. Paired with black tights and boots, it’s sophisticated enough to wear to a Paris museum.

We take our time meandering through the old mansion that houses the Musée Rodin, following the black-and-white checkerboard marble entryway to the grand staircase that leads us up to the second floor. As we cross the creaky parquet floor, Gabriel tells me the history of the house.

The grand casement windows allow the perfect amount of light to stream in and showcase the sculptures. We linger in front of The Kiss, a breathtaking marble sculpture of a nude couple locked in a passionate embrace.

I clasp my hands behind my back to keep from reaching out and touching the smooth milky surface. I want to trace the areas where their bodies are joined,