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

soundtrack to the gray afternoon is the occasional honking car and snippets of conversation from passersby who seem unaware of or unaffected by the fact that they’re in the vicinity of punk rock royalty.

“Were you in love with him?” I ask.

“Martin?” Marla blinks incredulously. “No, Hannah. No way.”

I hold up my hands. “Well, you did follow him around Europe for a summer. Just saying.”

“Everyone wanted Martin. He was…”

She smiles and shakes her head and steps away from the gate. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

“Wait, no. We came all the way out here. You have to at least ring the bell.”

She gives me major side-eye, then walks back to the gatepost and presses the button on the intercom. As she does, the gate begins to open.

Marla jumps back and curses under her breath. She starts power walking away from the house and I follow her. Once we’re a few yards down the sidewalk, we both break into a fit of giggles, holding on to each other as we try to catch our breath.

“Oh my God, did that button open the gate?” I ask. “If so, why would he bother with the fence?”

Marla sighs. “He’s been out of the limelight for a while now. Maybe he doesn’t need security like he used to.”

Or maybe he does. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the nose of a dark Bugatti emerging from Martin Gaynor’s driveway. It stops before turning onto the street in the opposite direction of where we’re standing.

The car window slides down to reveal a middle-aged man with a long, thin pale face, spiky black hair, and Wayfarer sunglasses peering out at us. He pulls his glasses down on his nose and stares for a moment.

I grab Marla’s arm and nod in the direction of the car. She turns around and freezes in her tracks.

“That’s him,” she whispers.

He rolls up the window, and we watch him drive away.

“MARTIN GAYNOR IS SEXY as fuck,” says Cressida. “How can you say he’s not, Tallulah?”

I fear she and Tallu will come to blows as we sit around the kitchen island sipping tea and debating the hotness of Martin Gaynor.

T wrinkles her nose. “He’s so tall and gaunt. He looks like a walking skeleton.” She shudders. “To each her own, I guess.”

“Marla’s opinion is the only one that matters here,” Cressida says. “Was he good in bed?”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” Marla insists.

“Oh, come on,” says Cressida. “How could you not? I would’ve. In a heartbeat.”

“Of course you would,” says Tallulah.

“At least she owns it,” I say.

Tallulah smiles and shakes her head. “I would love to stay and continue this important debate, but unfortunately I have other things to do. I’ll see you tonight. Let’s all go out.”

We toss out some ideas.

Tallulah glances at the time on her phone. “I really need to run. Text me the plan.”

The moment T leaves the room Cressida is back to Martin Gaynor. “Do you think he recognized you? I mean, you said he stopped and stared.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably not. More likely, he was wondering who the two crazy chicks were prowling around outside his house. He probably didn’t like it that we were playing around with the intercom button. I never could resist a dare, though.”

Marla smiles at me.

“Okay then, I dare you to go back and talk to him,” says Cressida. “Better yet, I dare you to sleep with him.”

Marla laughs and stands. She takes her teacup to the sink.

“That might be tough, because it looks like Marla and I are moving to Paris,” I intervene, hoping to steer Marla away from temptation. “At least temporarily.”

Cressida gapes at me.

“Are you moving into the apartment?” Cressida asks.

I nod. “Em is letting me start an expat art-and-literary tour in Paris.”

“That’s wonderful,” cries Marla. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I know,” I say. “We were preoccupied with creeping on Martin Gaynor.”

“Hannah, I’m so proud of you,” Marla says. “That’s a promotion for you, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“And it’s a long time coming and so well deserved,” says Cressida. “Brava!”

Marla and I bring her up to speed on the apartment, the diaries, and the manuscript.

Cressida gasps and claps and peppers us with questions, which, at this point, we’re not prepared to answer, because there are still a lot of things we don’t know.

“I will continue to pay rent here, of course. I won’t leave you high and dry.”

“You’re such a love, Hannah, but that won’t be necessary. You’ll have enough on your plate getting yourself moved and settled in Paris and starting the tour there.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to keep this place as a safety net until I’m sure the Paris tour works out. If it doesn’t, I’ll be back.”

Makeup-free, with her blonde hair piled high in a messy bun on top of her head, Cressida sighs. “Not to worry. T and I won’t be in the market for a new flatmate anytime soon. How could we ever replace you?”

A lump forms in my throat as I think about starting over. Sure, the tour is a good opportunity, but it seems the older I get, the more difficult it is to make new friends like Tallu and Cressida. The three of us came together so naturally it’s difficult to imagine that happening again in Paris, especially given the language barrier and my new workload.

“We should have a dinner party,” says Cressida.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” I say. Even though my schedule is a bit freeform right now, I have a lot of work ahead of me and I don’t want to take advantage of Cressida’s and T’s good natures by imposing a fourth roommate on them for more than a night.

“Well, then, we shouldn’t waste any time. Let’s do it tonight.”

This. This spontaneity right here is one of the things I’ll miss the most about living with my girls.

“Okay. If you’re sure. I think a dinner party sounds fun,” I say. “What can I do?”

“You leave it all up to me,” says Cressida. “You and Marla