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

Andres. Zelda said usually Scott doesn’t deign himself to attend Natalie Barney’s salon, but tonight a special reading would take place. She pointed out that all the men were there. Except for Hemingway, because he was much too manly a man to join what was usually a ladies’ salon.

I felt comfortable enough to ask what she meant by Ernest not wanting to attend this salon. He was a regular at Miss Stein’s.

Zelda threw back her head and laughed, explaining that Gertrude Stein might have all the female parts, but she was more of a man than most of the boys in Paris and that’s why Hem is so friendly with her.

Apparently Ernest and Pauline are married now. I can’t help but think of that day at Dingo Bar when he’d pulled me away from Pauline and danced me around the place. I still believe he would’ve kissed me on the lips had I not turned my head. I’m sure it was all a game to him. Just as flirting seems to be for Zelda.

I am starting to believe it is the national pastime of Paris.

The biggest surprise of the night—and certainly the sweetest treat—was when Andres recited some of his own writing. I’d never read his work, but now I can’t wait to dive into the small book of French poetry he’d read from at the salon and given to me at the end of the evening.

My heart is full. I have slipped under his spell.

Seventeen

January 8, 2019—5:45 p.m.

London, England

I leave the Heart to Heart office with a game plan.

We will call the Paris tour Les Années Folles. It means “the crazy years,” a term coined to describe the rich social, artistic, and cultural changes happening in Paris in the 1920s. Even though I haven’t yet read through all of Ivy’s diary entries, I am certain they will come in handy.

Borrowing a page from the Tenement Museum in New York City, I will make Ivy the central figure and tour guests will follow her as she grows from British immigrant to bohemian woman living the expatriate life in Paris, rubbing elbows with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, and Sylvia Beach.

I’ll keep the itinerary a short two days at first, during which we’ll visit as many of the Lost Generation haunts as we can, such as Dingo Bar, Gertrude Stein’s home, Shakespeare and Company, Café de Flore, and the Ritz.

I have my work cut out for me, but for now, I’m excited to press pause and enjoy my going-away party.

At the office, I changed into the dress I brought, touched up my makeup, and hailed a cab so I wouldn’t have to endure the long, lumbering bus ride home. It’s a little splurge I feel I owe myself as I embark on this new path.

When I arrive at the flat, night has already settled over Albert Street. The golden light glowing in the front windows reminds me of New Year’s Eve when I got home and discovered Marla here. It’s hard to believe how things have changed in a week. It feels like years.

Which reminds me: I wonder if Marla is home yet.

The moment I open the door, I’m greeted by the aroma of something delicious—garlicky, savory, utterly divine. My stomach growls in appreciation as I shut the door behind me. I shrug out of my coat and hang it in the hall closet before I enter the living room.

Édith Piaf is crooning “La Vie en Rose” from the speakers. I see that Cressida and T have decorated with dozens of tiny twinkling Eiffel Tower lights strung from one corner of the dining room to the other, crossing in the middle. I have no idea where they found them on such short order, but they are fabulous.

I breathe through a sudden, unexpected pang of premature homesickness.

I hear muffled conversation, the sound of a champagne cork popping, and a wave of laughter. I move to the kitchen and stand in the doorway. For a few beats, I see my friends—Cressida, Jemma, and Tallu—before they see me. Cressida has invited Danny, but there’s no sign of Jesse, much to my relief.

I know I’m not saying goodbye to this place or these people forever, but I want to imprint this moment on my memory forever—the convivial sounds, the delicious aromas, the good energy that flows like the champagne they’re pouring.

Then Aiden comes out of the pantry carrying a bag of onions, and my heart lurches. Dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, he’s even cuter than I remember. His longish dark hair and pale skin give him the appeal of a bad boy, only he’s anything but.

He’s the first to spy me.

“There she is,” he says, his Scottish brogue making the words sound as rich as foie gras and a hundred times more delectable. Cressida, Jemma, and T turn and greet me with gusto augmented by multiple flutes of bubbly.

“Here’s your going-away present,” Cressida says, gesturing to Aiden like a game show model. “Aiden has agreed to cook dinner. Isn’t that fabulous?”

The butterflies in my stomach are borderline painful.

He sets down the onions and brushes off his hands, but he doesn’t move to close the distance between us. Of course, there’s also a kitchen island and four people blocking the way. Still, I notice something a little reserved in his eyes.

Maybe I should’ve told him I was in town before Cressida and T broke the news. But I assumed he’d be at Lemon and Lavender tonight, and I’m leaving tomorrow to return to Paris indefinitely.

“I figured since I couldn’t get you to come to the restaurant anytime soon, I’d better bring the feast to you. A moveable feast seems fitting since you’re leaving us for Paris.”

The butterflies swarm.

“That’s clever, Aiden. Thank you.”

He smiles and begins peeling an onion.

“Is Marla back yet?” I ask.

“Oh, I thought maybe she met you at the office after doing her errand?” Cressida says.

I shake my head.