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

so enthusiastic I don’t have the heart to be the lone stick-in-the-mud. This is the last time in a long while that I’ll be able to go out with my friends, so I might as well make the most of it.

When we go out en masse, everyone dances in a big group. It’s fun—cathartic, really.

We tumble onto the dance floor and move with abandon. The DJ is playing remixed eighties pop. Tallu and Marla are dancing with their arms over their heads. Cressida is twirling like a dervish, miraculously not bumping into anyone—or if she does, they don’t seem to mind. Danny is doing a hipster dance with economic, but effective movements.

And surprise, surprise, Jemma is hanging all over Aiden, looking quite unsteady on her feet.

She stumbles back a few steps off the dance floor and knocks into a blonde girl, making her spill her drink.

The blonde looks pissed—in the American sense of the word.

Aiden leans into my ear. “I’m going to buy that woman another drink. Will you look after Jemma? She’s tanked up. I’ll get her some water while I’m at it. Would you like something?”

What I’d really like is to know what’s going on with you and Jemma.

“Some water would be great, thanks.”

He disappears into the crowd, and Jemma starts to trail after him. Taking my babysitting job seriously, I redirect her to an empty banquette.

We’re all pretty lit, but that’s when I notice how wasted Jemma is.

Her eyes are unfocused and she’s swaying in her seat.

“Are you okay?” I ask, touching her arm to steady her.

“I want to go home,” she moans.

She starts to stand but flops right back down on the banquette.

“My legs don’t work,” she slurs. “Watch.”

Again, she tries to stand with the same result. This time she puts her head in her hands.

“Jemma, are you okay?” She doesn’t answer.

“Are you going to be sick?”

“I can’t tell. The room is spinning too fast. I don’t think I can find the loo.”

I try to help her to her feet, intending to walk her to the bathroom, but she’s deadweight. I know we’ll never make it.

“Ugh—oh no—” she moans.

I know what’s about to happen. “I need your bucket,” I shout to a group of guys at the table next to us.

I can’t wait for them to comprehend my request, so I grab the bucket full of ice that’s been cooling multiple bottles of beer. I’m barely able to dump the remaining bottles and ice on the floor amidst their angry protests before I shove the bucket in front of Jemma’s face—just in the nick of time.

The owners of the beer go from gripes to gasps of awe and delighted disgust.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll get you a clean ice bucket.”

“No problem,” says one of the guys, watching Jemma sit with her head over the sullied one. “Bloody fast reflexes.”

“It would’ve been down Stu’s back,” says another.

“We’ll get ourselves a fresh one,” says the guy named Stu. “You’ve got your hands full.”

A moment later, Aiden delivers the drink to the blonde and returns with two waters.

“Someone needs to take her home,” I say, accepting the cold bottle.

“I will,” Aiden says. “I live near her, and I need to go anyway. I have an early meeting.”

“Do you need help?” I ask, not sure what I’m offering. Maybe just a chance to have some time with him.

“Thanks, but I’ll grab a cab, get her settled in, and then I’ll walk home from her place. It’s not far. Only a few blocks.”

We stand there, the awkwardness pulsing between us as strong as the electronic music.

“Thanks for the dinner, Aiden. It was delicious.”

“My pleasure. I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together.”

I nod.

“Good luck with your new venture, Hannah. I’ll call you.”

Right. I wish he hadn’t said that as I watch him walk away—probably forever—with Jemma draped all over him.

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Andres was waiting for me when I got off work today. He said he wanted to take me somewhere special. He was so exuberant that I had to argue with him before he would give me a moment to fix my hair and my face and put on a clean dress after my shift at the boulangerie.

Before I knew it, he had whisked me away to the most delightful little bookshop on rue de l’Odéon. It is called Shakespeare and Company and it sells English books. I felt as if I had fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in London.

It was magnificent.

The shop window showcased dozens of volumes of Andres’s book, Un Homme de Parole, and I could hardly tear myself away from the beauty of the display to enter the shop. It suddenly hit me that he was someone important.

I kept saying, “Andres, that is you. That is your novel.”

He nodded proudly and said that both he and James Joyce, among others, owed their start to the generous woman inside the shop whom he was most anxious for me to meet.

We entered the stuffy shop and a thin American woman with dense, wavy brown hair the color of a mink stood and greeted us.

Andres introduced her as Sylvia Beach, the shop’s proprietress, and she greeted me so warmly I at once felt at home and as if I had made a new friend.

The shop was as warm as she was with its stately wooden furniture and shelves upon shelves of books. In the rare place a bookshelf did not claim a wall, beguiling paintings and drawings decorated the space.

Before I could look around much, Sylvia asked me what I enjoyed reading. I must admit being put on the spot like that caused my mind to go blank. I couldn’t recall a single author I had recently enjoyed. All I could think of was Vogue magazine. That seemed so plebeian. So common. Not that I should pretend to be someone I am not. But I want to be worthy of Andres and I feared such an answer might embarrass not only me, but him as well.

Then