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

Cressida’s blind date track record is horrendous, and a guy with a name like Zed doesn’t bode well for improvement. Thank goodness Tallulah chimes in.

Tallulah: What are you wearing to Jemma’s party?

Me: Flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks.

Tallulah: Sexy.

Cressida: Not sexy. Don’t encourage her. I refuse to let her end the year wearing fuzzy socks. She’d probably stoop to binge-watching Love Island if we left her to her own devices.

Tallulah: Right. We will save her from herself.

Me: What’s wrong with Love Island?

Cressida: We will leave her in Zed’s very capable, very large hands.

Me: Hello? Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.

Cressida: Okay then. We’ll leave you in Zed’s care. Did I mention his large hands?

Me: Zed? What kind of guy is named Zed? Sounds like a movie villain.

Cressida: No, he’s hot. You want to meet him.

Me: Introduce him to Tallulah.

Tallulah: Tallulah already has a date.

Cressida: Oops g2g. Doorbell.

Cressida’s skills for fixing me up on blind dates can be summed up in three words—well, six, really: The Quitter, The Sniffer, and The Stiffer. In order of appearance and offending record.

The Quitter took me to play tennis and then got mad when I beat him.

The Sniffer had a foot fetish.

I kid you not. A foot fetish.

I should’ve caught on earlier than I did because this dude knew way too much about women’s shoes than is acceptable for a straight guy. After I excused myself to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine, I caught him sniffing my black pump.

Surely that kind of lightning couldn’t strike twice. Could it?

Oh yes, it could.

Matt was an emergency room doctor whom Cressida met when she thought she’d broken her ankle. Since she was dating someone, she couldn’t wait to introduce us.

Everything started out fine. Matt was prompt and courteous. He’d made a reservation for us at Lumiere and ordered a nice bottle of wine and an array of appetizers for us to share, insisting that I hadn’t lived until I’d tried caviar on toast points.

The conversation was flowing—as was the wine—and I thought, Good job, good taste, no obvious anger issues, not a single mention of ladies’ shoes. I could like this guy.

As he finished his entree—he’d ordered filet and lobster for our mains—he got a call on his cell.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he left the table. “It’s the hospital. I have to take this.”

Five minutes later, he texted.

Listen, love, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve been called out on an emergency. Time is of the essence. If you could take care of the tab, I’ll make it up to you.

Even before I saw the bottom line on the bill, I knew my one nearly maxed-out credit card couldn’t handle the damage we’d racked up.

I swallowed my pride and texted him back.

Matt, I’m sorry, but I didn’t bring enough money to cover the bill. I’m happy to pay for my part, but could you call the restaurant and give them a credit card number for your half?

He didn’t respond. To make a long, ugly story short, Cressida had to come bail me out. She insisted on paying the entire bill and buying me a drink at the Gilded Lion, a pub down the street from Lumiere, to make up for it.

As we elbowed our way through the crowd, who did I see bellied up to the bar holding court with a pint and twin blondes? Dr. Matthew Brewer. There’s no way he could’ve made it across town in London traffic, tended to his emergency, and gotten back to the pub in that amount of time.

The part I’m most ashamed of—more than a blind date stiffing me with the check—is that I said nothing to him. I didn’t present him with the $468.37 bill. I didn’t grab his pint and pour it over his head and caution the twins who were hanging on his every word, even though I wanted to, because the thought of causing a scene paralyzed me.

Instead, I said to Cressida before she could spot him, “It’s crowded in here. Let’s go somewhere else where we can breathe.”

Did I mention I’m not big on confrontation?

March 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Helen and I arrived at the tiny flat we rented on the rue du Cardinal Lemoine. I’m sad to say it is not at all what we expected. It’s horrible.

In the dark, we climbed a set of rickety wooden steps outside the main house to the top floor. After ducking through a small door, we had to ignite a kerosene lantern for light. A rodent—or perhaps it was a feral cat—hissed at us as it ran for cover. I wanted to leave, but we had no other place to go. We looked around and saw that the space amounted to nothing more than a small attic room about a quarter of the size of the flat we’d rented in London. This place was drafty and damp and smelled foul—of frying onions and the remnants of an animal that might have died in the walls or under the creaky floorboards. Possibly of relation to the one who greeted us? There was no kitchen, no running water. Just two twin-sized straw-stuffed mattresses atop rusty frames, pushed against separate walls, and a dresser. The landlord has passed off a closet as a loo, but in reality, it’s no more than an espace de rangement with a bucket.

By the time our ferry crossed from Dover to Calais and the train carried us to Paris, it was after midnight when we knocked on the door of our landlord, Monsieur Arpin. His wife directed us to the apartment and said her husband would call on us tomorrow to collect the rent and make sure we were comfortable.

Comfortable we are not, but I’m happy we don’t have to discuss terms tonight. I’m at once bone-weary and a bundle of nerves over my interview at Mademoiselle Chanel’s atelier in the morning.

I will write tomorrow, hopefully with good news and a clearer vision of what the future holds. Now, sleep.