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

the elevator to the observation deck at the top of the building. Take your coat off. It is warm in here. You’ll get overheated.”

It is a tad warm. As I shrug out of my coat, I wonder if I’ll ever get so used to Paris that the landscape, as he calls it, will become a bore. I hope not. I want the city to keep its magic.

He crosses the room, hands me one of the glasses, and takes my coat and purse. Since I don’t have my phone, I’m not sure what time it is, but as the saying goes, it’s five o’clock somewhere. When in France, do as the Frenchman with the expensive liqueur does.

“Let’s sit over here,” Gabriel says. “Le canapé… er, how do you say… the couch takes advantage of the view. I do think you will like it.”

He drapes my coat over the back of the sofa, sets my purse on top of it, and gestures for me to take a seat.

I don’t love his use of takes advantage. It reminds me of the night he took advantage of his wife’s absence and almost took advantage of me.

But this is different. This is his office. Ophelia should be back any minute with the copies and my phone. I realize I feel a little unarmed without the latter.

Rather than sitting, I stay at the window, admiring the Eiffel Tower in the golden late-afternoon light.

Gabriel stands beside me, a little too close.

I take a small step away, pretending to zoom in on something in the distance.

I rack my brain for a banal touristy question to ask him to keep things friendly, but before I can get the words out, he smooths a strand of hair off my face, trailing his fingers across my cheekbone.

I flinch, sloshing my drink. “What are you doing?”

“You are so beautiful, Hannah,” he says.

I step away to put some space between us. “And you are married, Gabriel. I thought I made myself clear. I’m not interested in married men.”

He laughs. “You American women do love to play the virtuous good girl, don’t you? Hannah, you don’t need to pretend with me. We both know we want this.”

He grabs the collar of my blouse and pulls me toward him. The fabric rips.

In the split second before his lips land on mine, I toss my drink in his face.

“Fuck!” He backhands my glass and it shatters on the marble floor. “You bitch. Why did you do that?”

He swipes at the cognac, wiping it off his face, out of his eyes. He blinks rapidly like I’ve blinded him and curses me with guttural French.

I don’t wait to see what happens next. I grab my coat and purse from the couch, leave the office, and speed-walk down the hallway in the direction of Ophelia. I grab my phone from her without explanation.

I was hoping the Metro ride home would give me time to collect myself. But after leaving Gabriel’s office, a storm moved in. As I wait for the train, bitter cold seeps into my bones and no matter how tightly I pull my coat around myself, I can’t stop shivering.

Back at the apartment, Marla takes one look at me and gasps.

“What happened to your blouse? It’s torn.”

The smell of simmering chili permeates the air. I feel sick to my stomach as I tell her what happened and brace myself for the onslaught of I told you so’s.

But they don’t come. Instead, she hugs me and tells me it’s not my fault.

“From now on,” she says, “we will not communicate with Gabriel Cerny. I don’t care if he is the only person on earth who can get this manuscript authenticated. If that smug son of a bitch so much as looks at you again, I swear a glass of liquor in the face is going to seem like a facial compared to what I’ll throw at him. In fact, I think we should go to the police.”

I shake my head.

“He assaulted you, Hannah.”

“It’s just a torn blouse. He didn’t hurt me—” A sob escapes my throat and I hate myself for being so weak—for so stupidly trusting him. I hate myself even more because I fear that if I do file a police report, the firm will drop us and come collecting with fury. If that happens, we will be forced to sell the apartment to settle.

If there’s a silver lining to all this, though, for the first time in my life I know without a doubt that my mother has my back.

I can’t say it’s worth being assaulted, but it’s worth something.

November 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

After the scene with Pierre and Andres last night, I barely slept a wink, hoping that Andres would come to my door and tell me all was well.

He did not show up.

After work today, I was ready to scour the city for him and throw myself at his mercy, because I now know I cannot bear to live without him.

However, when I entered the apartment after my shift, the first thing I saw was the six portraits Pierre had painted of me lined up along the wall.

I was utterly confused and more than a little frightened. I wanted to hide them before anyone else could see.

But the note on the table distracted me.

My love,

I purchased the paintings. They are my gift to you. If I have any say, you will never find yourself in the predicament of working for such an insufferable man again. Do I have a say, Ivy?

Love,

Andres

Twenty

January 11, 2019—7:00 p.m.

Paris, France

The day after the incident with Gabriel, I spoke to Monsieur Levesque and told him what had happened. I tossed and turned the night before, feeling sick to my stomach as I debated how much to reveal, but it finally hit me that I am not the guilty party. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

I told Levesque I would not take the matter to the authorities as long as he assured me