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

Three

December 31, 2018—7:30 p.m.

London, England

After the train pulls into Paddington station, it takes me another thirty minutes via bus and a short walk from the Camden station stop to get home. I find the flat lit up like the West End.

Even our red lacquered front door seems to glow. I’m putting my key into the lock when I hear laughter through the closed doors and windows.

Someone turns on music. It sounds like a party.

I sigh, crushed by the weight of obligatory socialization even before I enter the flat. I remind myself that it’s New Year’s Eve. Just because I’m worn out doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to tiptoe around me.

Plus, if Cressida and T have friends over, there’s a chance I can fly under the radar and sit out Jemma’s soirée after all. So bring on the pre-party. The more the merrier.

I let myself in, hang my coat in the hall closet, and toe out of my boots. That’s when I hear her voice over the music.

Oh my God, no. Please tell me she’s not here. She doesn’t even have my address.

Does she?

“Mom?” I say when I walk into the lounge. “What are you doing here?”

Someone turns down the music.

She jumps up and moves toward me with the agility of a much younger woman.

She’s wearing sunglasses. Huge tomato-red plastic frames that clash with her crimson lipstick and auburn hair. The gold quarter-size interlocking c’s on the sides of her glasses scream to the world that they’re Chanel, but there’s something slightly off about them. I’d wager they’re knockoffs.

But the spicy-fruity-floral tang of her trademark Coco perfume is 100 percent authentic. She’s worn it for years. It mixes with the aroma of the once-fresh Christmas tree that’s been languishing in the corner.

“Oh, Hannah! You have the nicest friends. After the cab dropped me off, Cressida and Taboola let me come in and they’ve been taking such good care of me.”

“Taboola? Mom, her name is Tallulah.”

My roommates erupt in fits of laughter. I’m seething.

You’re drunk. And you got my mother, the alcoholic, drunk. Or did she forget to tell you about that?

“Oh, sorry. My bad.” Marla laughs and dismisses the blunder with a wave of her hand. “They’ve been simply delightful. They opened a bottle of champagne, and we’re all getting in the spirit for tonight’s party. I am so happy that we’ll get to ring in the New Year together. I really think it’s the start of good things.”

Marla throws her arms around me, gives me a squeeze, and sets me free. She’s too thin, but she still manages to be larger-than-life. Her energy commands attention and draws people to her.

Her long hair falls in rope curls over her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing black leather pants and a sheer black nylon blouse that showcases the lacy black bra underneath. It’s just this side of indecent, yet she manages to pull it off.

She’s put her own touch on the ensemble with a statement necklace, dangling earrings, and several bangle bracelets on each arm. In true Marla fashion, when it comes to makeup, accessories, and fragrance, more is always… more.

I feel frumpy in my khaki cargo pants and red uniform polo shirt with the Heart to Heart logo of two interlocking hearts embroidered over my left breast. Usually, I love wearing a uniform because it takes all the guesswork out of packing for the six-day tours. The pants and shirts stay wrinkle-free. Since I walk an average of 125,000 steps during a tour, cute shoes are out of the question.

“Where’s Don?”

Don is Marla’s fiancé. I met him at Gram’s funeral. My gaze searches the lounge for evidence of him—a suitcase, a coat, all the air being sucked out of the room—but there’s nothing.

Marla’s mouth flattens into a line. She pushes her frames up onto the bridge of her nose with her index finger. “I left him, Hannah. I called off the wedding.”

She squares her shoulders, lifts her chin as if convincing herself that it was the right thing to do. But she’s not fooling me.

“I’m a single woman now.”

Marla hates to be alone, but I’d be flattering myself if I thought she’d run to me for comfort. Her usual MO is to have another man lined up before cutting the old Joe loose.

Which begs the question, why is she here? And why the hell couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? Or next year?

Before I can ask, Cressida fills the silence. “Hannah, you never told us your mother was so fun. And so lovely.”

Marla answers for me. “You’re sweet and your home is fabulous. You girls must be doing well for yourselves.” As she turns in a slow circle to take in the flat, I glance around the living room and try to see it through her eyes.

The sleek furniture, the expensive art, the Persian rugs on the parquet floors.

She’s right. It’s a great place. I totally lucked out when Cressida, whom I’d met at university, asked me to move into the empty bedroom when her former second roommate got promoted and moved to Dubai.

Under normal circumstances, I could never afford a place like this on my salary. None of us could. The townhome belongs to Cressida’s family and what I pay in rent basically covers my share of the utilities.

I swear if Marla does anything to jeopardize my living arrangement, I’ll never speak to her again.

Oh wait. We don’t really speak to begin with.

“They put my bags in your room. I hope that’s okay. It’ll be like a slumber party, Hannah.”

Marla smiles, but I know that behind those sunglasses, her eyes are daring me to throw her out.

“I wish I would’ve known that you were coming,” I say, pausing for an apology or an explanation, then filling the awkward silence when it doesn’t come.

“I guess you can stay with us tonight. Then we’ll find a nice hotel for the rest of your visit. I only have a full-sized bed, and you know I don’t