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

Now we will never have that chance.

Some days, that’s all I can think about. It’s worse when I’m alone with my thoughts. Today it felt as if the walls were closing in. I had to get out of the apartment.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I found myself at Harry’s Bar. I was nursing a café au lait while I sketched, when I realized Zelda Fitzgerald was calling my name. She invited herself to join me, saying I looked as sad as she felt. I wasn’t in the mood for company, but she ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and the next thing I knew, she had pulled my sketchbook right out of my hands and began perusing my designs. I would’ve been offended, but by the time the waiter returned, Zelda had commissioned me to sew her a new wardrobe.

She confided that she was in such a funk, the only way she could lift her spirits was by indulging in her second-favorite pastime—beautiful clothes. I asked her why not her favorite?

She bemoaned that was no longer an option. The dance company for the Teatro di San Carlo in Naples, Italy, had invited her to dance with them, but Scott had forbidden her to accept the offer. He couldn’t bear to be away from her, yet he refused to follow her to Italy.

Zelda said ballet and pretty things were what kept her sane. Since her dream of being a ballerina had been ripped from her life, she needed something else to make her world beautiful. She decided the only thing that would heal her wounded soul was if I designed a collection just for her. She promised to pay me more than anyone had offered in the past.

In the meantime, she said, we would have to search for happiness at the bottom of the champagne bottle.

By the time we’d finished, we were sozzled. One moment we’d been toasting her new wardrobe, and the next minute, Zelda was a mess, crying into her hands, claiming that Scott had not only robbed her of the ballet, but he had also stolen her writing. She swore Scott had read her diaries and used her words in his books, passing her writing off as his own.

She said he was determined to drive her crazy.

I can’t get the image of Zelda’s mascara-stained face out of my mind.

The worst part is that I don’t know if I believe her. Perhaps I don’t want to because there are many parallels between Zelda and Scott and Andres and me. Andres the writer, me the diarist with stifled creative aspirations.

The difference is Andres is exceedingly supportive of my endeavors, and as for my intermittent diary scribblings… you know they are not witty enough for anyone to covet.

It’s difficult to believe Scott would do that to his wife, but it was just as difficult to see Zelda falling apart in front of me. She implored me not to tie myself to Andres in marriage so that nothing would prevent me from leaving him when I was ready.

I have no plans to leave Andres, despite Zelda’s warning. I didn’t tell her that, but I did ask if she was thinking of leaving Scott. She said no, that neither of them could survive this world without the other. It will be ’til death do them part.

Then she stood up from the table and pirouetted into a curtsy like a ballerina at curtain call. For a moment she acted as if she were basking in the praise of an adoring audience.

The waiter broke the spell when he asked her if everything was okay. She blinked at him and said it most certainly was not. We were out of champagne. She ordered another bottle and told him to send the bill to Scott. Then she sat down at the table and said to me, “If I can’t have ballet, I will always have champagne. Ivy, darling, let us drink a toast to the few little things we have left.”

Twenty-Three

January 23, 2019—4:00 p.m.

Paris, France

How many tour bookings do we have now?” I ask Marla when she walks into the office.

I’ve rented a small storefront on the boulevard Saint-Michel in the Latin Quarter. We could’ve found cheaper accommodations, but this one is right in the heart of a touristy area and it was available immediately. I figure the walk-in traffic will be worth the higher rent.

“I’m not sure,” she murmurs absently as she sits down at her desk and begins typing something on her phone. “I’ll check after I finish this.”

The inaugural tour leaves exactly ten days from today, and last I heard, Marla had booked two months’ worth of two-day tours. With all of the permitting in place, I’ve lined up two days’ worth of content, including stops at Gertrude Stein’s and Natalie Barney’s homes, browsing at Shakespeare and Company, a trek through the Tuileries, coffee at Café de Flore, and lunch at Les Deux Magots. One night we will enjoy Aiden’s moveable feast, and the other night we will have an early dinner at Auberge de Venise Montparnasse, which used to be Dingo American Bar, where Ivy and her friends spent so much of their time.

There is a host of other places that Ivy mentions in her diaries that I’d love to work in (she seems to have been a regular at Harry’s Bar), but we are almost overscheduled.

I will adopt the persona of Ivy Braithwaite as I present the tour. I’ve almost memorized my spiels. For someone who never wanted to be an actor, I’m having way too much fun pretending to be someone else.

“What are you doing?” I ask Marla. I’ve tried not to ride her too hard about her job. She did well booking the first eight weeks. But now I need her to pick up the pace and book out several more months. Her paycheck depends on her performance, so you’d think I