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

She keeps tap-tap-tapping away, her gaze pinned to her phone. “Sure, what is it?”

I refuse to speak until Marla stops whatever she’s doing on her phone. After the silence stretches on for a while, she looks up at me, blinking as if she missed something.

“I’m waiting for you,” I say. “Are you finished?”

“Of course.” She puts her phone down and sits up straight.

“Tallu called. She lost her job in London,” I say. “I’ve offered her a temporary job helping with the launch. If she likes working for Heart to Heart and living in Paris, I’ll keep her on to help you with bookings.”

Marla’s face brightens. “Does that mean I’ll be her boss?”

“No, if she stays on permanently, it will mean you’ll be working together to book the rest of the tours we need to schedule.”

Marla frowns. “I hope she realizes she can’t horn in on the groundwork I’ve already laid. I’ve worked hard to establish my territory.”

That’s exactly the competitive fire I was hoping to stoke.

“I’m sure T will understand that. I’ll let the two of you work it out, but I have to level with you. I need bookings. We’re ten days out and you haven’t shown me anything beyond the first two months of tours.”

“Fine,” she says curtly as she stands and gathers her purse. “I’ll get you numbers before I leave tomorrow. But right now, I have something else I need to take care of.”

SURPRISE, SURPRISE. NOT ONLY did Marla not make it down to Antibes and back in a day, like she thought she could do, but she’s been away three full days. She left on the twenty-fourth. It’s early evening of the twenty-sixth and she appears to have fallen off the grid.

She was a no-show for today’s Procope presentation where I introduced Heart to Heart and Les Années Folles tour to the manager, with the goal of securing a discount in exchange for making the brasserie a meal stop on the tour.

I managed without her, of course, just as I have my entire life.

It’s clear nothing has changed. Marla promises the moon and then does as she pleases. I have no idea what she’s up to. The only explanation she offered for the delay was a quick text yesterday saying the trip was taking longer than she expected. When I asked why, she texted that she would fill me in when she got home. Frankly, right now, I don’t have the time or energy to worry about her. I need to invest the best of myself in the business.

She did give me the numbers before she left. In total, we have almost three months of bookings locked down. But a lot of them came from the main Heart to Heart office, not Marla.

It’s good to know I have Tallulah up my sleeve. I can count on her. She’s arriving tomorrow. I can’t wait to see her. Right now, her phone is propped up on a pillow. We’re FaceTimeing as she packs for the trip.

“Did it feel weird not to go to work this week?” I ask.

“Nah, it’s a relief.”

“The good thing about this temporary position is if you fall in love with Paris and Heart to Heart, I can make your position permanent. The harder you work, the more you get paid. You’ll be doing me a favor by igniting Marla’s competitive streak. She was doing great for the first couple of weeks, but she’s been a bit scattered this week.”

“Hello, love. I miss you.” I hear Cressida’s voice in the background. She leans in so I can see her pretty face and then she picks up the phone. “I’m so jealous that T gets to see your new place. When can I come?”

“Anytime you want. As long as you don’t mind sleeping on an air mattress.”

Cressida claps her hands, which shakes the phone and gives me a view of T’s bedroom ceiling. “Yay! It will be like glamping. All I care about is seeing you and the sooner the better. I’ll figure out when I can come and let you know. Of course, if it would be better for you, I can stay in a hotel. Oh! And speaking of hotels, why on earth isn’t Marla staying with us while she’s in London?”

“What do you mean? She’s not in London. She’s in Antibes. She was supposed to get home yesterday, but she was delayed.”

Cressida looks confused. “Apparently she’s in London now. Or at least she was last night.”

A bad feeling settles over me. “What makes you think she’s there?”

Cressida wrinkles her brow. She and T exchange a look. “Maybe I read the picture caption wrong. Hold on, let me look.”

Cressida sets down T’s phone, returning it to its place on the pillow. I watch her look something up on her own cell. In the background, T moves in and out of the frame with stacks of folded clothing. A moment later Cressida holds her own phone up to T’s to show me the Daily Mail Celebrity’s Twitter page.

“Look at this photo,” Cressida says. “That’s our Marla having dinner last night with none other than sexy Martin Gaynor.”

“No. That’s impossible,” I say. “Let me pull up the page on my computer. Hold on.”

Sure enough, late last night, the tabloid tweeted a photo of Marla sitting at a table with the man I saw pulling out of the driveway that day we went by his house. Martin Gaynor. There was no mistaking that jet-black hair and long, pallid face.

The caption reads, “Spotted! Reclusive punk rocker Martin Gaynor dines with unnamed beauty tonight at a snug table at The Clove Club.”

I click on the photo and it takes me to additional pictures of the two leaning in, all cozy-like, at the table. Another shows them looking uncomfortable as they walk away from the restaurant. The final photo shows him holding a door open for her as she climbs into the same car he was driving when I saw him.

I double-check the date. It