“The Toussaint fortune?” I splutter. “What are you telling me? Pierre is some sort of billionaire?”
Jean-Paul smiles. “I have no idea what his net worth is. It’s not something we discuss. We talk about more important things like the rugby.”
“Pierre plays rugby?” I’ve always been fascinated by rugby. Men in striped jerseys and shorts engaged in a full contact sport, which is similar in some ways to American football, but without the protective gear.
“He did when he was in college, but then he was injured.”
Rugby explains a lot. His confidence, which borders on cockiness at times. His slightly misshapen left ear. His broad shoulders. His muscular chest. His—
Whoa. I need to stop this train of thought. Get your mind out of the gutter, Mia. Remember who Pierre is—a rich, pretentious guy who likes to dole out favors so that you’ll bow down and worship him. He is not someone who you should fantasize about. Focus.
“So, Jean-Paul, tell me about Pierre’s injury. What happened?” There, that should be a safe topic. Injured guys are so unsexy.
Jean-Paul’s face clouds over. “That’s something you should probably ask him about.”
“Okay . . . well maybe you can answer this. If he’s so rich, why is he working as a bellboy? Shouldn’t he be wearing a suit and tie, sitting in some fancy boardroom, sipping on scotch and counting his money?”
“Pierre wants to learn all aspects of the hotel business. It’s important to him to have hands-on experience. Earlier this year, he worked as a receptionist at the front desk. Before that, he was a dishwasher in the kitchen. After his rotation as a bellboy, he’s going to work for me as an assistant concierge.”
“Won’t that be strange—you being the boss of the, well, the, um, boss?”
“Pierre has a . . . what do you call it . . . he has an egalitarian spirit. He thinks everyone is equal.”
I guess I can see how people might think that. Pierre was joking around with the bellboys earlier, and the woman from the front desk spoke to him informally, telling him to hurry up. But at the end of the day, the boss is the boss.
“And don’t forget. I’ve known Pierre since he was a baby. I’ve even changed his diapers. He knows who’s boss.”
Jean-Paul chuckles. It’s infectious—a mixture of Santa Claus-style ho-ho-hos and Mr. Rogers’ more sedate laughter. I find myself joining in, my grin turning to full-fledged belly laughs as I picture Pierre in a baby-sized rugby jersey and diapers.
When I catch my breath, I ask about Pierre’s stint as a waiter. “Does his family own the cruise ship?”
“No, they are strictly hoteliers. The cruise ship line is owned by friends of the family. Rather than work at one of the hotel restaurants, Pierre thought it would be a good idea to get experience as a waiter elsewhere because . . .” Jean-Paul’s voice trails off. He gives me a penetrating gaze, then stares at the floor. “Perhaps you should ask—”
“Ask Pierre? Got it.”
Jean-Paul looks back up at me. “We’re all delighted that he’s back now. He seems so happy since he returned. I think you have something to do with that.”
“Me?”
He grins. “Yes, you. In fact, I haven’t seen him this happy since he came back from Africa.”
I shake my head. “Africa?”
“Hasn’t he told you about his time in Africa?”
“No,” I say slowly. Now that I think about it, Pierre hasn’t told me much about himself. All we seem to talk about is Star Wars, croissants, and tattoos. “What was he doing in Africa?”
Not surprisingly, Jean-Paul gives me an evasive answer.
“Never mind,” I say. “I get it. It’s something I should ask Pierre about.”
“That would be best,” the older man says. “Now, why don’t I show you to your room? You can freshen up before you meet Amélie.”
As Jean-Paul leads the way to the elevator, I ponder our conversation. In a short space of time, I’ve discovered there’s a lot I didn’t know about Pierre. He’s loaded. He has a mysterious injury. He’s spent time in Africa. And, for some reason, he didn’t want to work as a waiter at one of his family’s hotels.
What other secrets is he hiding from me?
Jean-Paul inserts the key card and opens the door to my new accommodations. After he carries my suitcase in for me, I walk into the room, my feet sinking into the plush oriental carpet.
As I set my Star Wars backpack on a carved wooden console table, I check out my surroundings. Oddly, there’s no bed. Just living room furniture. But this isn’t the kind of furniture you’d find in your average American’s home. No, there is some seriously fancy stuff going on here. A large bay window is flanked by a Louis the Sixteenth settee and armchairs . . . or is that Louis the Fifteenth? Why all these old rich dudes all had to have the same name is beyond me. Anyway, the point is that this is the type of stuff royalty would sit primly on while sipping sherry or whatever it is that people drank back then, not a sectional couch from Ikea that a dude named Lou would lounge on in his boxer shorts munching on a bag of potato chips.
What really perplexes me is figuring out where I’m supposed to sleep. I’m pretty sure the settee isn’t hiding a foldaway bed inside its silk, toile upholstery fabric. I turn to ask Jean-Paul about it, but he’s disappeared. I peek behind the heavy brocade curtains, but he’s not hiding there. He isn’t on the balcony either, or behind the potted plants.
Okay, I really doubt that a distinguished-looking Parisian concierge is playing hide and seek, but it does give me a good opportunity to have a nosy.
As I’m looking in the closet, I hear someone clear their throat. Jean-Paul is standing in a doorway that I assume leads to the bathroom.
“Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” I say.
“If you’ll let me know which bedroom you prefer, I’ll place your suitcase in there.”
“Which bedroom? You mean there’s more than one?”
“Yes,” Jean-Paul says nonchalantly. “They’re back this way, across from the kitchen and dining room.”
I rub my temples. “Kitchen, dining room, bedrooms . . . this isn’t a simple hotel room, is it?”
“Well, this is a bit simpler than some of our suites. It doesn’t have a humidor or sauna.”
“Considering I don’t smoke cigars or like to sweat, I think I can live with that.”
Jean-Paul smiles kindly at me, and I instantly regret my sarcastic tone.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that this is really overwhelming. When Pierre offered me the spare hotel room to stay in temporarily, I envisioned a converted broom closet.”
“You’re probably tired from your trip. You took the overnight train from Italy, right? Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll arrange for you to meet Amélie later.” Jean-Paul looks at his watch. “Shall we say two hours from now?”
A nap does sound good. I pick the bedroom that’s decorated in subdued blue tones. The only pop of color is a large oil painting of a marmot hanging above the fireplace. It makes me smile. A painting of a marmot wearing a Scottish kilt and tam isn’t exactly something you expect to find in a fancy hotel suite. But that’s what this place is known for—its quirky touches.
I lie down on the four-poster bed and exhale slowly. What am I going to do? I can’t in good conscience stay here. Rolling over on my side, I press my face into the soft down pillow. Again, not the type of pillow you’d buy at Ikea. This thing is probably stuffed with phoenix feathers. And, yes, I know that phoenixes are mythical creatures. But, if you’re wealthy, you can probably employ a team of geneticists to create your very own phoenix in a lab, just so you can pluck its feathers for your pillows.
The phoenix pillows do their job, and I feel myself drifting off to sleep. An hour later, the alarm on my phone jolts me awake. There’s nothing worse than waking up abruptly when you’re having a weird dream. And a dream of Pierre playing rugby while dressed in a marmot costume is pretty weird.
While I take a bath—complete with begonia-scented bubbles and rubber duckies—I consider my options. Stay at the hotel and take the art gallery job or move into the boarded-up, rat-infested apartment and try to find another paying gig.
After toweling off and getting dressed, I make up my mind. Rats and unemployment it is.
“Why do you have your suitcase?” Jean-Paul asks when I walk up to the concierge desk.
Before I can answer, a middle-aged man wearing a business suit steps in front of me and brusquely asks Jean-Paul to organize a skydiving excursion near Paris. I feel a shudder course through my body. I’ve had to fly a few times when car, train, or bus travel wasn’t an option, but it’s always involved a panic attack that not even a giant-size Toblerone chocolate bar can cure. Voluntarily getting into a plane, then choosing to jump out of it? Wow, talk about insane.
Jean-Paul asks one of the other concierges to escort me to the art gallery while he assists the businessman with his high altitude death wish.
The Galérie d’Art Animalier is located on the ground floor of the hotel. When the concierge leads me through an entrance off of the lobby, I immediately understand why the gallery has the name it does. Everywhere I look are paintings, photographs, and sculptures of various animals. The styles range from serious to whimsical. Something for every animal lover, regardless of their stylistic preferences.
I spot a woman lightly running a feather duster over a picture frame. Everything about her screams elegance. Her makeup is flawless, her silver hair is pulled back in a classic chignon, and her tailored suit looks like it came from a chic boutique. When she sees us, she sets the duster down, then gracefully walks over to us.
After the concierge makes the introductions, Amélie kisses me on each cheek. “Enchantée.”
I try to dredge up the correct response from my high school French days. “Ç’est un plaisir faire votre connaissance.”
She waves a perfectly manicured finger at me playfully. “No French, please. I need to practice English. That is one of the reasons I hired you. I would like to improve my English.”
“Uh, about that. I don’t think I can take the job.”
She presses her hand to her chest. “What? No, I am counting on you. Madame Vernier is counting on you. All the ladies are counting on you. Not to mention the dogs. The dogs are counting on you.”
I press my fingers underneath my eyes. “Who exactly are all these people and canines, and why are they counting on me?”
“Didn’t Pierre tell you?” When I shake my head, she shrugs. “Ah, perhaps he wanted to surprise you.”
“Yes, he’s full of surprises,” I mutter.
Amélie places her hand on my arm. “I knew you would be perfect for this job when I read your articles on Art Girl Moderne.”
I’m stunned. Art Girl Moderne is an obscure webzine run by a friend of mine. Its readership is small. I mean, really small. You could fit all of them on a sectional couch from Ikea and still have room for Lou and his bag of potato chips. How the manager of a chic art gallery in Paris stumbled across it is beyond me.
“Your take on Rembrandt’s brush strokes was . . . what is the word I am looking for?”
“Boring?”
“Non, not boring.” She smiles at me. “I could tell from the minute I make your conaissance that you could never be boring. It was insightful. That is the word—insightful.”
Considering I’ve never been called insightful in my life, I’m still pretty sure that the word she meant was “boring.”
“I received your paperwork and a copy of your work visa and everything is in order. Normally, we pay employee salaries in arrears. But, you probably have many expenses settling into a new city.” Amélie hands me a pad of paper and a fountain pen. “Write down your account details and I will arrange for an advance to be transferred to your account.”
And just like that, I’ve been bulldozed into accepting the job in the most charming French way.
“Mia, Mia, are you there? I can’t see you.”
Celeste is on the other end of the phone, trying out her new video chat app, while I’m walking along the Seine River back to my rat-infested apartment. It’s a long walk, especially with luggage in tow, but taking a taxi is out of the question. Even though Amélie is going to give me an advance on my salary, things are still tight financially.
“Turn the phone around. Good, there you go. Now I can see your face. Can you see mine?”
“I can. Don’t you look pretty, dear. Paris must be agreeing with you.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve been here less than twelve hours and my life is a mess.” I slump down on a bench, being careful to avoid stepping in a pile of dog poop. It reminds me of the guys Ginny was stuck next to on the train from Rome to Bologna. Their overpowering body spray smelled like a cross between dog poop and bubblegum. Not a winning combination.
“A mess?” A crease forms on Celeste’s brow. “What happened?”
I shake my head. “Oh, never mind. I’m fine, really.”
“Fine is what donkeys are after they’ve had a carrot. You, young lady, are not fine.”
“Donkeys? Carrots?”
“Haven’t you ever fed a donkey a carrot?”
I chuckle. “Not that I can remember. Do guinea pigs count?”
“No, dear. Donkeys and guinea pigs are completely different when it comes to carrots.”
“They are?”
“Trust me on this one. Anyway, let’s get back to what’s wrong.”
My feet are aching and I could use a break, so I settle back against the bench and fill her in on everything that’s happened with Pierre, from the bouquet of croissants he presented me with to discovering he has a secret life.
“You know what George Burns said about love, don’t you?”
“Who’s George Burns?”
Celeste blinks her eyes rapidly. “Did you just ask who George Burns is? He was only the funniest man in show biz. Sexy too.”
“I think you mean Bruce Willis. The perfect combination of deadpan delivery and a receding hairline.”
“Bruce who?”
“You know, Die Hard.”
“Die hard? Why would I want to do that? I’d rather die soft. Like a Tootsie Roll.”
I shake my head. “I think we’re talking about two different things.”
“I was talking about love.”
“I thought you were talking about George Burns?”
“I was. Anyway, he said that love is like a toothache. It doesn’t show up on x-rays, but you know it’s there.”
“My teeth feel fine.”
“But your heart doesn’t. You’ve grown attached to Pierre. It always hurts when we find out someone isn’t who we thought they were. That’s what happened to me with . . . never mind.”
“Hurt seems a stretch,” I say. “He’s just a guy.”
“He’s more than that.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it. I thought he was my friend. But friends don’t deceive each other like that.”
“Did he tell you he was poor?”
“Well, no, not exactly in so many words.”
“So how did he deceive you?”
“By not being . . . well, who I thought he was.”
“How is he different now that you know he has money?”
“He’s a stuck-up snob.”
“He’s the same person, dear. It’s just your perception of him that’s changed. Love is about seeing who someone is, despite their outer trappings.”
“I’m not in love with him,” I scoff. “I’m . . .”
“You’re what?”
“I was attracted to him, okay? But that’s it. Insta-attraction, but not insta-love. Fortunately, there are a million cute guys in Paris.” I scan the area, then turn the phone so that Celeste can see. “Like that one there.”
“You mean the mime, dear?”
“No, not him. The man next to him. The one putting something in the trash can.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think he’s throwing something out. He’s going through the garbage. Poor soul, I think he’s homeless.”
The guy I had been talking about has already walked away, but Celeste is right. There’s another man standing by the trash can. I take a closer look and frown. “Oh, I think you’re right. He looks like he sleeps on the street. I might end up sleeping on the street too if my apartment doesn’t work out.”
“But you’re not homeless, dear. You have a lovely hotel suite to stay in while you get your feet on the ground. If I can offer some words of wisdom, you’ve been fortunate enough to have been given some unexpected blessings. Don’t let your pride get in the way. Take the job. Take the offer of temporary housing. Then prove everyone wrong. That’s something you like doing, right? Proving people wrong?”
After a few more minutes of motherly advice, Celeste hangs up. I’ve decided she’s half-right. I’ll keep the job at the art gallery, but staying at the hotel is a step too far.
I scrounge in my backpack to see if I have any loose change. My feet are killing me and I still have a long walk to my apartment. To my surprise, I find a twenty-euro note tucked in a zippered compartment. I have no idea how it got there, but I don’t care. It’s my lucky day. I can afford a subway ticket and dinner.
As I head toward the Pont Neuf Métro station, I think about my recent spate of good luck. I look down at the money in my hand, then tap the homeless man on the shoulder and hand it to him. Time to pass some of that good luck along. A little more walking won’t hurt me.
After what seems like an eternity, I finally arrive at my apartment building. There have been some changes since I was here earlier. Instead of waiting for me inside, the rats are sitting on the stoop like some sort of welcoming committee. I think the price of entry is a croissant. The smell of the garbage has a more nuanced quality to it. “Nuanced” being a polite way of staying that the stench is unbearable. And there’s a new front door.
I distract the rats with a roll of breath mints, then try to open the door. But it won’t budge. Probably because it’s not so much a door as it is a piece of plywood firmly nailed in place. And this time, I don’t have Pierre to help me pry it off.
After breaking a fingernail, I notice a sign affixed to the side of the building. My heart sinks when I read it—bâtiment condamné.
Swell. The building is condemned, the rats have devoured the breath mints that I was going to have for dinner, and my feet are killing me. But what’s even worse is that I’m going to have to swallow my pride and accept Pierre’s offer to stay at the hotel.