Page 11 of Keep It

I turn a corner and wander down the street, the tip of the Eiffel Tower just visible over the top of the gray rooftops.

I finally pull my suitcase to a stop in front of the large burgundy door. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I pull up the text from Claudette.

Claudette:Pin is 7825 and the key is under the mat on the fourth floor, I might pop in in a few months.Bisousx

Shouldering my backpack, I tap the pin into the keypad and open the door to the small marble lobby. Raising my eyebrows at the grandeur, I squeeze into the cramped elevator at the end of the hall.

The elevator doesn’t have any numbers so I press what I hope is the fourth floor and wait for the rickety room to move. Disembarking, I wander down the short corridor until I find the first door with a doormat. None of the other doors offer one and I idly wonder if Claudette bought it just for the aesthetic of leaving a key underneath. Snatching the key from its hiding place I shoulder open the door.

Pulling it closed behind me, I take in what I instantly dub ‘Chez Claudette’. The small entrance hall is clean and suave with parquet flooring and paneled walls, to the right is a small kitchen with cream cupboards and a large window over the sink. The next room is a medium sized bathroom with a shower. Turning to the left, I head through the double saloon doors and into a large living room complete with two Juliet balconies and a plush cream couch.

Taking my coat off, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Pushing my hair out of my face I press call.

“What’s it like?” Mum asks as soon as she answers.

“Well,” I reply, flipping the camera, “I feel like I’m in Architectural Digest.”

Giving Sabine a quick tour interrupted with the occasional ‘Ooohh’ from her, I explore my new home away from home. Pulling back the light curtains I look out onto the street, already bustling with traffic and people.

“This feels like an Airbnb, does she even live here?” I ask, taking in the curated furniture.

“Oh, who knows,” Mum says. “Look in the wardrobes, what stuff does she have?”

I laugh, “I’m not going to snoop through her things,” I open the bedroom wardrobe. “There’s nothing here anyway. She must rent it out, surely.”

“Maybe she doesn’t even live in Paris and she just likes to rent out a random Airbnb and pretend that it is her home so she can show off for us.” Mum muses.

I laugh, “I mean she’s your sister so I guess it’s possible.”

“Very funny,” Mum chastises, “Have you got any food in?”

I collapse on the comfortable couch, my energy depleted. “No. I’ll head out now and see if I can get some stuff.”

“How was the train?” I immediately curse the fact that I video called as it’s impossible to hide the flicker of disdain that crosses my face. “What happened?” she asks knowingly.

“Nothing, I just had a rude man sitting next to me.” I rub my hand across the soft cushion under my arm.

“What! What did he do? Did you report him?” Sabine asks incredulously, already ready to fight.

“Calm down, he was just grumpy.” I don’t tell her that it turns out I will have to put up with him a lot more than just one train journey. “Look, I’m going to head out now, see if I can get some bread or something.”

“Okay, petit chou, text me later, “ Mum says, “and good luck for tomorrow.” With a blown kiss through the camera, I hang up the phone. Staring around the apartment that I’m maybe a little bit convinced is a rental, I text my Aunt thank you for the place and take a deep breath.

Surely, my job isn’t to babysit Danny Covington? Yes, I had signed the contract and NDA without really looking at it, but I was sure there wasn’t a job description on there, only the financial bottom line.

Scrolling through my emails I pull up the one from Devon with the job offer.

“Fuck.” I mutter.

Deciding not to think about it I check the time and decide it’s still early enough to explore. Divesting myself of my layers, I pull a brush through my hair and add a swipe of lipstick before swanning out the door.

I don’t really know what to do once I leave the apartment, wandering the streets until I find a supermarket that looks promising. I meander through the aisles, picking up a baguette, some cheese and a bottle of wine. I stop in the electrical aisle and quickly snatch a phone charger off the shelf. After I pay and place my items in my tote bag, my baguette peaking out the top, I feel positively local.

I don’t think about Danny Covington, or about the job I’m set to start tomorrow. I have my wine and my bread and a place to sleep. Tomorrow’s problems can be battled tomorrow.

I eventually wander towards the Eiffel Tower, its imposing silhouette my constant companion on my flaneur. The Trocadero is packed with people taking photos, buskers and floggers selling their wares and couples making out. Sidestepping them I veer left and find a small secret park tucked away from the bustle. Using my coat as a blanket, I plop on the grass and pull my bread out of my bag. I’m tempted to grab the wine and just down the whole bottle but decide against descending into alcoholism this soon into my failed career. No, not failed. Yet. Taking a big bite of my baguette, I settle into my spot. Even if the job is a disaster, at least I’m doing something. Life could be a lot worse.

I stay in my little slice of heaven with my bread until the sun goes down.

---