She needed to get out and get a job. Once she had money, she could start living.
She rifled through her tops and jeans, trying to find something that might impress the owner of a hair salon.
In the end she settled for a miniskirt because there was less of that to crease, a pair of boots and a strap top.
She twisted her hair into a messy knot on the back of her head and carefully applied her makeup.
Leaving the rest of her belongings piled on the bed, she grabbed her purse and her sunglasses and clomped her way down the stairs and into the Paris sunshine.
She didn’t want a virtual perfect life, she wanted an actual perfect life. And the only way she was ever going to get that was if she got off her butt and went looking for it.
Grace
Grace emerged from her taxi into bright Paris sunshine.
The Hotel Antoinette was a historic building dating back to 1750. Grace had chosen it carefully for its position, its views and its grandeur. Originally it had been a palace belonging to a member of the French aristocracy who had met a grisly end during the revolution. The building had been left to crumble until a large hotel group had taken over its renovation.
Close to the Tuileries Garden and the Louvre, it nestled near the banks of the Seine in newly restored splendor.
Perhaps she should be inspired that the building had survived a revolution and emerged looking so spectacular. Maybe there was hope for her.
The long flight left her feeling tired and dusty. She longed for a bath.
The receptionist was charming and checked her in swiftly.
“Twenty-five years of marriage, madame.” The girl flashed her a smile as she returned Grace’s passport. “Felicitations. Here at the Hotel Antoinette we are pleased to play a part in your special celebrations.”
She hadn’t thought to tell them she was coming alone. What business was it of theirs?
“As this is a special occasion, it is our pleasure to offer you an upgrade.” The girl handed over a glossy folder that included two credit card–shaped keys. “You are in the Tuileries Suite. You have also a balcony overlooking the gardens and the river. We have made a reser
vation for two for dinner in our restaurant.”
“Thank you, but my husband has been delayed and won’t arrive until tomorrow. Possibly later.”
Or never.
Why didn’t she just tell them the truth? That she was alone?
“I will amend your reservation for tonight,” the receptionist said, tapping a couple of keys on her computer, “and we will give you a table for one by the window. If you cannot look at your husband, you can look at the view. We wish you a wonderful, romantic stay.”
The one thing this wasn’t going to be was a wonderfully romantic stay.
What was she supposed to do? Dance with herself on the balcony? Dine with a mirror in her hand so she could stare into her own eyes?
On the other hand, she did have to eat so she might as well eat in the restaurant tonight.
It was marginally less challenging than finding a restaurant in Paris in her jet-lagged state.
She smiled her thanks, muttered something about Monsieur Porter attending to some urgent business—namely the needs of his lover—and sailed across the elegant marble foyer toward the elevator.
Her suite was on the top floor, the French-style windows opening onto a balcony that offered enviable views of Paris.
Grace stepped onto the balcony and felt the sun on her face.
Happy anniversary, David.
Had he remembered that she’d be arriving in Paris today?