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Makingit even worse, she had a history of being dumped.Thefew boyfriends she’d had beforeKrishhad also ended things first.She’dnever been the one to walk away.
Whatwas wrong with her?
Thenagain, maybe there had always been a disconnect betweenKrishand her, and she’d just never noticed it because everything on the surface worked well.Forexample, their taste in hotels.Krishhad booked them a room at the infamousGeorgeV, notably the finest hotel inParis.
Jessnever would have chosen that place.Yesterday, pulling her shabbyTKMaxxsuitcase across the shiny marble floor, she’d walked alone into the opulent lobby, which was decked out in fresh flowers and smelled of expensive perfume.Toher right, aMiddleEasternfamily of four dressed in matching whiteGuccitrack suits were sitting on chairs as though awaiting their turn to compete in the wealth olympics.Whilethe mother and kids concentrated on their top-of-the-range iPhones, the father was forcefully explaining to one of the hotel employees exactly how and in which spot he would like hisLamborghiniparked.Hispatronising tone rubbedJessup the wrong way, having been on the receiving end of it from some parents at the private school where she worked.
Ifcoming toParisalone was her first spontaneous act, then turning around and leaving theHotelGeorgeVhad been her second.Thatplace and its people were not her vibe.Krishwas the one who liked expensive hotels and fancy restaurants; she had simpler tastes.Jesspulled out her phone, downloaded a flat rental app, and found a place that was more her style.
Andthis place definitely was her style.Itwas small, one room that contained the kitchen, dining area, and bedroom.Sheliked that.Toher, it felt like a warm hug.Thewalls were painteda deep red, and none of the furniture matched.Nota stick ofIkeain sight.Acrossfrom her bed, two tall wooden bookshelves were crammed with books whose spines were losing colour from baking in the sun.Amix ofFrenchandEnglishauthors existed side by side in no apparent order.Alibrarian’s worst nightmare.Shakespearelived next toColette.IsaacAsimovbesideJulesVerne.Shewas surprised to see a well-thumbedJillyCoopernovel on there.Jessloved a bit ofJilly.
Nextto the bookcases, a collection of random ceramic dishware lined shelves above the dining table built for two.Thingold lines crisscrossed the cups and bowls as though somebody had painstakingly reassembled them using metallic glue.Theeffect was delicately beautiful.Jessbit her lip, feeling a strange kinship with those broken dishes.Shehoped to find some golden glue on this trip to put herself back together again.
Stopbeing melodramatic, she thought and stood straighter.Shewas inParis.
Andshe was going to have a good time.
3
Steppingout of the building’s front door,Jessknew that she looked like aHollywoodstarlet.
Shehad packed for a proposal weekend, so she didn’t have a lot of casual clothes, although she had thought to bring jeans and trainers, just in case.
However, that wasn’t what she chose to wear today.Todayshe wore the outfit that she was supposed to get engaged in: a 1950’s style white dress patterned with big red flowers.Theupper half hugged her torso and made her boobs look fabulous, and the bottom half flared out in anA-line, like something out ofMadMen.Shepaired them with flat red sandals.Shewas already tall enough and didn’t find high heels comfortable at all.
TheAugustheat simmered in the air.Onlya few fluffy clouds meandered through the sky.Herstreet wasn’t in the main tourist throng ofMontmartre, nor was it a quiet backstreet.Coupleswandered past, tour books in hand, searching for theSacreCoeuror theWallofLove—both places she had wanted to visit withKrish.Afamiliar hollowness expanded in her chest.
No!Sheslammed her mental guard down against thinking aboutKrishand the trip she should be having.She’dbottle up her sadness forLondon.Shehadn’t even told her friends aboutthe break-up, so she wouldn’t receive pity texts throughout this trip.Therewould be time for beingPoorJesswhen she got home.Nowwas the time for exploration and new experiences.
Besides, a small part of her hoped thatKrishwould text to say it had all been a big mistake.Herlogical brain knew he wouldn’t; he’d made it pretty clear that, even though he lovedJess, he loved somebody else more.Buthope is a stupid thing.Itdoesn’t listen to logic.
Jessheaded up the hill towards thePlaceduTertre, the square where the artists hung out.Herstomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d treated it badly last night.Onthe way, she marvelled at the intentional beauty of everything around her: the quirky, colourful houses with lush greenery out front; the cobblestones laid in perfect fan shapes; the distinctiveParisianfont on the blue street signs; and the stylish, art deco lampposts.Frombelow her feet to the tippy top of the buildings she passed, the details had been carefully crafted.Ithad been somebody’s job to devise a remarkable lamppost.TheFrenchunderstood beauty at a microscopic level.
Shesmiled as the huff and puff of a distant accordion reached her ears.Eventhe air soundedFrench.
Enteringthe square, she ambled to the red awning ofLaMèreCatherine, the oldest restaurant in the vicinity according to her guidebook, and nabbed an outside table.Sheloved people watching.Andthere were plenty of them here; she estimated a three-to-one ratio of tourists versus locals trying to sell crap to tourists.Sheobserved the artists beseeching passers-by to sit for a portrait.Mostsaid no.Theones who said yes were perched on wonky stools, attempting to hold still while pencil lines appeared on the artist’s paper.Jesshad no desire to have her portrait drawn.She’dspent enough time asKrish’spersonal photography model over the past two years, and she was done with it.
Awaiter interrupted her reverie, andJessordered a healthy salad with an unhealthyCoca-Colato give her a sugar boost.Shedidn’t usually drink fizzy drinks, butCokewas a necessity after a binge like the one she’d had last night.
Hersalade niçoisewas exactly what she needed.Shepractically felt the vitamins rushing through her body to replenish what she’d lost.
Asshe paid for her lunch, a short, balding artist with thick black glasses caught her eye from his stand on the outer edge of the square and rushed over. ‘Mademoiselle,Imake a picture for you now,oui?’
‘No,’ she said with a kind tilt of her head. ‘Nottoday,merci.’Shewanted to explore, not sit in a chair for an hour.Shestood up and stepped around him.
Anotherartist wearing an actual beret came over. ‘Forgethim,mademoiselle.Heis—how you say?—a hack.Please,Icreate silhouette of you.’Ashis scissors started working at the black paper in his hands, she noticed that his eyes were trained on her breasts.
Thefirst artist said something sharp to the second one, and they began to argue.
Twoartists fighting over a model…this also seemed veryFrench—although it made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.Sheslipped away before things escalated, wondering if they would have been so bold ifKrishwere at her side.Shedismissed the thought of him again.
Headingtowards theSacreCoeur, the famous white basilica that towered overParis, she reached into her bag to find her sunglasses.Nowthat she was leaving the relative shade of the square and side streets, the mid-afternoon sun blazed in the sky, forcing her to squint.Jesspatted around inside her bag, but couldn’t locate the hard case.
Sheslapped her forehead as a picture of her sunglasses sitting on the table in her flat formed in her mind.Shecould just go on without them…but then she thought of her parents, who both had cataracts and had warned her repeatedly against the dangers of ocular sun exposure.
Jesssighed.Somerisks were just too big to take.Likethe good daughter she was, she spun around and walked back through the square and down the hill.Asshe approached her building, she noticed the gallery that formed the ground floor for the first time.Alarge framed photograph of theEiffelTowertaken from the sky dominated the display window.Jessstopped to admire the image’s beauty, the way the yellow paths in the park surrounding the tower looped like ticker tapes, permanently frozen in celebration.Ona whim, she decided to go in and look around.
Abell tinkled as she pushed the door open.Noshop assistant greeted her, but a gruff male voice called out something inFrench.Thesame voice repeated inEnglish: ‘We’reclosing soon.’Sheassumed said voice was coming from the storage room behind the empty back desk.Throughthe door, she saw shelves stacked with boxes of varying sizes, but no person.
