A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,25

the hotel’s suites rather than the Durand family home on the outskirts of the city so he could be at the centre of operations. If Silvie had made a reservation it definitely wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by Noel.

‘Is he staying long?’ Noel asked, his words clipped.

‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ He checked himself quickly. Noel was his closest confidante at the hotel, but was he a friend to be trusted? Ethan swallowed. Friends weren’t something he made very easily. And he didn’t want to blur the lines between employer and employee. ‘What I meant to say was… Madame Durand has invited him and he will be visiting the hotels, no doubt. I just want to make sure that we are ready.’

‘He will inspect everything,’ Noel said, sounding like his life essence was slowly draining out of him. ‘The last time he was here he checked for dust behind the picture frames. Behind them. As if there was going to be the contents of a vacuum cleaner on the wallpaper. What kind of individual does that?’

And now for the harder blow. Ethan looked directly at Noel. ‘He’s arriving this afternoon.’

Noel made a sound like someone who had caught their finger in the car door but had taken a vow of silence. It was high-pitched, slightly muted, but still sounded of the whole world’s pain and suffering.

‘I need something in place before he gets here,’ Ethan admitted. ‘Something great. Something that speaks of the luxurious brand Perfect Paris is meant to be.’

Noel had clicked on his pen and it was now hovering above his portfolio pad as if he was waiting for the starting pistol at the beginning of a race. ‘In all the hotels?’

‘Opera for today,’ Ethan decided. ‘Then we think about the others.’

‘That is why we are meeting at 8 a.m.,’ Noel deduced.

‘That is exactly why we are meeting at 8 a.m.’ Ethan sighed, his gaze going over Noel’s shoulder as he looked to the outside where this area was starting to wake up. Here on this street where the graffiti art was a new type of tour for a city usually obsessed with museums and relics, the vibrant street culture was a treat to behold. People were already stopping to take photos for Instagram, admiring the shop fronts that acted like canvasses and the planters decorated with mosaic tiles. One spray-can-painted effigy caught Ethan’s eye, evoking a memory from the past…

‘Noel,’ he said, a glint in his grey eyes. ‘Do you think, before this afternoon, you could procure a penguin?’

Ten

L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Tour Eiffel, Paris

‘Wow! I mean, W-O-W!’

Rach had scrambled out of the car first, before their driver – yes, they had a driver – could get out from behind the wheel to open the door for them. It was freezing and Keeley quickly did up the zip on her new, bright red, three-quarter-length padded coat her mum had insisted on buying her before she ‘ventured into the unknown’. Keeley thought it resembled a sleeping bag or perhaps a survival tent for those seeking shelter after an avalanche. Yes, Lizzie was still insisting this trip was somewhere between a hostage situation and an invitation to a cult, but at least the front door back in Kensington hadn’t been barricaded or reinforced with steel to prevent Keeley leaving at all. She had promised to text as soon as she arrived in Paris but, in front of this scene, she wasn’t going to start dipping her head to her phone screen right now.

‘Look at it, Keeley!’ Rach exclaimed. ‘Look. At. It.’

Keeley linked her arm through Rach’s as they admired the Parisian skyline laid out before them. It might be close-to-zero temperatures coupled with a keen wind, but there was a bright, crisp blue sky as a backdrop to this city’s – if not this country’s – most famous landmark. Paris life was going on around them, cars and mopeds zipped up the street, tooting horns, revving engines. Pedestrians, the inhabitants of Paris, rushed – coffees in hand – from A towards B. Tourists moved slower, focusing cameras at the impressive sight before them, taking their time and letting the French capital sink in…

‘The Eiffel Tower,’ Keeley breathed, her eyes drawn in and captivated by the iron structure that, she had read in a magazine on the Eurostar, had been standing strong since 1889. She swallowed. This icon was the first thing she had thought of when she had found out her donor had been French. Now, standing