A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,27

way it would make things worse. If she pushed the other then would it make things better? What happened if two people got trapped in a revolving door? Then, suddenly, before she could think about moving at all, a man appeared. Next, the revolution of the glass panels stopped immediately. In a flurry of manual pushing, Keeley watched as Rach’s hair was delicately released and her best friend stepped out into the foyer, conversing brightly and flicking around her blonde hair in a way that was not at all like someone who had potential scalp chafing. And Keeley was still in here. She pushed the glass and let it swing around until the welcome opening appeared.

‘I’m Rach, by the way, and this is Keeley.’

Keeley observed their door saviour. He was over six feet tall with neat, short, blonde hair and the build of someone who went to the gym or played sports – maybe basketball given his height. He was wearing smart black trousers and a cream-coloured thin-knit jumper.

‘Bonjour,’ Keeley greeted. Instantly, as the French word came out of her mouth she regretted it. She didn’t even know if this man was French and, if he was, all the French she had left to use were the other nineteen top phrases in that Eurostar magazine…

‘Bonjour,’ he answered. ‘Ça va?’

Keeley could feel her cheeks warming to being-able-to-cook-steak levels. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I… think so.’

The man smiled at her, a small laugh escaping his lips. But it didn’t sound like it was a laugh meant to embarrass her any more than she was already embarrassed. She had only been here minutes…

‘It was nice to meet you both,’ the man said, ducking a little like he was paying reverence in a bow.

‘Thank you,’ Rach said, smiling widely. ‘For being the prince to my Rapunzel.’ Keeley watched Rach boost up her hair and shake her shoulders a little.

‘À bientôt,’ the man replied, heading for the door.

He’d barely gone before Rach made a sound someone might make in the middle of a booty call.

‘What is it with this country? Sebastian was hot. Mystery-Hair-Hero is hot. Are all French men hot?’ Rach asked.

‘Excuse me!’

It was another male French voice that seemed to be directed at them and it was coming from the lips of a slim black man stood behind the reception desk. He was wearing a pristine dark suit with a red silk tie resting on a bright white shirt. He was beckoning them now, with all the finesse of someone experienced in semaphore.

‘Hello,’ Keeley greeted, walking over the marble tiles towards him. This area was all high sheen on the floor and antique decadence making up the rest of it. Parisian scenes in thick acrylics were framed in regal gold, the wallpaper was pale with small golden trees in its pattern and rich oak sideboards held the tourist information material. The reception desk was bare of everything except one highly polished chrome bell. ‘My name’s Keeley Andrews and we have a room booked. It’s possibly in the name of—’

Rach banged her fingers on the bell and giggled as it chimed. She hit it a second time.

‘Why are you pressing the bell?’ the receptionist asked very stiffly. He was actually looking at Rach like lasers were going to shoot out of his eyes and carve her down the middle.

‘It sounds nice,’ Rach replied with a smile. ‘Old-fashioned.’ She rang the bell again.

‘The bell,’ the man told them, ‘is to attract my attention.’

‘Thank you,’ Keeley answered. ‘Sorry.’

Rach rang the bell a fourth time.

‘What is your problem?’ the man exclaimed, looking as exasperated as he sounded. ‘At first you cannot manage to get in through the door and I have to stop the operation of it. Then you think it is amusing to ring my bell.’

Keeley looked at Rach. ‘We’re sorry and…’ She saw Rach’s fingers flex like she was going to chime the bell again, but before she could make a move to stop her, the receptionist had swept the bell off the desk and onto his workspace below. Gone and now completely out of reach.

‘The bell,’ he said again, seeming barely able to hold his temper, ‘is to attract my attention… when I am not here!’ The final part of the sentence was barked like an angry Royal Marine commander.

‘Alright… Antonie,’ Rach said, reading the man’s name badge on his jacket. ‘Take a chill pill. It’s nearly Christmas.’

‘It’s ANTOINE! Not Antonie!’

Keeley shifted a little, making sure she was in the man’s line of sight and