Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,60
said. I gestured to my windblown and wrinkled self. “I’m sorry—I’m a bit of a mess. My suitcase went missing, and my phone was in it. In fact, has the airport called to say they found my bag? I told them to call here.”
“Oh, non non.” Zoe clucked her tongue in sympathy. “They have not called, but I am sure they will.” She turned to the young woman working beside her and spoke rapidly in French. It was clear she was instructing her about the airport and my bag. Then she turned back to me and said, “Follow me, s’il vous plaît. We will get you settled.”
She opened a drawer and grabbed a key on a small chain, then she came around the counter and gestured for me to follow her. We walked—well, I walked and Zoe glided—back through the café and out onto the sidewalk. In her tailored capri pants and black leather flats with pale-blue forget-me-nots embroidered on the toes, Zoe cut a perfectly elegant figure, which by comparison made me feel even more schlumpy and gross, if that was even possible.
There was a bright-blue door on the side of the café. Zoe unlocked it, and it opened into a small vestibule with mailboxes. Stairs ran up one side of the foyer to a floor above. She gestured for me to follow her, and we climbed the steps until we were in a narrow hallway.
Zoe turned to me and said, “This floor used to be one very large apartment for a family, but I turned it into four small apartments. It was too difficult to rent the big one, but I always have travelers for the small ones. I hope you will be comfortable here.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d reached my destination or if the time change was catching up to me or what, but suddenly I was so tired, I was certain I could have bunked down on a windowsill and slept happily through the night.
Zoe passed the first apartment door and then stopped in front of apartment number two. She unlocked the door and then stepped back, allowing me to enter first. I stepped inside and caught my breath. It was lovely.
Directly across from the entrance was a set of French doors, which opened onto a narrow terrace that overlooked the street. A fireplace was on one side of the room, with a small couch in front of it and two armchairs. Tucked into the corner was a kitchenette with the smallest stove-top range and microwave I had ever seen. It was like being in a microhouse. A bathroom was off the kitchen, and it was equally compact, with room for a toilet, sink, and stand-up shower. They were wedged in so tight I was convinced I could use all three at one time. A wide wooden ladder was in the corner, and I glanced up to see that it led to a narrow loft where a bed, a small dresser, and a lamp filled the space.
The room was painted creamy white, as were the fireplace and mantel and the ornate crown molding that ran along the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. The furniture was done in shades of charcoal gray, accented by an apple-green pillow and a matching hand-knit afghan, which caught my eye and broke up the monotony of the gray. A white faux-fur rug and a glass coffee table completed the living area, and the only dining space I could see was the two barstools at the counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.
“You look fatigued, Mademoiselle Martin,” Zoe said. “May I send some food up from the café for you?”
“Thank you, that is so kind of you,” I said. “And please call me Chelsea.”
“And you must call me Zoe—everyone does,” she said. “There is shampoo, soap, and what do you say, um, brosse à dents?” She mimicked brushing her teeth. “In the toilette.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to go out that night and track down the basics, I might have wept. “That is very helpful.”
“So many people forget to pack them. I make sure we keep them in every apartment,” Zoe said with a shrug. “Make yourself at home.”
“Merci beaucoup.” I was so hungry there was quite literally nothing I wouldn’t eat right now, even the more exotic French foods, like