Four Nights in Paris, Part 1

Paris. If I hadn’t had the opportunity to visit earlier in my life, I might have been upset by my lack of time to explore. I was spending one week touring real estate so I could report back to my father which locations I felt would be the most profitable. In all honesty, it was nice to see parts of the city you seem oblivious to as a tourist. That, and my French lessons were being put to good use, even if I still felt a little inept. I felt less self-conscious around my associate, however, who could barely recall how to ask where the toilet was.

“Qu’est-ce que vous voudriez boire, Monsieur?” the petite bartender asked.

“Je voudrais du scotch, s’il vous plait.”

The woman pulled a glass from under the bar and poured the amber liquid. “Quel est votre numéro de chambre?”

“Le numéro 254.”

She walked to the other end of the dim bar and added the drink to my room tab. It was strange to be staying at a hotel not owned by my family. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done so; it was probably for one of Mother’s runway shows, and it had been a while since I’d attended one.

I turned from the bar, unsure if I wanted to sit at the wooden counter or slip into one of the Louis XV wing chairs until my watch struck a decent hour for bed. The space was somewhat narrow, with a row of lime green wing chairs. The bar, in contrast, had sliver and orange sherbet backed stools. Heavy, purple drapes framed the windows in the dim room, the dark hue contrasting with the cream colored swirls. There were a few people here and there: well-dressed, grandmotherly women in pastels; middle aged men in suits—some of them having removed their jackets; and the occasional young woman in a tasteful cocktail dress.

Sitting again at the bar, I took a sip of my drink.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” a young brunette asked, startling me momentarily. I hadn’t realized she had taken the stool next to mine.

“Oui—uh, yes, I speak English.”

“Oh, good,” she sighed, smiling brilliantly. “Would you order me a martini?”

The woman was pretty. Sun-kissed skin, golden brown hair, big eyes with long dark lashes, and high cheek bones. Her hair cascaded down her back, almost as fluid as water. She waited expectantly for me to order her drink, smiling kindly, the fingers of her left hand rubbing the charm on her necklace. I knew this play, even if I hadn’t experienced it in exploiting a language barrier. They were a dime a dozen in college towns. Dolled up girls waiting to ring up a tab on some guy who thought the night would end in luck when it more often ended with overdraft fees. The only difference here was she had the self-respect not to leave her breasts hanging out.

I didn’t want to buy her drink, but outright refusal seemed callous and rude. Signaling the bartender, I ordered the girl’s drink. After it was delivered, I asked her to close my tab and then walked to an empty wing chair in the corner of the bar to finish my scotch. Sinking into the seat, I slowly swirled the liquid in my glass, watching it wash up against the side.

“My name is Lani,” the woman from the bar said, taking the empty seat next to mine. She sat her drink on the low table between us and offered her hand to me.

I regarded her hand carefully, trying to determine if this was some ploy to weasel more drinks out of me. Some part insisted I was being ridiculous; this was Paris, after all. Who said all women had to be like the ones I’d met in college?

Shaking her hand, I said, “Matthew.”

There was that smile again, seductive and charming, as if practiced enough to seem effortless and natural. “Can I call you Matt? Matthew just sounds stuffy and you don’t strike me as the stuffy type.”

“That’s fine.”

She sipped her drink, watching me, though I pretended not to notice. I wanted to believe she was sincere and kind, but charming girls reminded me of Danielle, and those were not fond memories.

“So what brings you to Paris, Matt?” She leaned forward, resting on the arm of the chair.

“Work,” I said simply. She didn’t need to know my father and I were looking to open a hotels in Paris. While it might have made her intent more obvious, it could have also made her more difficult to disentangle. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be traveling with someone?”

She giggled, a noise that reminded me of small birds. “I don’t need to travel with anyone. I can take care of myself.” Lani flipped her hair over her bronzed shoulder. “I’m on vacation.”

“A vacation by yourself?”

Lani nodded. When I asked why, she simply said, “I’ll give as much information as you give me.”