The Last Dress from Paris(62)
“Yes, the arrangements are all ready,” confirms Veronique. “I have the Eurostar tickets and all the paperwork. You just need to remember your passport and all those dresses. Leave nothing behind!”
* * *
? ? ?
I exit the lift into the hotel lobby and head for the reception desk. I may as well take a look at my room bill now and get one horrendous job out of the way. The flawless creature behind the desk prints it out for me, and I am presented with confirmation of every itemized luxury I have enjoyed since I arrived seven days ago. Four hundred euros of laundry charges! I never did get around to buying that something chic Mum told me to. And did I really eat seven croque monsieurs in that time? Apparently so.
As I scan down the list of items, I see that a payment has been made. The night Veronique, Leon, and I sat cross-legged on the floor of my suite, drank all that wine, and ate the best burgers in Paris has a card payment registered beneath it. It was covered by a Mr. Manivet.
Leon.
He must have paid the bill on his way out that night. Wow. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to skip through reception without giving the cost a second thought. But he didn’t. He didn’t just do the decent thing, he did the totally unexpected thing, and I just love him for it. The comparison is cruel, but Billy never bought me dinner. I honestly can’t remember it happening.
I’m pretending to still be examining my bill, panic-thinking about my payment options. To make matters worse, an older man in a sharp suit has appeared, whispering to his immaculate colleague while checking my details on the computer screen. Clearly, obviously, they don’t think I can pay this bill. They’re right. I could ask Mum to cover it, but I know she’ll use it as leverage to extract a favor (or ten) before I can pay her back. Or, I can hope my credit card, which I only ever use in extreme emergencies, won’t be declined. It has to be that. I hand it over and watch as it sits on the counter, ignored.
“There is nothing to pay, mademoiselle,” offers the man in the suit, who looks a lot less intimidating now that he’s smiling.
My first thought is to thank him and run before they realize their mistake, but my damned conscience has other ideas.
“The first two nights are covered, I know, but the rest I do need to settle.” I can’t have Granny being charged for all this. Frankly, I wouldn’t want her to even see these laundry charges.
“No, no. Everything is covered. Apologies, mademoiselle, we assumed you had been told. We have a very small number of lifetime VIPs associated with the hotel, and your reservation was made by one of them. Therefore, no charge!” He says it with a triumphant flourish of his fingers. When I don’t move, because I am waiting for the penny to drop and him to realize it must be the guest in the room next to mine they’re thinking of, he adds, “I can assure you, mademoiselle, senior management checks these details very carefully. It is decided at their total discretion. There is no mistake. The reservation was made by your grandmother, correct? She must have been a great supporter of the hotel.”
“Yes, but . . .” I glance over my shoulder and scan around the lobby. Leon’s sitting, looking completely at home, sipping a cappuccino and getting stuck into more of those posh financiers he introduced me to. Something else I’m going to miss about Paris. I don’t want to keep him waiting, but this isn’t right. How long will I have to stand here before they understand that? The queue behind me is not small, so I insist they take my credit card details—for when the blunder becomes apparent, as it surely will—and head Leon’s way.
“I saved you one,” he offers as I approach his table.
“I’m honored.” I reject the chair opposite and take a seat next to him, and I can’t help it, it’s corny as all hell, but I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Am I buying you dinner?” He looks elated at the thought that he might be.
“Not tonight.” And possibly not any other night, I realize with a sad sigh. “The burgers and wine from Tuesday? I just checked my bill and saw you covered it. That was incredibly generous, thank you.”
He bats the words away with the back of his hand. “It’s nothing, don’t even mention it. So, now what? What does the day hold?”
“Mostly me packing. I’m going home tomorrow.” I’m genuinely sad to be leaving him—but there are things I need to face, and I try to focus on that. And how I probably wouldn’t be facing any of them if Granny hadn’t sent me here in the first place. “But your text said there was something you needed to tell me?”
His face dips, and I’m suddenly wishing I hadn’t reminded him.
“Oh, yes.” This is not going to be good, I can feel it. I consider telling him not to bother, whatever it is can stay a secret, I might rather not know. But I’m too late.
“The other day, you asked me if I have a girlfriend—and I should have been honest with you.”
Oh no, please don’t let this end the predictable way I fear it might now. Don’t let this be my postscript from Paris. It will ruin everything. I know we’ve only kissed, once, and we’re not about to skip up the aisle together, but there has been a closeness we’ve both felt. I can’t bear to think he was holding my hand in the back of a taxi and then frantically texting another woman explaining why he would be late. Not Leon, please.