As she tucked her mascara back into her handbag, she tried to rationalise the events of last night. Yes, it was a bit embarrassing that she’d kissed her housemate. But they hadn’t slept together. She’d been far too drunk to consent, and Henri had recognised that.
He was a good guy (albeit one who thought she was a fellow student, not someone a decade older, working a job to make ends meet). And not one who should be lied to.
She had to come clean, tonight.
But at that moment she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of the train window – a ghostly apparition of someone who looked a bit like her, imposed over the grey of a concrete wall that lined this section of the track. If she told him she’d lied about herself, at the very least he’d probably be pissed off. No more nights out. No more company. Plus, he might tell the landlord. And if they found out she’d lied to get a room there, she could find herself homeless.
It took a few minutes to steady her breathing. But once she’d managed, she knew unequivocally that she had to keep up the façade. It was uncomfortable lying to people who’d offered her friendship, but she just had to get through to pay day and beyond and keep her head down until the house sale went through. How hard could that be?
* * *
The hotel was a ten-minute walk from the station. She’d mapped the route out online but cursed herself for not having made the journey in advance. Things seemed different in reality from on-screen: signs were hard to spot, tall, beautiful, similar-looking buildings sprawled down every back street. If she’d had time to stop and take it all in, she’d have enjoyed the historic architecture, the quaint cafés and antiques shops. But she was in a rush, and it all passed her in a blur.
Finally, she saw it. Nestling between two almost identical structures with a sign painted in italics on wood, only merely legible. The hotel was narrow but four storeys high, with large glass windows on the ground floor, slightly incongruous with the more traditional fixtures and fittings above: the wooden shutters, carved stone faces, high windows, and ornate iron railings whose black paint reflected the sunlight.
‘Come on, you can do it,’ she whispered to herself and stepped forward, pushing the door open.
Inside was a wooden reception desk inlaid with carved rectangles, behind which sat a young girl with blonde hair and a crisp white blouse. There was a door to the right in chequered glass that revealed a café or dining area, and a couple with a battered leather suitcase were standing inspecting a rack of leaflets detailing local attractions.
The girl looked up as Bella approached.
Taking yet another deep breath, Bella tried to smile. ‘Hi, I’m, um, Isabella,’ she said. ‘I believe Claudine is expecting me?’
She was directed to a line of chairs and took an awkward seat as the girl phoned up to find out where to direct her. ‘Yves is coming to find you,’ she told her eventually and Bella nodded, not entirely sure who this was.
A few minutes later, a small man in navy trousers and a white shirt stepped out and looked in her direction. He was young – probably only twenty or so – and looked nervous. ‘Madame,’ he said, reaching out his hand. ‘It is wonderful to finally meet you. I’m Yves. Claudine’s assistant.’
‘Oh yes! Good to meet you.’
‘Venez.’ He began to walk along the carpeted corridor and jog lightly up a set of stairs. Bella had to walk faster than was comfortable to keep up with him as they rose through the building, one narrow set of carpeted stairs at a time.
By the time they reached the fourth floor she was embarrassingly out of breath. Yves turned and looked at her, his features suddenly contorting into a look of concern. ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I hope you are not unwell?’
‘I’m fine,’ she managed to gasp.
Nodding, he continued to walk at the same relentless pace, but stopped short a few metres on to show her a white-painted wooden door with the word ‘Manager’ affixed on a bronze plaque. ‘This is yours,’ he said, turning and pushing it open so she could enter.
‘Mine?’
‘Yes. Claudine is just a little farther up the corridor.’
‘Oh.’ She stepped through to find a well-lit room with a white desk, a pencil pot containing a single pen and a white laptop. There was a wheeled chair tucked underneath and a small pot plant in one corner. Otherwise, the room was bare.
Now might be a good opportunity to find out what her actual role would be. ‘It says “Manager” on the plaque, but I thought—’ she began, yet before she could find the right word, the half-open door was shoved with enough force to propel it against the wall and a woman in a black suit, tightly cinched at the waist, sporting a blue silk top with a slanted neckline, appeared. The chain around her neck looked tough enough to restrain a Rottweiler.
‘Bonjour,’ the woman said, holding out an immaculately manicured hand almost level with Bella’s shoulder. ‘It’s good to meet you, Isabella. I’m Claudine. You’ll be working with me for most of the contract.’
Bella looked at the hand, not sure whether Claudine was attempting a handshake or some version of high five that she’d never experienced before, but by the time she raised her own, Claudine’s had dropped. Instead, Bella smiled. ‘It’s good to meet you too.’
Claudine’s expression remained stern. ‘I will let Yves get you acclimatised, then if you’d like to come to my office for a briefing?—?’
‘Of course.’
Claudine smiled, rather icily, and then strode back out importantly, pulling the door behind her. When she was gone, Yves relaxed visibly.
‘So now you have met Claudine,’ he said.
‘Yes. I have.’
