My Hotel Peculiar
Today, Father told me a family secret.
The secret is very old and very special. That’s why I’m going to start keeping a journal.
I’m writing everything down, because I want to remember this time in my life. I’m writing in English, because it is good practice. Also, because everyone in my family must speak and write perfect English. We are French, but Father demands we master this second language. He says English can be useful.
I’m calling my journal “My Hotel Peculiar,” because a British woman called it that. She was from Wales, I think. They have a lot of castles there.
The woman meant to say Hôtel Particulier, but she said it wrong.
She wasn’t very smart.
When I asked Mother why she said it that way, she told me the lady was in her cups. I didn’t understand, so she told me it meant she had too much Champagne which made her silly and confused. As I wrote above, not very smart.
And Maison Marteau is a bad place to be if you’re not smart.
Many things have happened here, in my family home. Special things most people would never understand.
But this is another reason I want to keep a record of our story. My story. So, I’ll start over, from the beginning. The beginning for me, at least.
I’ll start with the party.
1
The mansion stands in darkness by the time we arrive. Pulling to the curb, the cab stops outside of a wrought-iron gate—tall, solid, and topped by sharp spikes. The kind intended not only to protect, but to intimidate.
White mist floats over cobblestone streets, the weather wet, chilly, and moody, despite the fact it’s early April. This time of year, I expected love-and-flowers-springtime Paris, not dark-and-gloomy-raindrops Paris. But I’m not in a position to be choosy, just grateful I have a place to stay. Somewhere quiet and private. Somewhere secret.
Because I’m here to disappear.
It’s only for a few weeks.That’s what my agent Lin assured me when she made the plans.The apartment is private, secure, and no one will look for you there. You can lie low until the drama dies down.
Not any kind of everyday drama, either, but the kind that taints anyone it touches.
Two days ago, I was living out my lifelong dream, having finally landed a major role in a movie of substance. After years of minor parts and character bits, I felt accomplished. Worthyof admiration. Gaining notice and respect from people in the business.
Now those same people are asking questions. Wary. Suspicious. And looking sideways at anyone involved with the project.
Closing my eyes, I fight off the nausea, the sick sense of ruin sitting heavy in my gut.
Only twenty-seven, and my career could be over.
At least I’ve got Lin on my side. As soon as the story broke, she flew into action. She used her Hollywood connections to find me a place to stay and handle my travel, then insisted I come to Paris.
All to protect me from what’s exploding back home—a nasty, finger-pointing, career-killing scandal.
And she doesn’t know the half of it.
“This is where you’re staying?” The cab driver’s words jar me. Beneath his accent, something sharpens his tone. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like concern.
He turns to me, his brow wrinkled, as if instead of a mansion, he’s brought me to the morgue.
“Maison Marteau?” I ask. Maybe I’m at the wrong address.
“Oui,” he says and frowns, gaze lingering on me a moment too long before sweeping back to the grand mansion. After a moment, his shoulders drop and he sighs. “Thirty-five euro.”
I have the fare and his tip ready, so I hand the money over.
