Lost in Hotels (9 page)

The following morning is a remarkably bleak winter day in Paris; cold winds blow in from the North Sea, and anything taller than a five-story building gets lost in a pewter-colored cloud. Morning coffee at the Ritz isn’t quite the same as a fix at a local Starbucks. I linger in my own fog doing a quick read on my interview subject, a well-known host of an American reality competition. She got her start in London at nineteen when she was a Page 3 girl, those scantily clad models in
The Sun
, who inevitably mutate into B-list TV stars. Some, like my interviewee, catch on in the US where some unattractive agent or producer lures them to LA for a Hollywood dream that ends up on some cable TV network like hers, and she ends up in a magazine like mine.

The weather is so bad the doorman at the Ritz offers me a complimentary lift just the few blocks to the Park Hyatt. I snuggle into the back of an extravagantly large Mercedes sedan not even long enough to warm the black leather seats. My reflection in the window seems unfamiliar; a woman I try not to judge so far from home and in a place she should not be. We pass up the Rue del la Paix, past stores like Bulgari and Van Cleef. There, after only a few short blocks, a Park Hyatt attendant opens my door, and I stand before the demure marquee. I see the hotel’s manicured potted shrubs and fleet of black sedans that line the sidewalk. The hotel isn’t as grand as I imagined, despite its quaff Haussmann facade that’s gotten the American once-over, a mix of Ralph Lauren and sterile Italian modern design.

The bar is busier than I expect on a Saturday morning, an assortment of men in black suits and a handful of thoroughly Parisian-looking women with colorful scarves and all-season black skirts over dark leggings occupy my booth and force me to move to the opposite end of the bar. The phone call to my husband and Billy last night left me less remorseful of this trip than I had anticipated, both of them jovial as ever on their movie night with not a bit of curiosity or jealousy regarding me or Paris or me in Paris.

Something about a chain hotel like the Park Hyatt homogenizes travel, making you feel like you’re in a soulless convention center or in an arcade of a cruise ship that could be anywhere. Even the staff is plucked from international hotel schools. Their almost rigid service is heavy on formality, as the twenty-something waitress with her pulled-back blonde hair rushes over with pad in hand. Her accent says Eastern European and a secondary accent that says Swiss or British or German.

Before I have time to order, there she is on point—my elusive interviewee—one of the first ever to arrive exactly on time. She is dressed in some very LA fashion sneakers, likely from Louis Vuitton or Prada, and a smart black trench coat that’s likely concealing a pair of Free City sweats or black leggings under her latest rugby boyfriend’s sweatshirt.

She makes her way to my table, a studious model, I must admit, who can quickly figure out a room.

“You must be Catherine?” she trumpets from a few tables away as the empty bar echoes her vocal vibrato.

“And you must be the very punctual Kelly?”

“Indeed, and thank you so much for making the trip. I know it’s not an easy commute from New York.”

“But who in their right mind is going to complain about a weekend in Paris, right?” I respond in a refreshing pace of conversation I wasn’t expecting.

“May I sit here?” She tosses her coat on a chair opposite me and plunges on my banquette inches away.

“Do you mind if I tape this?” I ask. “I know some people are weird about that, but it really does keep the story accurate, and I can forward you a digital copy to ensure what you say is written as you said it.”

“Certainly, go right ahead.”

She settles back without readjusting her hair or the elongated arms of her sweatshirt with its ripped collar and skeleton logo on the arm. She’s wearing no makeup despite her thirty-something age, her flawless face glazed in a matte effervescence as singular strands of chocolate locks kissed in crimson explore her temples.

“How is LA treating you?” I ease into the conversation.

In all honesty, I record my interviews because I have a habit of drifting off when it comes to such questions. When it comes to women’s magazines, it’s trivialities like what she looks like when she walks in and the type of coffee she orders that people really want to know.

“I must admit, I’ve really been enjoying my time in LA. It’s so refreshing to wake up every day and have the sun shining and be able to take a hike or hit the beach for a jog.”

The English are always talking about the weather and the ability to exercise outdoors in reference to life in America. Rarely do you hear that they love the people or have made the best of friends.

“And I’ve been able to finally get a dog, which I’ve wanted all my life but have never been able to because London life is just so much more of an effort than LA is.”

This part of the interview, which either we stay with the pleasantries and I simply later add preexisting quotes to the story regarding her love life and failed marriage with a photo timeline of previous relationships, or I redirect my more intrusive questions with the disclaimer, “My editor would fire me if I didn’t ask.”

As she explains how she adopted a dog from a rescue group that she discovered near her favorite LA coffee shop, I see a face of scruff and a perfectly groomed head of wavy black hair. My eyes are transfixed, my palms start to sweat (which they never do), and this woman talking about dogs and the coffee shop evaporates from my consciousness.

There is David. David Summers. A man so perfect and yet so unknown I cannot get him out of my mind or stop thinking that he was somehow meant to pass through my life.

As he stands at the edge of the bar, I want to burst from my seat, run up to him and into his arms as if my next breath depends on it. I want the skin of my cheek to rest upon the lapel of his navy blazer as his scent envelops me into love’s blinding haze once more. The reality of him exceeds even my fantasy, like a full-color image that before was just a partial etching in my mind.

He’s taller than I remember, hovering over the bar with his elbows propping his upper body on the counter as he summons the waitress’s attention faster than most with his frosty arctic eyes and Roman face. I contort my head to face Kelly as not to call attention to us, but then I return to my original position. I do not want to miss a single movement. I wonder if he’s speaking French. Is he staying in his room alone? Would he even remember me, or know I risked everything in my life to travel around the world to see him just one more time?

“I’m not even certain if we have dog mills in the UK.”

I jolt back into my interview to realize the conversation has digressed into one entirely about dogs. Then I change the subject. “What do you think is the difference between American women and British women?”

There is a long pause.

“I mean, in terms of the balance between working and family?” I elaborate.

Kelly’s eyes draw a blank stare as if her pupils were tied to the answers at the back of her impossibly beautiful head. Her gaze abruptly shifts to parallel my own across the room as that familiar, godly face crosses this dismal anywhere-lounge and looms closer in our direction. I look away as if not to stare too long into the direct sun. As my stomach sinks, I am fear-stricken and equally eager, and I wait to hear those perfectly set lips utter my name once more.

“David Summers … is that you?” Kelly erupts in a cackle.

She jumps from the table to embrace him in a hug that forces him to take a step back despite his powerful stance.

“I cannot,” she says in that utterly London two-syllable-ness, “believe you’re in Paris.”

David stands directly above her grabbing her hips at an angle that accentuates their difference in size.

“My love, I haven’t seen you in ages. You look amazing.” His eyes turn to me for agreement only to recognize yet another face.

I remain seated with a courteous smile. I extend my hand as if to notice no more than a stranger would in an unfamiliar city interrupting the flow of my work.

“Indeed,” I reply. “I’m Catherine.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course, I know you. No fucking way! I can’t believe it.” David pulls away from Kelly and moves to my edge of the table.

“Do you know who this is?” he says, looking at Kelly and pointing to me.

“Actually, she was just asking me the difference between American women and British women, and you’re probably a better one to tell us,” Kelly says.

David laughs with a manly vibrato and then retreats from his intended rebuttal.

“You know, this is only the head of the Rio tourism board seated with you in the middle of Paris, and not a very good tourist spokesperson at that, I may add.”

“A woman with two jobs … she’s after my own heart,” Kelly replies with a grin as she throws in her own reference as a host of a US reality show and a UK entertainment news program.

“Well, not exactly,” I calmly interject as David sits in a chair opposite us. “David and I stayed in the same hotel while in Rio recently, and he was nice enough to share his favorite local haunts for an article I was working on.”

“Oh, yes. David is always one to help a woman in a far-off land who finds herself in distress.”

“Are you two staying in this hotel?” David asks.

“No,” I say, “but I figured this would be quieter than holding court at the Ritz.”

“Quiet? More like dead,” he adds.

“Jack keeps an apartment here that he lets me use now and then,” Kelly says, referring to her on-again rugby boyfriend who’s currently playing for a French team.

“Wow, Jack. Now that takes me back. So wait, how do you two know each other then?” David asks.

“Well, you know I’m back in London doing publicity for the UK show and doing a few press pieces in the states,” Kelly answers.

“Ah, I see. So this is a work meeting?”

“Actually, I was just in the middle of our interview,” she says, gesturing to the recorder with a red flashing light set between two Diet Cokes.

“So, I’m interrupting?” David grins before leaning forward to stand again.

“Not at all, stay and chat for a minute … oh, please,” Kelly insists.

“Really?” David looks at me with those always-lusty eyes that are hard to reject. “Actually, I insist you continue working, and I’ll just sit in and listen.” His head tilts forward at an angular position that makes his stare appear as cat’s eyes.

“Is that allowed?” Kelly asks, and both of them look at me.

“Well, not technically,” I say, “but as long as all of this stays at the table, I guess it would be okay.”

“Catherine likes to do things by the book, don’t let her fool you,” David says.

“Don’t make me change my mind, Mr. Summers,” says Kelly. Then there’s a pause before an almost scripted return to our conversation. “So back to the question at hand.”

As I focus on Kelly, I can feel David study me from the color of my nails, to my choice in boots, and the way my hair lays along my collar. His focus is intense as Kelly continues with a dissertation of how American women expect all those older than thirty-five to have children and if they don’t, there’s something wrong with them.

Under other circumstances, I would have been impressed with her answer, but under the penetration of his eyes, I am unable to concentrate on anything but him. Even without looking at him, I see him, I smell him, and that scent of perfect citrusy cologne and a freshly showered man lingers in the air as if you could grab it and taste it in your mouth.

“Are you married, Catherine?”

Kelly comes at me with the interrogative dagger, something that definitely would not have happened if David hadn’t joined and all but abandoned her with his attention since sitting.

“I am not.” I reply almost instinctually as judgment and deceit indicts my soul. She would not have asked that question if I were a decade younger. I immediately regret the directness of my reply instead of just being vague, opening the door of judgment to be cast on all that I have done to get to where I sit in this very moment. The conversation continues without me, a sign of a good interview but also of a writer trapped in an emotional juggernaut no longer in her narrative.

“Ladies, sadly I must leave this gripping interview to attend to a meeting.” David looks at his watch hidden under his French cuffs before rising, as if fleeing the idle conversation that I have lost track of since my revelation.

“Kelly, I hope to see you soon in London, and Catherine,” he turns to take my outstretched hand that sits in the nape of his fleshy palm only an instant, “… it’s always fun when our paths cross.”

Without a mention of connecting while in Paris, exchanging numbers or e-mails, the man I have traveled halfway around the world to get a glimpse of walks slowly across the bar and most likely out of my life forever. Questions scramble through my head like, “How can I let him just walk away?” and “What if I never see him again for the rest of my life?” as I savor every breath until his scent finally leaves, and I’m left with Kelly, an unfinished interview and this life.

As the interview concludes with a hug and a superficial promise to stay in touch, I make my way out of the Park Hyatt. The rain has once more intensified, the early afternoon sky looks like full night. I’m hoping David is at the valet or on the corner waiting for me, but as the Place Vendôme approaches, he is not there, and I’m swept with a sense of disappointment and then immediate relief for having survived the situation and yet accomplished what I aimed to do—to see David one more time.