The Terrible Personal Shopper (Surprised by Love Book 1) by Laura Burton

Author:Laura Burton [Burton, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Burton&Burchell Ltd
Published: 2021-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

Blaze and the others headed straight for interviews while us stylists got settled in the hotel. It turns out the Victor Hugo hotel is merely a tribute to the author. Not his former residence as I think most of us assumed.

But I’m so wrapped up in French culture that I don’t care.

A little French lady guides me up a creaky staircase with a wooden handrail that’s been worn smooth.

The carpeted floors are dark, and there’s a musty smell in the air, but it’s no problem. I glance at the paintings on the wall as the old lady leads me to my room; they’re all of little French villages and orchards. The lady stops outside a door and fiddles with the lock, then it swings open with a squeal. She smiles at me, her tanned face framed with silver strands of hair.

“Merci,” I say. It’s one of the only words I know in French.

I peer into a room no bigger than my bathroom. The peeling wallpaper looks like it’s from the 60’s and the bed takes up almost all the space. I crane my neck around the corner to find the bathroom door, but there isn’t one. And there are no cupboards to be seen.

“Excusez-moi…” I say, hurrying out into the hall after the lady who’s already begun to walk away. She turns and lifts a thick white brow as her dark eyes land on me.

“Where is the toilet?” I ask, making gestures with my hands like we’re playing a game of charades. The woman’s expression is blank. She doesn’t understand a single word.

I cast my eyes around the empty hall, wondering how to explain.

“Bathroom. Shower. Toilet… you know…” I start pretending to shower, scrubbing under my arms. Then I act out pulling down my pants and sitting on an imaginary toilet. The woman is now wearing a look of extreme repulsion and I’m starting to sweat.

“Toilet. Toilet. Toilet.” I keep repeating the word as though the woman might suddenly recognize it, and each time I say it my voice rises in pitch.

“No toilet?” I ask finally, my shoulders dropping in defeat.

The woman shakes her head. “Non.”

A stair creaks and I swivel to see Olly approaching. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.”

Then he starts talking to the lady in fluent French.

“Oh. Thanks.”

The lady shuffles down the hall grumbling to herself. I turn back to Olly.

“What are you up to, today?” I ask. Olly frowns at me.

“Getting some beauty sleep. I’m wrecked.”

“Oh, right. I thought––” I begin, but Olly takes out a key and approaches the door next to mine. “I’m only here because this is my room.”

Feeling foolish, I watch Olly disappear behind his door. “Oh, okay, sleep well.”

I want to explore the city.

Brimming with the buzz of being in a new place, I wander around the halls of the hotel, swinging my arms and occasionally bumping into guests and stylists. Everyone is grumpy and anti-social, which makes no sense to me.

They can’t blame jetlag, there’s only a one-hour difference.

I guess the team would just prefer to catch up on some rest after the crazy schedule in London.

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