A ‘whodunnit’ novel on where to find the mysterious female Petite Mort.

JK, it’s me, Denise, in my first adventure. Most of this really happened (if I’m to believe my memory), when I lived in Paris over the turn of the millennium. Some of it however is exaggerated, or twisted a bit, or just plain made up. What, it’s a story! Just read it.

How it all begins…

“Hey Tom, didn’t you throw up here last night?” said a button-nosed girl, passing him the red wine. 
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a bicycle with no seat!” he exclaimed. “Don’t remind me.”   
I let out a loud guffaw and took the bottle from his hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t put on a repeat performance then.” My head was spinning but I put the neck (that was pre-coated with the saliva of five random strangers) to my lips and gulped it down.  
A familiar confidence settled over my mind, and I quickened my step to catch back up to Tom, who was talking to whoever would listen about the history of the pyramid at the Louvre, now looming in front of us.
“It was only added in the eighties, designed by a Chinese American.”
“Bit out of place, don’t you think?” I commented, passing the bottle on to the guy on my other side and dragging the back of my hand across my lips, worrying briefly that they may be stained red. Classy.
Tom just grinned. “Makes for a good talking point though.”
We passed the great metallic landmark, surrounded by the classic Renaissance walls of the museum, and found ourselves in an alleyway, which I thought was near the hostel, but couldn’t be sure. 
A small bar sat open and the six of us settled at two outside tables. I made sure I was next to Tom, but he was talking to the girl with the cute nose again. 
A waiter came out and Tom said something in French and then looked over at me. “What’ll it be Australia?”
“Yep, same,” I said, wondering if he’d forgotten my name. I smiled at the cute way he pronounced my country and pulled out a packet of cigarettes from my pocket.
By the time we all stumbled back into the common room, I was barely able to hold myself upright and I collapsed onto a couch. Tom’s face loomed in front of me, moving in circles and saying things I hoped were sexy. As I leaned forward for a kiss, he shifted back and away and I laughed loudly, then sat back as if that had been my plan all along. I felt a hot tear prickle behind my eye. Typical drunk behaviour, I thought, pressing my tallest finger against it hard. I gripped the sides of the couch and hauled myself to my feet, stumbling towards the dorm.

The next day I awoke with a dim regret as the events of the night slowly came back to me. I was pretty sure I couldn’t remember all of it, and I mentally replayed what I could to assess how much of an idiot I had made of myself. 
I found Tom sitting in front of a cup of coffee in the common room. He looked up and grinned. “Hey, Australia! How’s the head?”
I squinted. “I am definitely never smoking again. What were you thinking, getting me that whiskey?”
“Hey, you said you wanted the same as me.”
I ran a hand through my hair, cringing at how frizzy it felt. I must look like absolute shit. “I didn’t know what you ordered,” I laughed, moving over to the kettle, and placing a hand on the side to see if any hot water remained.
“The word is whiskey,” he teased.
“That’s not what it sounded like last night.” I sat in the chair opposite and greeted a girl who was sitting at the breakfast table, before turning back to Tom. “How did you say it?”
“Whiskey,” he said, with a sweet French accent. It certainly sounded recognizable now.
“Whiskey,” I attempted. “How come you speak such good French anyway? Aren’t you from the west of Canada?”
“Yeah, that’s right. But my mum’s French.”
“Oh, so lucky. Teach me some more,” I said, taking a sip of lukewarm instant coffee. 
“Rhum,” he said, prompting an eyeroll from me.
“Not just alcohol. Come on, I’m so lame. I’ve been through like ten different countries in the past few months, and I always rely on everyone speaking English. I should learn something else, don’t you think?”
He shot me a cheeky grin. “Sure. Try this: écureuil”
I stared at him, unable to comprehend the sound he had just made.
“It’s the word for squirrel,” he said, shrugging. “What about the word for leaf: feuille.”   
I moved my lips and tongue into a novel shape and gave it my best try. “Foil?” 
He laughed and shook his head. “Not even close!”  
“Fail?”  
“Fail is right.”   
I looked down sheepishly. I couldn’t tell if the warmth he was exuding was for me, having spent the last four years at an all-girls’ school. It couldn’t be, I decided, moving my body further behind the table to hide my worst feature—my giant rolling gut. Still, watching Tom sip absent-mindedly on his coffee, I gathered my courage and admitted I was seriously thinking about staying in Paris for a while and asked him how easy it would be to find a job.   
“Well, there’s an American church that posts want ads for English speakers. You should go check it out,” he said casually, which in my mind translated as, “I would really love for you to spend some more time in Paris … with me.”   
So, with that written invitation firmly in my mind’s pocket, I took myself to the Église Américaine to peruse the classified ads on the notice board. Many of them were for something called a Jeune fille au pair, which sounded right up my alley. I was a jeune fille, and as far as I could tell it was like a live-in nanny, but cheaper. No experience required. I wrote down a few phone numbers.    

A couple of no answers and ‘sorry, we’ve already filled the position’s later, a young-sounding woman picked up. 
“Uh, bonjour, hello…” I began.
“Bonjour. You’re calling for ze au pair job?” she said gently.
I nodded. “Yes, I mean, oui.”
“Can you come zis afternoon?”
I grinned. “Yes please, I mean, thank you, I mean, merci.” My cheeks burned as I failed so utterly to sound professional or grown up. 
She gave me the address, and when I arrived at her bohemian, ground-floor apartment, I found out she was a single mother with a baby girl. She took me to the small garden behind her flat and we sat on the grass together while she smoked cigarettes. She told me she was a graphic designer and asked me about myself.   
“Do you smoke?” she said smoothly, stubbing out her spent butt on the ground and exhaling the last of the gas upwards. 
She was only a few years older than me and seemed to have her whole life together. Job. Apartment. Baby. And enough money to hire someone to help look after said baby. The ultimate Independent Woman.      
“Well…” I looked at box next to her hand, before giving my head a quick shudder and smiling proudly. “I gave up yesterday.” Which I considered to be absolutely true.   
She laughed out loud. “So, you smoke. And do you speak French?” Ooh, that rolling r in Frrrench.   
“No, I’d like to learn though.”   
“I will teach you.” It sounded so simple. Like she could just click her fingers and it would be. The baby sat cooing on the grass, looking plump and proud.   
But she never did teach me. She didn’t give me the job because I was only staying a few months. I had told her I had a flight home in January, and she wanted more continuity from her au pair.   

That night, lying in the hostel bunk, I pondered my fate and tore myself up inside. I was running out of money and would have to leave this hostel soon. Every bed in the city seemed full of tourists who just kept arriving, smugly showing their prebooked reservations. I felt exposed; fresh out of high school, wanting to stay but completely ignorant about how to make that happen. Thousands of kilometres from home, in a strange new country, trying desperately to find a path, prove my independence. With no one to lean on, borrow money from, or ask to check with their uncle if he needed someone to work in his restaurant on weekends.    
The other option was what? Go home, after only a few short months in the ‘real world’, away from the distant outpost I had so longed to escape from? 
I could picture the world map on my desk that I had stared at for hours on end when I was supposed to be doing homework. I would sit with my chin cupped in my hand, memorising the capital cities of exotic places that were all nearer the centre of the multi-coloured chart than my hometown, which was often hidden under my elbow in its lonely corner.     
No, I wasn’t going back there. Not now. Should I move somewhere else maybe? London, like all the Aussies do? 
Tom’s round, laughing face drifted across the screen of my mind’s eye. He was going to start studying at some fancy schmancy political science school soon. No, it had to be Paris. But how?    
I shuffled restlessly on the mattress. God? I couldn’t believe I was actually praying. I stared into the darkness, giving up on any attempt at sleep. If you are out there, in any shape or form. Please show me the way forward. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Please help me.…Please?   
The girl below me shifted and made a snorting sound. I closed my eyes, breathing more deeply.    
I still remember it clearly. The smell of eight females emitting a mixture of sweat, breath, and leftover pheromones, the low hum of the air-conditioner cooling the summer air, and the uncertainty. 
But of course, Paris was to become my home for a time, or I wouldn’t be writing this story, and the experience would change me in many ways. Or perhaps more accurately, allow me to grow into someone more truly me.

Thanks for reading! This story is still looking for a physical form. I’m also looking for more beta readers. If you’d like to help me out, hit that button! Go on, I’d be happy to hear from you.

DR