The Woman from the Plane [Lost Fanfiction]

Chapter 21: Tender is the Night

The next morning, Valerie and Ben packed up and got on a plane to Paris.

He picked the hotel without consulting her—there were a few options to choose from, and he decided that a suite in large luxury hotel would suit their need for anonymity better than a boutique hole in the wall or a hostel.

Valerie took a quick shower as soon as they checked in and changed into the cleanest looking clothes she had—a black tank top and a pair of black jeans. She pilfered a clean button up shirt from his bag and threw it on, rolling up the sleeves.

"Do I look normal?"

He glanced at her. With her long hair pulled into a messy ponytail and his shirt, she looked just like any fashionable young woman out in the city.

"You look fine," he replied cautiously.

"I can work with 'fine,' I guess," she huffed, already halfway out the door. "I'll be back."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I need a few things," she answered.

"What sort of things?"

"Nice things," she explained, waving a wad of cash in the air.

She returned to their room a couple of hours later, arms weighed down by several large shopping bags. He did not recognize the brands, but he got the sense that her stack of cash had been made considerably slimmer by her purchases.

"That was efficient," he commented.

"I knew where I was going—and what I was looking for." She tossed three of the bags at him. "Those are for you," she informed him, setting another two bags down on a sitting chair. "Just to get us through the next few days," she explained. She took the rest of her bags back into the bathroom.

She'd bought him a couple of fresh outfits. He did not really appreciate her choosing his clothes for him, but—as he examined her selections—he realized she'd brought him things she knew he'd like. He was particularly happy to find a new pair of shoes—and fresh socks.

As Valerie tinkered away in the bathroom, Ben passed the time making phone calls and watching the news. Hours had passed since she'd returned—he'd heard her take another shower. He was impatient, and he was growing very hungry.

"Val," he called through the closed door, "had you given any thought to dinner?"

"I'm almost done—is there a vacuum in the closet?"

"A vacuum?"

She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. "I cut my hair."

At first glance, she was nearly unrecognizable. She'd cut her long wavy hair into a neat bob that fell a couple of inches past her chin. Her hair was shiny and pin straight, parted neatly on one side—and perhaps a couple of shades darker. She'd put a whole face of makeup on, he realized—her skin was even and luminous, her eyelashes seemed even thicker, and her lips were a dark, rich red.

"You cut your hair," he agreed.

She grinned at him.

"Yourself?" he added, surprised that she'd done such a good job.

"You learn a few things when you live on a remote island," she explained as she rifled through the shopping bags. "I guess can vacuum later."

He peeked into the bathroom. The floor was covered in dark hair and the counter was covered in expensive looking jars and vials. She'd been busy.

"As for dinner," she continued, "we are in Paris—we might as well go somewhere nice." She fished a black dress out of one of the shopping bags.