Lights Out in Paris

Chapter One

Paris is all grey from above, like a black and white postcard. It could be any century, and Harriet gets the feeling that she has time-traveled instead of just taken a six-hour flight. She didn't sleep at all on the plane. Nor had she eaten the shriveled morsels they had tried to pass as "dinner." The fatigue and the low blood sugar make her head swim as she stumbles off the plane.

Harriet is glad that the French customs do not ask questions. The male officer merely looks at her face on the passport, then at her, then nods grimly for her to carry on. She really didn't want to explain about her recently deceased mother and her last-minute decision to apply for a position as an au pair in France. She barely knew anything about the job except that she'd be looking after two French kids in the suburbs of Paris. According to the ad, all she had to do was make them breakfast and walk them to school. Then pick them up after school, fix them a snack and make sure they didn't die until their parents came home from work in the early evening. She was free during the days and weekends to do whatever she wanted. Harriet didn't know what she wanted except to escape everything she had ever known. And this seemed like that.

In the luggage area she stared glossy-eyed at the suitcases swiveling past until her bright blue suitcase, recently purchased from her inheritance money, popped into view and she lunged forward to retrieve it.

"Harriet Banks" reads a printed sign in the arrivals gate and for a moment Harriet feels as if she is a film star being welcomed by someone from the crew, there to whisk her away to her five-star hotel.

Harriet approaches the woman holding the sign. It must be the mother. Madam de Beauvau. She's in her 30s, elegant in a black dress and tall boots and a light blue scarf wrapped around her slender neck. She is wearing make-up but it's subtle, with hints of eyeliner around her green almond-shaped eyes and a light pink mouth that, when she realizes who Harriet is, spreads into a smile.

"Bonjour!" she says, leaning in to give Harriet a kiss on her cheeks.

Harriet feels herself blushing. She says "Bonjour" back, cringing at her terrible accent. She'd listened to a few learning-French podcasts in the weeks leading up to her departure and on the plane, but she's far from fluent. Can only remember a few words in fact. She reminds herself that the ad required that she be anglophone. They didn't care about her French. They wanted her to speak to their children in English. It's one of the reasons why she got the job after all.

"Follow me," says the woman and Harriet drags what remains of her life behind her after the woman whose boots make a soft knocking against the gleaming airport floor.

She's surprised to see a Porsche waiting for them in the parking lot, though she shouldn't be. She knew the family was well off. She just didn't know how well off. The woman opens the trunk, which is just big enough for Harriet's suitcase. Harriet gets into the passenger seat and the woman sighs with seeming impatience as she slides into the driver's seat and ignites the engine.

"Always traffic in Paris," she says, her accent smooth and sexy, like a song. "I hope it won't be too bad. I would like you to meet the children before they must leave for school."

They pull out of the parking space quickly, causing the tires to squeal and Harriet's head slams back briefly onto the back of the leather seat. The woman mutters something in French as they race towards the exit. She pays the parking with a credit card and they blast out onto the highway. It's morning, about 7 a.m. and the sun is hidden behind a thick curtain of clouds.

"You are how old?" the woman asks Harriet.

"Eighteen," Harriet says, though she's still three months away from her birthday.

"You look much younger," the woman says with an edge of accusation.

Harriet doesn't know what to say, but the woman is not wrong. People often mistake her for someone much younger, perhaps due to her slightly round face or her small frame. Maybe it was her big eyes that seemed to infantilize her somewhat, make her appear like a half-drowned creature in need of saving. And maybe that is what she was.

Madam de Beauvau places a call through her car. A man's voice, maybe her husband, booms over the car speakers. They have a short discussion in French, probably about her. She wonders if she is a disappointment, like Anne of Green Gables. Not what they were expecting. She wishes she could understand what they were saying. She wonders if she'll ever learn this language.  

"Have you been to Paris before?" the woman asks her when the conversation ends.

Harriet shakes her head. A fatigue as heavy as the clouds is starting to set in like a weather system beneath her skull.

"It's a beautiful city. You'll see. But for now we go home. To Marly le Roi. That's our village outside of Paris. My husband got croissants from the bakery. Do you like croissants?"

Harriet nods, then, for the sake of speaking, says, "Yes, I do."

Despite her excitement at being in France, a place she'd always dreamed of visiting, Harriette finds herself nodding off as the car hums and glides across the landscape. She's aware of trees, of rows of brick houses with red tile roofs, a stadium, a river.

"La Seine," says the woman. Her voice causes Harriet to jolt back to a state of wakefulness.

"Pardon?" she asks.

"The river. The Seine. We'll be there soon," she adds. "Sleep if you want."

Harriet doesn't want to sleep but she can't seem to help it. She fights to keep her eyes open but they close without her meaning to and sound cuts out completely as her head drops forward. When she opens her eyes again, the car is pulling up a long, steep driveway lined with trees that leads to a massive house. A chateau perhaps. It's long, with huge multi-paned windows along each story. The bottom floor is made of large white bricks with pruned vines gently creeping around the windows. The second floor has massive old beams with plaster, medieval-style. The top floor has several windows jutting out of the tiled roof. She sees a shadow move in the top right window, but when she squints her eyes, the figure flickers away. She has been this tired only a handful of times in her life. Hallucination-tired.

"Très bien, les enfants sont toujours là," says Madam de Beauvau, opening her door.

"Sorry?" asks Harriet.

"Sorry, the children are still here, but we'll have to hurry. They need to go to school soon. Tell me, do you drive?"

Harriet hesitates. She has her license, though she barely passed her driving exam. She's only ever driven her mom's beat-up Chevy and that was only on rare occasions, but Madam de Beauvau is motioning to the Porsche.

What the hell, Harriet thinks. This is my new life.

"I do," she says. "I drive." 

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