This would be so much easier in English.
“Um.”I bite my bottom lip as my mind scrambles to form a French sentence, using up my last bit of energy.“Je suis désolée, mais mon français n’est pas très bon.Parlez-vous anglais?”I flash a wide, hopeful smile.
He nods.“Mais bien sûr, madame.”
Yes!English!
The words spill from my lips, quick and fiery.“I think I’ve been scammed.I showed up at a vacation rental down the street, but”—I point in the direction I came from—“it didn’t turn out to be what I booked, and I can’t even turn my phone on because I forgot to purchase a SIM card.”I pass my faux reservation toward him, hoping it will help him understand my situation.“Do you have any rooms available for the night?”
With impeccable posture, he straightens his black tie and locks his gaze onto mine with an intensity that makes me anxious.“Non, ma’am.We’re fully booked until the new year, and most of the hotels in the area are at full capacity as well.I know this because I just called around for one of our guests who wanted to extend their stay.You might have some luck outside the city.”He takes a deep breath.“Ma’am, I’m afraid to tell you that you’re not the first person this kind of scam has happened to.May I suggest calling the number on your reservation to confirm your suspicion?”He places a clunky black office phone on the counter.
I pick it up, dialing the number with quivering fingers.A French version ofthis number is no longer in serviceplays in my ear.
“The number isn’t real,” I murmur.“It’s a scam.”I shove the reservation back into my bag, but as I pull my hand out, something flutters to the shiny floor.
I bend down, studying the item.It’s a piece of paper, a confirmation of sorts, mostly in French.But one thing stands out: the nameLuca Dubois.And there’s a phone number.
“May I use your phone again?”I ask.
He nods, a flicker of sympathy passing through his green eyes.
Against my better judgement, I dial the number, calling the good-looking but irritating Frenchman I met on the plane.
It rings once, then twice, my nerves rattling with each chime.
I should hang up.
What on earth am I doing?I don’t know this man.
I pull the phone away from my ear, ready to end the call, but before I can follow through, someone picks up.
“Allô,” a thick Parisian voice answers.
“Bonjour.Um ...is this Luca?”My voice trembles as I clutch the borrowed phone.
“Oui.Who is this?”
“This is Jemma from the airplane.Remember me?”I don’t wait for him to answer.“So, I somehow ended up with some of your paperwork when we collided, and it had your phone number on it.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not important.You can toss it.”
“Actually, that’s not why I’m calling.”Before I can stop myself, tears spill over, and I choke on my words.
“Jemma, what’s wrong?”There’s genuine kindness in his voice.
“I—I think I’ve been scammed.I’m kind of stranded.I have nowhere to go and forgot to buy a SIM card at the airport.I can’t find a hotel room.I’m borrowing a phone.I’m not even sure why I called you.”Desperation and embarrassment cling to my voice.
“Whoa.Hold on a second.First, I need you to take a breath.”
For some reason, I do as Luca suggests, inhaling deeply, trying to steady my racing nerves.
“I’m sorry you’ve been scammed.I’ve heard horror stories of this happening to tourists.And there aren’t any rooms around?”
“No, I’m at a hotel right now using their phone, and the receptionist told me all the hotels in the city are booked through the new year.Even if I could find one for the night, I probably couldn’t find one for my entire stay,” I reply.“I should just get a cab and go back home.I’m so sorry.I have no idea why I called you.I feel silly.”
“Eh, don’t give up.You’re in Paris!It breaks my heart to hear that something so awful happened in my city.”
I sniffle.
