A ROMANCE IN CANNES

Chapter 6

It was almost seven in the morning and the sun was just rising. The city was still asleep, but I hadn’t been for a while. To tell the truth, my night had been short, and for good reason: it was my first day. My body was going through a mix of conflicting emotions: excitement, anxiety, joy, and fear. Little by little, I remembered what it was like to be a kid on the first day of school.

I was in a small street at the back of the Western Palace. For the employees of this kind of establishment, it’s never the gold of the main door that awaits us every morning. Rather backdoors in dark alleys cluttered with dumpsters. My new workplace was no exception. I’m just approaching this staff entrance, recognizable by its employees standing around, hiding a uniform under their jackets, while they focus compulsively on their cigarettes.

Next to the door stood a small booth in which was a security guard, not happy to be there, and who stared at me.

“Hello, I’m Danielle Allard. I have an appointment with Ms Bellet.”

I saw a few eyes turn towards me. They must have wondered who I could be. A new employee? A supplier? The guard picked up his phone and repeated my name twice, muttered something to the caller, then hung up.

“Go down to the commissary, Madame Bellet is waiting for you.”

I thanked him and plunged into the grey hallway, lit by a few neon lights that attacked my retina early in the morning. I passed a bellhop in uniform, a cook in houndstooth print trousers, and two maids. They all gave me a little nod.

Eventually, I found the commissary at the end of a maze of corridors. Behind the scenes in palaces isn’t always terrific to see, and this hotel was no exception. It had been built in the early 1900s and the successive waves of renovation hadn’t touched the innards of the beast. I was certain of that.

I finally found the door I was looking for. It was wide open. I find myself face to face with a plump little woman in a navy blue suit, similar to the one I wore at the Bastide in Gordes. A man of about forty faced her and, when they saw me, the conversation in which they were immersed stopped.

“Hello,” I began.

“You must be Danielle!” the little woman held out her hand to me. “Edith Bellet, I’m the general housekeeper.”

She chuckled and continued:

“Well, not for very long.”

She turned to her companion.

“Thierry, I present to you Danielle Allard, who will replace me.”

She then explained to me that Thierry was in charge of the commissary. He greets me warmly, and I feel some of my tension evaporate. At least the first two colleagues I met seemed likeable.

“If you want, I can show you where the locker rooms are, but I guess you would prefer to change in my office, or should I say your office?” she added, smiling.

She leads me down the hall and I try to memorise the way so I can do it again later. But it was difficult for me to concentrate both on our itinerary and on my guide, who was a veritable chatterbox. In less than a minute, I had already learned that she was leaving for a well-deserved retirement in a month and that by then she was trying to entrust me with all the secrets of the palace. She had worked there for exactly thirty-two years, and while she was thrilled at the idea of taking care of these five grandchildren from now on, she was certain that she would miss the hotel.

She also told me that, for my first day, I was going to follow her like her shadow, that I would attend the meeting of the department heads, and that I had to go, of course, through the human resources department, once it opens at nine o’clock.

In the office, she left me for a moment so that I could change, which allowed me to take a look at what was to be one of my favourite places. It was a little bigger than the one I had at Bastide Western, but unlike that one, it had no windows. It wasn’t surprising because, in a hotel, all the rooms that can be made profitable, meeting rooms, spa, etc. were, to the detriment of spaces for staff. This meant that almost all of the offices were in places that couldn’t be used for other purposes, including basements. It didn’t bother me, I preferred to be close to my future teams. I had noticed that the linen room was right next to it, and I assumed that the purring that served as background music was that of the drums which were already turning at this hour. The office was tidy, Edith Bellet was a well-organised woman. From the number of coloured post-its neatly lined up on her desk, I guessed that she liked a certain rigour. Yes, the post-its were sorted alphabetically!

Once changed, I left the office and joined her in the locker room for maids and cleaners, as she had asked me. I was going in a few minutes to meet those who would henceforth be under my orders. I entered the room which was swarming with women of all ages and, I assumed, of different nationalities. All in their sky blue dresses with a little white apron tied around their waists, they listened carefully to Edith. However, when I appeared, a dozen pairs of eyes turned in my direction, mostly curious.

I knew what to expect: from the very first days, I would be scrutinised, exposed and, above all, judged by these women who, despite their innocent appearances, could show themselves without pity. I was aware that there was nothing worse than moving in a predominantly female environment. That was why I had to be beyond reproach and assert my authority from the start.

Edith introduced me and then it was my turn to make a short speech. Of course, I had repeated this one in my head before, to be sure to find the right words. Those who, on the one hand, would make me seem likeable and, on the other hand, would inspire respect. Once my speech was over, I was quite proud of myself, and Edith’s little smile comforted me in this idea.

The chambermaids left to take up their posts, and we were now to meet the housekeepers.

“This might not be so easy,” Edith commented, thereby confirming my fears.

I was aware that I was rather young to get into a position like this. Most of the housekeepers must have been my age or older, and some more experienced than me. It was even possible that one of them had coveted my position.

My fears were confirmed when I entered the break room which was also used, as Edith had told me, for briefings. As I greeted each of them with a handshake, I noticed that, for some, the welcome was mumbled, and the look wasn’t really friendly. The one called Mariana didn’t even try to hide her hostile attitude. She must have been about thirty, even if I gave her two or three more years than me. Her blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her blue eyes had a hue just as icy as the palm she held out to me.

The youngest of them, Brigitte, on the other hand, gives me a warm smile, making me forget for a moment the coldness of her colleague.

“As you all know,” Edith began, “I’m going to be leaving you in a month, and Miss Allard will take over. In the meantime, she’ll follow me like my shadow, but I’m counting on you to help her as much as possible to get her bearings. We are a team, and it is in our interest and that of our customers to stick together to make the transition as smooth as possible.”

Most nodded, but I saw Mariana roll her eyes. No doubt, with her, the task was going to be more complicated. But I wasn’t one to be intimidated by a strong head.

In the middle of the morning, after a first visit to the rooms, we went, Edith and I, to the meeting of the department heads. It was an opportunity for me to get to know the different people with whom I was going to interact daily. As General Housekeeper, my role was to ensure that the rooms and common areas were perfectly maintained and that guest comfort was at its peak. But none of this was possible without working closely with the other departments. Edith introduced me to the first colleagues to arrive in the meeting room.

First, there was Jean-Paul, the maintenance manager, a man in his fifties, with a firm handshake and square shoulders. Louis, the receptionist, who, unlike his colleague, was as thick as a twig and held himself upright in his navy blue uniform with white piping. Marc, finally, the catering manager, a small plump man with a balding head.

A few moments later, Catherine, the marketing and sales manager, joined us. She wore an improbable sequined dress. The rest of the world had agreed to reserve this kind of outfit for a New Year’s Eve party, or a movie premiere in Beverly Hills – only if you’re Heidi Klum or Scarlett Johansson – but she must not have had the memo. Maybe she was just coming from a Cannes party? After all, I wasn’t yet aware of the habits and customs in the area. But, if so, she looked damn fresh. I had to remember to ask her secret in the aftermath of difficult evenings.

The last to appear in the meeting room was the director: Christopher Lecailler. He was a tall, lean, bald man with small round glasses. He shook my hand and welcomed me. I had already had the opportunity to meet him a few weeks ago when I came to Cannes to scout for my apartment.

He sat down and started the meeting.

“Since we’re almost complete, we’ll be able to start. Where’s the chef?” he asked, without addressing anyone in particular.

“He was in the process of receiving a delivery from the fishmonger, he’ll not be long,” indicated Marc.

“Well, let’s start with today’s departures and arrivals, then.”

Louis spoke. There were a lot of departures on that Monday morning. A big convention had been held in Cannes the previous week, and some delegates had remained for the weekend, just to take advantage of the spring weather.

“For arrivals, I draw your attention to one in particular: Mr Schmidt. He has booked a suite for two months with the possibility of extending his stay if necessary. He had already stayed with us last year, but only for two weeks. Previously, he stayed at the Martinez all summer. It looks like he has chosen us this year.”

“Perfect, I suppose everything has been done so that Mr Schmidt doesn’t regret his decision to change hotels,” said Mr Lecailler, turning to Edith.

“Absolutely, we took out our notes from last year, and everything was prepared to his liking. Fresh roses, extra blankets, room temperature at twenty-two degrees, everything is ready,” Edith confirmed.

We continued for a few minutes with the list of arrivals and departures until the door of the meeting room opened. A man entered. Dressed in black trousers, a white chef’s jacket whose collar proudly sported the blue, white and red stripes (worn by chefs to indicate the highest achievement), and his head wearing a chef's hat that left no doubt as to his function.

But the moment my gaze meets his, all the air in my lungs suddenly seems to disappear. Those dark eyes, that close-cropped brown hair, that charming smile, those full lips, I had seen them before. And for good reason, they belonged to Georges Orsoni, my ex. Or should I say the only man I’ve ever loved. But also the one that broke my heart almost ten years ago.

“Chef, welcome,” comments the director. “I present to you Danielle Allard, our new General Housekeeper, who takes up her duties today.”

Georges’s smile widened and his eyes shone. I hated to notice that detail.

“We already know each other,” said Georges in a slightly hoarse voice that hadn’t changed.

“Yes, it’s true, I had forgotten,” replied Mr Lecailler, sorting through his papers.

Georges approached. I was frozen in my chair. He leaned towards me, with the certain idea of kissing me. I then think it would be more convenient if I stood up for it. I got up a little abruptly and lost my balance in the process. Georges caught up with me before I humbled myself in front of my brand new colleagues. His hand was grasping my arm and I felt like it was burning me. He was close, much too close. I could observe every detail of his face. He hadn’t changed. Just a few more pronounced wrinkles at the corners of the eyes. I would even say that time had worked in his favour.

“You didn’t expect to see me here, did you?” he asked softly.

“Not really, no,” I croaked.

I cursed at myself. Why did I need to show him that I was so affected to see him again after all these years?

A clearing of the throat reminded us that we were expected to continue the meeting. I sat down again and Georges settled on the chair right next to mine. My brain began to think at top speed. How was it that I only now found out that he was the chef of the Western Palace Cannes? I had obviously browsed the hotel’s website to glean as much information as possible about my new workplace, and I was sure I hadn’t read a line about him. I couldn’t have missed such crucial information! Then I think of that email he sent me two months ago. Had I already applied for my transfer at that time? Yes, I think. Was that why he had written to me? Maybe. I was unable to concentrate on the meeting. Especially since his proximity simply prevented me from getting him out of my mind. His scent tickled my nostrils. How was this possible? He hadn’t changed his cologne in ten years? And a chef was supposed to smell of… I don’t know… the kitchen? Me, I was able to stink of onions for two days because I had had the misfortune to cook some and he, who spent his day in a place saturated with odours of all kinds, smelled of cologne?

On top of that, he showed me his tanned forearms, nonchalantly placed on the meeting table two centimetres from my notebook. Chef’s jackets, didn’t they exist in long sleeves? And then, who gets tanned in March?

Suddenly, I heard that someone had just pronounced my first name, and realised that I had completely zoned out of the meeting.

“Right, Danielle? Perhaps you could do it with Jean-Paul? This is a perfect opportunity to acquaint you with the different rooms and the spaces of the hotel in general.”

Every pair of eyes in the room were riveted on me.

“Yes, of course… that’s a very good idea,” I stammered, hoping that this was the answer that was expected of me.

Beside me, I heard Georges laugh softly.

I had no idea what I had just accepted, and I didn’t even remember who Jean-Paul was. Finally, for this last part, I assumed that it was the one who smiled at me, therefore the person in charge of maintenance. What was I going to have to do with him? I hoped it wasn’t something like this: crawling through the dust in the air ducts of the rooms or abseiling down the front of the hotel to check the strength of the railings.

“If there are no other points, I propose that everyone returns to their duties,” said Mr Lecailler.

There were no protests, and everyone was packing their things to go out.

Nice, I had spent half the meeting lost in my head. I must have made a great first impression.