Story Series | Chapter Four

Chapter Four | Now

Audrey wakes at noon drenched in a cold sweat, despite being wrapped tightly in her duvet like a swaddled infant. Popping one eye open, she glances warily at the hardwood of the floor next to her, then releases a sigh of relief: there’s no tally mark etched there. 

She wriggles herself free of her duvet and as she wobbles to her feet she’s mildly alarmed to discover she’s completely naked. God, she got sauced last night. What an incredibly immersive bad trip-turned-nightmare. The fire; the wind; the madness. She’s not even sure where the bad trip ended and the nightmare began. 

Wincing against her pounding head, she buckles herself into a pair of overalls and pads into the bathroom to wash. As she scrubs her teeth she reprimands the disheveled girl in the mirror. She didn’t mean to get that drunk, that high, but it was her first night in Paris and while she’s ashamed, she’s not surprised she took her solo celebrations too far. 

She rinses her mouth and downs an Advil. Bracing the edge of the counter, she leans into her reflection to conclude her self-scolding: No more buying pre-rolled joints. God knows what people sprinkle in those things. And no more drinking on an empty stomach. This is her fresh start, for God’s sake. She knew she’d bring her bad habits with her, but she didn’t expect them to get worse. 

Although, she reasons with herself, last night’s freak-out was likely worsened by the smell. The reeky furnace, the general mustiness permeating every room that the renovations didn’t seem to exorcise. She can smell it now; thankfully it’s either improved or she’s getting used to it, but either way she plans to open all the windows and hopefully reset the air quality in here. 

Turning her back on her racoon-eyed reflection, Audrey traipses back into the bedroom, where she flings open the shutters, and the glorious summer day blasts inside. She closes her eyes against the light and warmth and feels the hangover reduce by about ten percent. 

“And don’t you slam shut,” she tells the shutters, opening her eyes and actually pointing a stern finger at them. Then she walks out of the room, the floor creaking with her every movement as though it’s following her step by step. She pauses on the landing, scans the wood of every surface around her. The tally marks from her nightmare aren’t here, either. She rolls her eyes at herself and pounds down the stairs. 

On the main floor, everything looks normal except the remnants of the sink fire. Audrey purses her lips at the shards of broken glass, puddles of wine and charred aluminum. She walks past the kitchen and opens all the windows, waking up the space. But when she passes the front door, she pauses to stare at it for a moment. It’s locked. With a shiver, she blearily recalls it blowing open on its own, dust whirling around the whole floor, and her sprinting to close it before it slammed shut and locked in her face… 

She shakes her head. It was just a nightmare. The memory of it swims inconceivably through her mind now, feeling unreal, distant, in another world. In a dream. 

Audrey crosses her arms, taps her foot absent-mindedly. Of course it was a nightmare. She’s had horridly vivid nightmares every night since Jonah died, and she should have expected them to get worse after leaving the cottage, at least for a little while. 

Soon, the Advil kicks in, and after putting on a record and cleaning the kitchen until it shines again, Audrey whirls through the afternoon priming, painting and wallpapering as many rooms as she can. By the time the sun is setting, spewing its hot-pink ribbons of light everywhere, half the house is lacquered in colour; appointments have been scheduled to install the internet and clear out the attic; and Audrey’s list of things she needs has grown to two full pages, ranging from rugs to tools to drugs. 

Beaming at her progress — not only with the house but also from her unharmonious start to the day - Audrey showers and slips into a dress. As she grabs her keys by the front door, she stares happily, sadly around her. The place no longer looks or feels abandoned. Her heart aches, a good hurt, seeing Jonah’s old furniture in a house that’s not their cottage, but her new home. 

It’s already almost 10:00, and the cabaret next door has only been open for an hour. Nestled on the street corner just behind her house, it looks more like an old farmer’s cottage than a bar. As Audrey walks up, a few patrons trickle in and out, some leaning against the pale pink exterior wall to smoke and chat. The muffled stomp of old French music grows sharp and loud as she ducks inside. 

A hundred people are crammed gleefully in the dim space, clapping and swaying and drinking under a magenta light while a band plays what sounds like an instrumental version of Joe Dassin’s Les Champs Elysées — a tourist-pleaser, but when heard on the right night it could put even a local in a good mood. Audrey pulls some bills from her purse and pays for a drink and a show, then slips gratefully onto a stool that just freed up at the bar. Soon, a whiskey on the rocks is placed in front of her by a young, tattooed bartender with blunt black bangs. Taking her first sips, Audrey allows herself to become one with the rowdy crowd, drinking in the scene with a grin. 

A while later, there’s a break in the live music and the audience is promised some Edith Piaf in about half an hour. As the room bubbles with drunken chitchat, Audrey occupies herself by examining the framed art that adorns the walls. There are old paintings and black-and-white photos of the cabaret itself, and in each one she can just make out her own attic peering over the bar’s roof. 

“Another?”

The bartender is back, leaning on the counter with her chin resting childlike in her tattooed hands. 

“Please,” Audrey says, handing her another bill. The bartender winks and fills another glass with ice. 

“Enjoying the show so far?” she asks, pouring generously. 

“Loving it,” Audrey says. “I actually just moved in next door, and I was excited to check this place out.”

The bartender’s eyes widen. “So you’re the one who bought the house?”

“Yes. Well, my dad did.”

“Ah.” The bartender leans in. “And how’s it been?”

“Well, I only got here yesterday. But it’s coming together.”

“Mmm.” 

“Hey, do you happen to know anything about the house?” Audrey asks as the bartender pours someone else a glass of white wine. “I couldn’t get much information out of the real estate agent.”

The bartender smirks. She hands the wine to her patron, then takes a deep breath and a shot of whiskey before leaning toward Audrey again. 

“Do I happen to know anything about the house,” she repeats. Not a question. She purses her lips.

Oh boy, Audrey thinks. She imagines Jonah in this position, scrambling to pull his notebook from his jacket pocket, eager to take notes for his manuscript. 

“I’ve only worked here a few years,” the bartender says, leaning closer to Audrey, “but some of the other folks here were actually around when it all went down.”

“Here we go,” Audrey mutters. She leans in, too. “When what went down?”

The bartender waves a hand as though to dismiss what she’s about to divulge. “It’s all a bunch of crap, obviously, but, just like pretty much every house in this city that’s over a hundred years old, they say it’s haunted.”

“Ah.” Unsurprised, Audrey takes a swig of her drink. “By whom?”

“What?”

“Haunted by whom?”

“Oh. Some old prick that used to live there.” The bartender distributes another few drinks then returns to Audrey. “The guy was an architect or something. He worked for Saint-Pierre’s, which is why he moved to that spot in the first place.”

“Saint-Pierre’s? The cemetery next door?”

“Yeah. He helped them with an expansion, or some construction project, but he lived next door for years and years with his daughter. He was a wacko. They say he was obsessed with death. Like, really into the occult or something. You know how these stories go.”

“Yes. I really do.” Audrey stifles a laugh, imagining Jonah’s incredulous displeasure at having missed this opportunity — the novel would have basically written itself. 

“I don’t mean to freak you out,” the bartender says. “You know it’s all exaggerated so that Haunted Paris Tours can make a buck.”

“Haunted Paris Tours?”

“You haven’t seen them roll on by yet? They will. Don’t worry, they only pop up once a week or so and don’t linger long.” She tops up Audrey’s glass and smiles. “On me.”

“Thanks,” Audrey says. She cocks her head thoughtfully. “So, a man died in my house.”

“So they say.” The bartender winces apologetically. “But again — I wasn’t even born yet, and the stories have probably snowballed over the years. People might say it’s haunted, but they say this place is, too, you know?”

“Right,” Audrey says with a nod. Montmartre was, after all, her dad’s most coveted horror hotbed. “I’m Audrey, by the way. And I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of me. If the ghost doesn’t get me, I mean.”

The bartender laughs. “I’m Julie.” She redirects her gaze to someone over Audrey’s shoulder. “Salut.”

“Salut,” says a friendly male voice. As the newcomer orders the same drink as Audrey, Audrey sips on hers absentmindedly, her attention back on one of the paintings on the wall in which she can just see the peak of her own house. 

“Is this seat taken?” the voice asks, and Audrey turns to see, with a funny skip of the heart, the pianist from last night standing there, gesturing to the now vacant stool beside her. 

He, too, seems to recognize her and he lifts his brow. “Hi!” he exclaims. 

“Hi,” she returns. “I know you. I mean, I don’t know you, but I saw you…”

“Last night,” he finishes for her. “You were outside Le Consulat, right?”

“Right,” she breathes. “And — sorry — yes, the seat is all yours.”

Julie brings him his own whiskey as he settles in next to Audrey, shimmying his stool a bit closer to hers.

“Cinq minutes jusqu'à la reprise du spectacle,” someone says into the microphone, triggering a ripple of excited, tipsy applause. 

“I’m Jay,” says the pianist. 

“Audrey.” They clink glasses and each take a sip, meeting each other’s eyes. 

“You sound quite French,” he says, his eyes twinkling through his round-framed spectacles. “Are you from here, or just visiting?”

“Actually, I just moved to Montmartre from Brest,” Audrey says. 

“Really? So did I,” Jay says. “I mean, not from Brest — from Dublin. But I’m new to Paris, too.”

“Well, your French is awful good,” she says in English, attempting an Irish accent. She regrets it immediately and gulps the last of her whiskey, but thankfully he laughs. 

“And your Irish accent is awful,” he jokes.  

“I’m sure after one more whiskey it’ll be…” she kisses her fingertips dramatically. 

“Actually, that does usually do the trick.” He orders her another whiskey and hands it to Audrey, who bites her lip, pretending to hold back tears of joy. 

“Thank you,” she says weepily, clinking his glass again. “I’ll get the next one.”

“What do you think of Montmartre so far?” he asks, peering at her over the rim of his drink. 

“Well, I haven’t had much time to explore. I mean, I’ve been to Paris before — many times — but I just got here yesterday and I’ve barely left the house yet.”

“Except to pick up some wine.”

“That was Priority Number One.”

“So this is your first night out, then? Very exciting.”

Audrey nods. “I guess so. Thought it would be nice to get away from the paint fumes.”

Jay smiles. “You do have something on your cheek there…” 

“Of course I do. Is it pale purple?”

“Yes.”

Audrey rubs the side of her face. “It’s definitely paint. Is it gone?”

“No.”

“Ah, well.” Audrey leans back and bit and narrows her eyes to examine him properly, from bottom to top: he’s unpretentiously dressed in black jeans, black laced boots and a black T-shirt. All that black makes his green eyes pop; her gaze comes to rest on them at last. 

“Subtle,” he says. 

“Yes, I’m very discreet,” she says, turning back to her booze. “And you? When did you get here?”

“About a month ago. I moved here with my mom — she’s from here originally, but we’ve travelled all over the place. She decided to move home, at least for a bit, and I thought I’d come with her. I’ve always wanted to live in this city.” 

“That’s really nice,” Audrey says warmly, though she feels a twang of jealousy, wondering how different things would be if Jonah had accompanied her on this move. “Are you in Montmartre too, then?”

“Well, we’re staying at the Terrass until we both find our own places,” Jay explains. “Though Mum doesn’t seem to be in a rush, and I’d like to secure some steady work before I get an apartment.”

“Are you a professional pianist?” 

“Yes.” He sips his whiskey. “Well, trying to be. If I don’t find a decent gig soon I might have to go crawling back to old Home Internet Solutions.”

Audrey snorts. “Part-time college job?”

“Totally,” he says with a chuckle. “What was yours?”

Audrey shrugs awkwardly. “I didn’t have one. I never went to college.”

“Oh,” Jay says, nodding. She doesn’t elaborate, so he continues, “Yeah, I’ve spent the last few weeks checking out the different bars and venues in the area, seeing where I might drop a resume.” 

“Ah. Bar-hopping,” Audrey says with an approving grin. 

“Basically. But like, fifty-five percent for research purposes.” He drains his glass. “Or maybe forty-five percent.”

“Same here,” Audrey says as the bartender appears in front of them again. 

“Hey, neighbour,” Julie says, cocking her head at Audrey. “Refill?”

“Another round, please.”

“You know, Audrey,” says the bartender, filling their glasses, “Marta’s been here a while. She’s up next, doing the Edith set. Might be fun picking her brain about the old house. She has some stories to tell, that one.”

Audrey raises her brow in interest and peers over to the clearing where the next act is setting up: a woman of about sixty with shimmering silver hair and decadently dressed in layers of beaded garbs. 

“Hell, I’d pick her brain about anything,” Audrey says, watching the songstress down a glass of red wine in one shot, somehow making it look like an elegant act. “Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem.”

Marta is now tapping the microphone. “Is this thing on?” she bellows, and the audience roars with laughter and applause. 

After the show, the crowd thins as patrons stumble happily out into the fresh midnight air, well-fed on music and booze, but Audrey and Jay stay put at the bar. To Audrey’s happy surprise, Marta frees herself from a pack of admiring tourists and sidles up to the counter next to her. 

“Julie, my love, I need something,” she says, and the bartender slides a glass of red wine toward her. She begins to drink, her many rings clinking against her glass. 

“I want this woman to be my fairy godmother,” Audrey whispers to Jay. “Watch this.”

“Watching.” 

Audrey turns to face Marta. “Your performance was incroyable, madame.”

Marta grins squintily at her. “Merci. And to think I’ve only performed that set about eight hundred times.” She snorts at her own joke. Everyone else chuckles.

“Julie says you’ve been performing here for some time now.”

“Aging me, are you, Julie?” Marta scowls at the bartender, who just smiles sweetly and continues wiping down the counter. “Yes, I’ve been here since about ‘87. Insanity, I say.”

“Marta, dear, this is our new neighbour,” says Julie, giving the singer a significant look. “She bought the house next door.”

“My God.” Marta’s brow lifts up into her grey hair as she focuses more intently on Audrey. She lifts her glass and Audrey moves to cheers her, but then realizes Marta is simply holding it up for Julie to top up. The bartender obliges, and Marta takes a long sip, her eyes flicking from Audrey to Jay and back again. Then, finally, she exclaims: “Well, welcome to the neighbourhood! Do our new neighbours have names?”

“Oh, we’re not together,” Audrey says, glancing at Jay, who’s looking amused. “But I’m Audrey, and this is Jay.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Madame Caron,” Jay pipes up, giving a bashful wave. “I’m new to Paris, too — and I was told that your show is one of the first to see.” 

Marta places a hand on her heart, looking appreciatively between her two young admirers. “Why, if I hadn’t already had five glasses of wine I’d be drunk on praise,” she says. 

“Actually,” Audrey remembers, “do you know if the band is looking for a pianist?” She peers at Jay, whose freckled cheeks redden instantly. He gulps down more drink and Audrey swallows a smirk.

Marta shrugs. “Oh, I’m sure they are. Do you play?”

Audrey nods her head at Jay, who offers another little wave. “I do,” he says with an almost apologetic grin. 

“Ahhh,” Marta drawls. Then she shouts in no particular direction: “HEY, RALPH?”

“OUI?” a voice bellows from somewhere in the depths of the bar. 

“COULD WE USE ANOTHER PIANIST?” Marta continues at high-volume, still staring at Jay, who blinks awkwardly. 

“SURE,” the voice replies. “GET THEIR INFORMATION.” 

Marta smiles, pleased. “Well, there you go. Leave me with your information and dear old Ralph will give you a ring. You can come in and play something for him.” 

Julie provides Jay with a napkin and a pen, and he scribbles his name and phone number, his face still flushed but beaming. 

“Merci, Madame, this is too good of you, really.” 

Marta rolls her eyes and snatches the napkin back with a grandmotherly smile. She then folds it into her robust cleavage.

“Oh, nothing is too good of me. Thank you both for popping in tonight. I love to see some new faces in here that aren’t tourists.” She finishes her drink and heaves herself onto her feet. “This old bat needs some sleep, but I do hope you’ll come back for another show sometime soon.”

“We will,” the two say simultaneously, glancing at each other. 

“Good,” Marta says with a wink, and wobbles toward the door. 

“Madame,” Audrey calls, hopping off her seat to hurry after the woman. “Sorry, Madame Caron — one more thing.”

Marta turns to Audrey expectantly. 

“I’d love to take you for a coffee or a drink sometime,” she says pleadingly. 

“Let me guess,” Marta interrupts, and to Audrey’s surprise the woman plucks the half-empty whiskey glass from Audrey’s hand and helps herself to a large gulp. She then hands it back to Audrey, who’s now smiling incredulously. “You want to hear a little ghost story.”

Audrey blinks for a few seconds, then nods slowly. “I—I think so.” 

Marta nods, too, looking at Audrey with that same penetrative gaze. “Sure. Sure, dear. You know where to find me, eh?” 

And with that, the old woman turns on her heel, her bejeweled dress flowing, and exits the bar. 

Frowning, Audrey looks down at what’s left of her drink, then dumps it into her mouth. 

“Hey, thanks for bringing that up for me,” Jay says as Audrey shimmies back onto her stool.

“I just hope your writing is still legible after the unearths that napkin from her breasts.”

Audrey settles her bill and Jay’s, rejecting his manic rebuttals. 

“Come on, it’s been ages since I bought a guy a drink,” she says, again dismounting her stool. The bar has reduced to only them, Julie and a group of drunk Germans struggling to belt out La Vie en Rose. 

“But I believe that was four drinks,” Jay protests. 

Audrey shushes him and turns to Julie, who’s busy cleaning the bar. 

“Julie, do you work every weekend?” 

“Every day we’re open,” she sighs with a small, tired smile. 

“Well, I’ll see you soon, then. Thanks for all the refills.” Audrey grabs Jay’s hand and leads him out of the bar. He doesn’t seem to mind her assertiveness and in fact strides bemusedly after her with his other hand casually in his jean pocket.

“Fine. I’ll get the next round,” he says resignedly once she’s paraded him into the moonlight. He lights a cigarette. 

“Fine,” she says, wondering when that might be. She pulls a joint out of her pocket and lights it on the tip of his cigarette, and they spend the next few minutes in content silence, swapping smokes. When they’re done, Jay puts them both out with his boot and looks down at her. 

In the split-second before he bends his tall frame to put his lips on hers, Audrey wonders if her old air mattress could survive the two of them. 

Jay kisses her gently, tentatively, and when he pulls back, his hand on her paint-stained cheek, she bites her lip. For months she’s been too solemn to speak, let alone be intimate with anyone, and was really not expecting to feel anything, anything at all, for many years, possibly for the rest of her life. But this guy. She rises to her toes and leans in for more. 

After who knows how long, they come up for air. 

“I’m Jay White, by the way. You’ve unlocked the last name.”

“Audrey Beaufille.” 

Jay glances to his left, at the high stone wall that perimeters the cemetery. 

“Is that a graveyard?” he asks. 

“Yep.” 

“Hot,” he says sarcastically. 

She desperately wants to bring him home, but she tells herself it’s not the right night. She doesn’t know him. But beneath this excuse lurks the thought of last night — snatches of memory, the slamming of doors, markings being scratched manically into the floor by an invisible hand…  

“You know how these stories go,” Julie’s voice resurfaces in her mind, quelling her brief, drunken leanings toward the paranormal. “It’s all exaggerated so that Haunted Paris Tours can make a buck.”

Audrey blinks hard. She doesn’t even notice she’s swaying until she feels Jay’s hands grip her sides. 

“Woah,” he murmurs, and she opens her eyes as he leans her against a tree. “You okay?”

Audrey takes a deep breath. “Guess I had one too many. I’ll be fine.”

Jay nods. “You said you live close, right? Are you okay to get home?”

Audrey nods, but stumbles as she takes a step. Jay is there to catch her again. 

“All right, here we go,” he grunts, and suddenly she’s in his arms, being carried out to the sidewalk. “Is this okay?”

“Definitely okay. Definitely embarrassing, but definitely okay.”

“Where did you say your place is?”

“Right here.”

“Oh.” Jay slows to a halt in front of Audrey’s house and puts her down gently. She pulls her keys out of her purse as he gapes up at the dark, ivy-strangled facade, and whistles. “Look at this place, eh?”

“I know,” Audrey chuckles, hiccoughing. “It’s nuts. I can’t believe I live here.”

“You good to get inside?” he asks. 

Audrey nods, finally pulling the key from her bag and inserting it into the gate’s lock. “I’m sorry about that back there. I haven’t had a near-fainting blackout experience since I was about nineteen.”

“I do believe we nearly cleared the place out of their Johnny Walker.”

“Excellent.” The gate swings open and Audrey looks back up at Jay, who’s leaning against her exterior wall with his hands in his pockets. 

“So, is it taking advantage if I ask for your number right now?”

Audrey grins. “You got a napkin? I’ll tuck it in your boobs.”

They both snort with laughter. A minute later, her number is in his phone. 

“Thanks again, Jay.”

“I’ll text you,” he promises, taking a few steps back. 

“Please.” She flashes him one last, dizzy smile and slips into the courtyard. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he says. 

Through the bars of her front gate, Audrey watches Jay turn on his heel and head in the direction of town. He looks back at one point, gives another little wave, glances up at the house, then disappears down Rue des Saules.