*From Part 1*
...But now I have to find this guy. And get him to confess to what, Lane? Being able to fly and being strong enough to rescue a plane out of the sky? It was utterly ridiculous, and would be beyond extraordinary if it were true. I down the rest of my coffee and pay, gathering my things. I know I have to at least get the story of the near crash to Perry. As for the possibility of a superhero rescuing us—that will have to wait until I can get more proof.
Because then, I’ll have the story I’ve been waiting for. The story that will put Lois Lane back on top.
PART 2
*L**L*
I realize time is ticking past and I need to call Perry so he can get a heads-up on the plane story. I quickly gather my things and head for the door. My notebook and the picture are wrapped snugly in my arms as dreams of a Pulitzer start dancing in my head. Part of me really wants to tell Perry the whole truth, but the other part-- the part that’s an ace reporter-- knows there is a greater story here and I need to find out the details first.
I head to the door, lost in my thoughts, when I bump into what feels like a solid wall. My papers and photo go flying and I snap off an angry retort at the man who has bumped into me. We lean down at the same time to gather my things, though I try to move faster, worried that he’ll spot my picture. He passes me my bag and offers a hand for me to stand up.
As I take his warm, solid hand, I look up into his face, and I’m momentarily made breathless by what I see. He’s broad-shouldered and handsome, with thick black hair that begs for fingers to be run through it. He’s wearing smart-looking glasses that set off his strong jaw. His warm brown eyes burrow into mine, and I find myself at a loss for words—a rare thing, trust me.
“Sorry—mademoiselle,” he says, switching between languages, which tells me immediately that he’s an American.
“No problem,” I say as I take back my things. I see him glance at my photo and then his eyes quickly meet mine. There’s a brief moment where I swear he looked worried at what he saw, but just as quickly it was gone.
He hands me my small Paris map book, which I haven’t even cracked open yet. “Are you a tourist, then? I mean, have you been here before?”
“I—I’m just passing through, actually. Only here for another day,” I say, my hand still tingling from contact with his.
“Oh,” he says, seemingly disappointed.
“You?” I ask. He’s in a suit, so I take a shot in the dark. “Are you here on business?”
“Sort of. I mean, yes. Yes, I am.” He fumbles adorably with his glasses as he clears his throat. He’s obviously flustered, and I’m terribly charmed by his bumbling. I hear vague warning bells in my head that I shouldn’t give him the time of day, but my jump-first-ask-questions-later side pushes me forward, knowing I’ll only be here another day, and it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a little flirtation, which could help repair my wounded ego a bit.
“Look, I’m sorry to bump into you like that. Could I buy you a coffee?” he asks. Then, maybe feeling the need to clarify he goes on. “I mean, we’re both Americans—it’s your first time in Paris… And I am sorry to run into you—“
I smile at his nervous ramblings, knowing my own penchant to babble. “Um, sure. Why not?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I need to phone Perry. I can’t let myself get distracted by a handsome face. I look around for a phone booth and then glance apologetically at my sudden companion.
“Why don’t you get a table? I have to call my office.”
He nods, and I make my way to a phone booth in the cafe. The phone immediately starts speaking French to me, and I have no idea how to dial internationally. There’s a code for the States, so I try that, throwing in a few francs, hoping I’ll get a connection. After a few frustrated tries, I finally make it through to the Planet.
“I need to speak to Perry White. It’s Lois Lane.”
I glance through the glass window at my sudden coffee date, when I notice I stupidly left my folder containing the picture and my notes with him. He hasn’t touched them, thank goodness but I need to hurry up and talk to Perry before Mr. Handsome gets curious about my work.
At last, Perry answers.
“Perry! Hi, it’s Lois! Look, just wanted to let you know I landed in Paris. But there was a freak accident with our plane. We got caught in a thunderstorm and a bolt of lightning cut through the wing. I thought we were goners but--- we made it.”
I hesitate. I really want to tell him about what I saw… But something tells me to keep it to myself a little while longer. I have to learn more first. Then, when I have all the details, I’ll be able to give Perry the scoop of the century.
“That must have been one heck of a pilot,” says Perry speculatively.
“Yeah,” I say, the truth on the tip of my tongue. I shake myself out of it, watching as the cutie in the glasses waits patiently for me to get off the phone. “Anyway, I’ll have the story written up and faxed to you within a few hours. You should have it in time for the afternoon edition.”
Perry gives me a little praise, and I hang up the phone reluctantly. I have the picture to prove what I saw, but for some reason I can’t explain, I want to hold back what I know from my editor. Part of me is worried, I know, that he just won’t believe me. And since I have no way to explain further about who might have rescued the plane – it’s just as well that I don’t say anything yet. I need solid facts or I’ll never be able to repair my reputation.
I make my way back to the table, and immediately slip the envelope with the photo and my notes safely back into my bag, away from prying eyes.
“Everything okay?” my new friend asks innocently.
“Yeah… “ I say. When he offers nothing in return, I prod, “So, what’s your name?”
“Clark Kent,” he says with a disarming smile.
“Lois Lane,” I say looking him in the eyes, daring him to recognize who I am.
“Of the Daily Planet,” he supplies to my surprise, and I feel flattered. “I’ve read your work. You’re very good.”
I take in the stroke on my wounded ego. “Thanks. I
was good…” I say vaguely, thinking of my stupid mistakes with Claude.
“And now--- you’re not?” he asks, apparently not buying my self-deprecation.
“Well, I am still good, I guess,” I say, the photo I failed to mention to my editor making me self-doubtful. “I mean—look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I deflect.
He relents easily, suddenly looking up as the waitress approaches our little table. He looks at me, but I shrug helplessly. “I know only a little high school French.”
“What would you like?” he asks me, and I tell him I’d like a café latte.
He orders for both of us in what I can only assume is flawless French. I’m impressed, yet unfortunately also reminded of Claude. I look down at my napkin, questioning my sanity at having a coffee with this handsome stranger. The last thing I need right now is to get distracted by a man. I am tempted to just get up and bolt—but it’s just a coffee. A coffee with a handsome man won’t kill me.
Clark notices my discomfiture I think, as he looks at me apologetically again. “Is everything all right, Miss Lane?”
I smile despite myself.
‘Miss Lane’? Really? Where was this guy from? “Call me Lois,” I say.
Our coffees arrive. While I search the sugar container for something resembling a fake sweetener that I’m familiar with, I notice Mr. Hard Body throws in three teaspoons of real sugar.
“Quite a sweet tooth there, Clark,” I say good-humoredly.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I like to live a little,” he says with that smile that should come with a warning label.
I figure it’s time to get down to brass tacks. Before I find myself swept up in those lovely chocolate brown eyes – and who doesn’t love chocolate?—I need to find out exactly who I’m dealing with.
“So, you’re here on business? What kind of business do you do?” I ask, trying not to sound too much like an abrasive reporter, but failing.
“Well, um, I’m a reporter too, actually,” he says somewhat hesitantly, and I suddenly feel my hackles rise. Not a reporter—anything but that. Could he know something about my story? Is that why he asked me for a coffee? I resist the urge to look in my bag and confirm that I still have all of my notes and the photo. I feel the blood drain from my face, seeing Claude’s betrayal happen all over again.
“So – come across any good stories, then?” I ask pointedly, hoping to catch him if he is interested in what I know. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—
“No, not really. I’m only here in Paris, passing through, really. I am a freelancer and have been traveling across Europe.”
I almost breathe a sigh of relief. A travel writer. That’s pretty harmless.
“Oh, been anywhere interesting?” I ask, though part of me just wants to leave. I really don’t want to deal with another reporter – even if he just writes travel stories. I decide I will only give him until I finish my coffee. He may have all the time in the world freelancing, but I have a deadline.
“I just got back from Morocco,” Clark says. “The spice markets there are the best in the world—“
He starts telling me about his travels, which sound interesting, but I honestly can’t take the time to listen to him. The photo is burning a hole in my bag and I only have two hours before I have to get my article submitted. Besides, the last thing I need in my life is a handsome distraction – especially one with a reporter’s instinct.
“I’m sorry, Clark, really I am,” I say, cutting into his detailed description of some fruit seller in the Moroccan market. “But I have a deadline. I really have to go,” I stand abruptly and gather my things to leave.
He nods understandingly, and I try not to notice his look of disappointment. There’s an awkward pause as he looks up at me. “Could I take you to dinner tonight?” he asks.
I’m taken aback by this new offer and hesitate, seeing the earnestness on his face. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea, Clark,” I say, trying to let him down gently.
“I’m just saying—you don’t know anyone in Paris. I know this city like the back of my hand. What do you have to lose? Let me buy you dinner.”
His offer sounds tempting. And it would be preferable to me ordering in and watching television in French that I won’t understand…
I waver, “All right. Meet me—here, at eight?” I suggest, not trusting him enough to tell him where I’m staying.
He smiles. “No problem. I’ll see you later… Lois.”
He stands up and takes my coat off the hook, holding it for me like a gentleman. His manners make me smile inwardly.
“See you at eight. Mr. Clark Kent,” I say, feeling his eyes on me as I head out of the café.
*L**L*
I get back to my smallish hotel room and unpack my portable word processor. I try not to think about my little meeting with Clark Kent, and begin working instead on restoring my reputation with the story about the almost plane crash. I lay out my notes, setting aside the envelope with the photograph. I need to look at it again—is there any way I could include what I saw in the article and still retain my credibility? It’s so frustrating, because it could be a huge story—and yet, if I don’t have much to back it up, I could say good-bye forever to my reputation.
I sit with the photo in my lap a moment. I remember from journalism school that you have to sometimes resist the temptation to throw in a tantalizing tidbit when you don’t have all of the facts. But still – if I could use this photo to prove someone had literally rescued our plane out of the sky—
I open the envelope and my stomach lurches to discover that it’s empty! I search frantically through my bag and my notes, but it’s absolutely gone! The negatives are gone as well, which tells me that the photo wasn’t just lost, it was stolen!
Mr. Hard Body. Clark Kent must have sniffed out my story and is trying to scoop me! I should have known! How could I be so foolish after having been duped so recently by Claude? Foolish, Lane! I’m so angry with myself for having relented even for a moment. I’m not twenty-four hours out of Metropolis and already letting another reporter get the best of me!
And what did he expect at dinner tonight? Was he going to use my photo as blackmail to get the rest of the story? I simply can’t believe his gall—or my own gullibility!
I pace in my tiny hotel room. I need to calm down. I still have the basic story to turn in to Perry. I will deal with Mr. Kent later.
Sometimes I write my best work when I’m angry. I hope now is one of those times. Clark has no idea how thin is the thread on which my career hangs—but what would he want with a scoop like mine if he’s a travel writer? I sigh painfully as I realize how fully I was duped. Of course he’s not really a travel writer—that was just a ruse to get my trust. Who does he work for, I wonder?
I bang furiously on my keyboard, thinking how I will confront him tonight at dinner. He owes me at least that much for stealing my photo!
At last, I finish the story—without any reference to the mysterious hand print on the wing. It’s just as well. I had no proof besides the photo, and unless the mystery person steps forward, I have no one to corroborate my story. Lane, you should still be satisfied, I tell myself as I reread what I’ve typed. It’s still a strong story.
After all, it’s not every day that you fly on a plane that nearly crashes and live to tell about it.
*L**L*
Paris is all about the cafes. Here are some pictures to help give you an idea:
Terminus Cafe, which is in the neighborhood of Opera where Lois' hotel is, where I picture L&C having their first meeting, across from St. Lazare train station:
Terminus Cafe at Concorde Opera Exterior Terminus Cafe St Lazare train station But to give you an even better idea of the neighborhood, here is the famous Cafe de la Paix:
Cafe de la Paix Cafe de la Paix, exterior
