When Nina Meets Lizzy

February 4, 2026

This letter is part of Nina's epistolary blog 'Nina's Diary', where she shares letters with her inner circle of close girlfriends. She overthinks films, books, and heritage sites to make sense of life.

Paris, September 14th

Dear Billie,

I have just lived through the most peculiar experience. I even have a bruise on my arm from pinching myself, just to check that it was all real. Let me tell you what happened… from the beginning.

On Friday afternoon, I was summoned by Mrs. Miller, my supervisor at the office, and told that I would be handling the coat room at the embassy both that evening and Saturday. She spent at least half an hour reprimanding me (again) for how absent-minded I had appeared at the last dinner party. Apparently, one guest complained that the careless coat girl (me!) had mixed up her one-of-a-kind white satin gloves with someone else’s vulgar black faux-leather pair. The complaint had reached the Ambassador’s ears, no less.

Mrs. Miller admitted I wasn’t her first choice. But since the other girls were not exactly eager to give up their weekend, she said she had no alternative but to compromise. To add insult to injury, she accused me of failing to grasp the honor she was placing on a silver platter: the exclusive responsibility of caring for the crème de la crème of European leaders’ coats and belongings. Worse, I was told I was an ambassador for my country and should conduct myself accordingly (I had no idea the U.S. reputation rested so heavily on my shoulders!). She went on about how fortunate I was not to have endured the worst of the war years myself. Blah, blah, blah… Billie, you can only imagine the cursing, shouting, and door-slamming that was going on inside my head during her interminable monologue. Nevertheless, I offered her my most obedient smile and assured her I would be irreproachable. After all, I need the extra money. Film is not cheap, and neither are notebooks.

I had just reached the embassy’s back door when I realized I couldn’t find your book, The Scarlet Letter. I must have dropped it as I rushed off the bus, anxious not to be late. I’m devastated; not only was it a gift from you, but I was halfway through and desperate to know what becomes of Hester Prynne. So, I walked into that eerily quiet, poorly lit corridor with nothing but boredom as my companion. By the time I took my place behind the counter, I was irritated, exhausted, and painfully aware of my feet being crushed into narrow heels. Remind me again: why are we made to wear these to work?

After nearly two hours of incessant smiling, I finally allowed myself to sit when I noticed the coats shifting at the back of the room. I had the fright of my life. For a moment, I was convinced I had gone mad. I blinked once… then twice… certain that exhaustion was producing hallucinations. And that’s when an emerald green evening dress seemed to leap out of nowhere, nearly knocking me off my chair.

Inside the dress stood a young woman, barely twenty-two, with the reddest hair I had ever seen.

Her first words were a breathless, “There you are!”

I managed only a weak, “And… who are you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she launched into an explanation as if time were running out. Apparently, she’d first noticed me over a month ago—the night I was scolded by her mother over the stupid gloves. She had seen me afterward, pretending to rearrange coats while secretly reading Jane Eyre whenever no one was watching. That, she said, was the moment she decided she had to speak to me. All in one breath, she explained that her name was Eliza, though she preferred Lizzy; that she was the Queen’s cousin from England; and that she was often required, against her will, to attend these long, dull, and pretentious functions. She had escaped the dinner party upstairs and slipped through a back corridor just to find me. She made me promise not to mention a word of it to anyone.

And then, as if on cue, the inevitable happened. Her lady-in-waiting came rushing down the corridor, asking if I’d seen Lady Eliza. I shook my head and said no, and she vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. Lizzy, hiding beneath the counter, resumed talking as though nothing had happened. She wanted to know why I had come to Paris and what I thought of Jane Eyre. It was so surreal. While half the embassy searched for her, she sat right there, in the coat room, discussing literature with a complete stranger. We talked for hours about London, Paris, and home in New York. Time folded in on itself so naturally that I barely noticed it was nearing eleven when she finally sighed, saying she had to go before her mother drove the lady-in-waiting mad. They were leaving for Rome the following day.

Before she left, she promised she would come back the next evening, just before their departure. And she did. She appeared as promised - this time with a book: Sense and Sensibility by the English novelist Jane Austen. She pressed it into my hands and insisted I read it.

We promised to write. And before I realized it, she was gone again.

Billie, those two evenings were the best I’ve had in a very long time. For once since I've moved to Paris, I felt a natural, effortless connection with another person; one who, I suspect, may become a real friend.

With love,