What’s Not True: A Novel

by Valerie Taylor

  “Why a rumor?”

  “Police never found the ring.”

  “Wow.” Kassie stared out the window as they stopped at an intersection. “Speaking of rings. How’d you know about this one?” She lifted her right hand and wiggled her finger.

  “Chris told me that when you were shopping at La Maison de Paris, he went to Tiffany’s to get the pendant and then to Cartier to pick up the ring.”

  “You mean, to pick it out.”

  “No. Quite clearly, he said up. It was ready for him.”

  Really. Suddenly the trip to Paris sounded less spontaneous than she originally thought. Chris was more presumptuous than she gave him credit for, or maybe he just knew her better than she knew herself. Whatever. He knew she loved him and this time she wouldn’t let him go.

  “How long before we’re there?” Kassie had no desire to question Tanya any longer about her cozy conversations with Chris.

  “About ten minutes.”

  Kassie opened the journal, flipping through it to find blank pages she could utilize. One page stopped her cold. A mind map.

  Circled in blue in the center of the page was the word LEXI. Probably a name. A female name. Branching away from the center on the left was a series of L words in green: lovely, lusty, leggy, lips, longing. On the opposite side were C words in purple: curly, curvy, chesty, crave. Along the right side of the page, stacked one letter on top of the other, was GREECE.

  Kassie’s breathing accelerated. She adjusted her glasses, unsure if her eyes were focused correctly. They were. And there was more. Reading left to right were three words in black: conflicted-confused-tangled.

  Her fingers walked to the bottom of the page. Her name, KASSIE, was written in calligraphy inside a red heart. She didn’t know he knew calligraphy. Go figure. Arrows leading away from the heart contained the words affirm, commit, adore, engage, swoop.

  She clutched the armrest. Now was not the time to spiral out of control. Who the hell is Lexi and why is she juxtaposed with me on a page in Chris’s journal? Just two of the questions the lovely Mr. Gaines would have to answer.

  “We’re here. Kassie? Kassie, we’re here.”

  Getting out of the car, Kassie gave Tanya her hand, afraid if she didn’t, she would’ve collapsed to the pavement. She looked up at the nine-story ultra-modern glass building; her eyes widened not only in awe but to prevent tears from falling.

  Tanya handed Kassie her card. “Call me when you’re ready. I’ll stay in the area.”

  “Merci, Tanya.” Kassie hugged her, hanging on for dear life.

  Kassie checked in with the guard in the lobby, who directed her to Calibri Marketing Group on the eighth floor. The elevator ride gave her enough time to transform herself from whatever she was—wife, stepmom, fiancée, fool—to the consummate marketing executive.

  “Bonjour, Madame O’Callaghan.”

  Here we go again. “Call me Kassie, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Mimi is running a few minutes late. Please have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Kassie made her way to one of the four black leather square-shaped chairs in the lobby’s waiting area. The chair was bigger than she, so she had a choice to make—either sit uncomfortably on the edge or squiggle her butt to the rear of the seat. Moving one side of her cheek, then the other, she squiggled. Once positioned professionally with her two feet barely touching the floor, she couldn’t help but notice how her black dress blended in with the chair. Amused, she imagined anyone looking at her from a distance might only see her silver belt and think she was a tuxedo slung across the chair. Shifting her body to the left, she wedged her red purse between her butt and the arm of the chair. That should help. I don’t want to fade into the woodwork.

  When she’d conquered the chair, she eyeballed the rest of the seating area. Modern artwork with splashes of every shade of every primary color interrupted the monochromatic black and white furniture and stark white walls. And with the panorama of Paris in full view out of the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows, Kassie knew she wasn’t in Kansas anymore—in spite of the red shoes she wore. This was Paris.

  Forgetting how difficult it was to settle herself into the chair, Kassie pulled herself up and walked over to the receptionist.

  “Pardon me. Can I give you this card now? Would you be kind enough to call my driver when I’m ready to leave?”

  “Mais bien sûr.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Madame Bisset. You can call me Patricia.”

  But of course.

  “Patricia?” she mouthed as she returned to the seating area and reacquainted herself with the chair. Well, Mother, you finally made it to Paris. I’d tell you to stop following me. “But I need you now.”

  “Can I get you something, Kassie?” Patricia, the receptionist, asked.

  “No, just talking to my . . . my . . . self.”

  24

  Tea for Two Times Two

  Not knowing how long Mimi would keep her waiting, Kassie contemplated what to do in the meantime. She could turn on her phone, read messages and news. But that would be rude. She kept it off and tucked it in her purse. She could stare at the page in Chris’s journal where he compared someone named Lexi to her. But that would boil her blood and frustrate her when he wasn’t there to confront. She chose, instead, to ignore what was out of her control, at least for the time being, and do what she did best.

  Kassie pulled out a purple pen from her purse, opened Chris’s journal to a blank page, and started a list, actually a two-column ledger—Mimi on the left, MeMe on the right. She chuckled, two puffs of air escaping her nostrils. She glanced at Patricia, who was busy doing whatever. If she’d heard Kassie’s mini snort, she didn’t let on.

  Under the Mimi column, she doodled areas of inquiry Mimi might possibly explore. Why in Paris? How long? Alone? Kassie’s right-hand thumb rubbed the ring. She wondered how easy this new habit would be to break once she moved it to the rightful left hand?

  Ten minutes passed. No sign of Mimi. She continued her list-making, still focused on the Mimi side. Boston and Tom? New clients? Strength of the business? Nothing I can’t handle.

  Kassie shifted her attention to the other side of her ledger. What would she ask Mimi? Family? Daughter—four or five now? Kassie frowned at the thought of discussing how successful Mimi was at balancing family and career when she’d never had the chance to give it a go herself. Nevertheless, she’d bite her lip and swallow her pride and go down that route if need be.

  A vision of her Uncle Dan flickered through her mind. What was it he always said? Remember the end game. She scribbled nonsensical circle and square shapes at the bottom of the page. Killing time, willing her thoughts to stay centered. Time check. 10:20, according to the multicolored ball clock on the wall behind Patricia.

  She’d already waited twenty minutes for Mimi, a managing director, which was five minutes longer than she’d have given her college professors. She couldn’t leave as she would’ve then. She decided to suck it up and wait. Back to her list. “Where was I?”

  The end game. How could she remember it when she didn’t know what the end game was? Tom hadn’t given her much of a clue. Mimi had an idea to bounce off her. He could’ve given her more information than that.

  How’s business? Kassie wrote in the MeMe column. She drew a small arrow and then wrote the word Idea, followed by four question marks. Across the bottom of the page she wrote END GAME and underscored it twice.

  Nearly thirty minutes passed. Still no sign of Mimi. Maybe if she went to the ladies’ room. It’s like buttering a wedge of bread at a restaurant. As soon as you do, your main meal arrives.

  Kassie stood.

  Patricia stood. “Mimi will see you now.”

  The Paris arm of the Calibri Marketing Group had half the staff of the home office in Boston. Comparatively—actually, to be honest, there was no comparison—the Paris office shimmered and shined in a way the Boston o
ffice never could or would. Tom was too image conscious, always concerned clients would accuse them of charging exorbitant fees if they worked in the lap of luxury. Apparently, French clients preferred to align themselves with firms as good as or better than themselves.

  Taking it all in, Kassie followed Patricia down a long hallway, past a conference room large enough for twelve seated. The transparent glass walls had the faintest smoky tint and three-inch Eiffel Towers conspicuously etched in the glass, most likely to prevent head-on collisions.

  “Pause-café,” Patricia said as they passed a small room where three people laughed as one of the fellows shared something on his device.

  “Coffee break?”

  “Oui.” Patricia led the way up a spiral staircase, stopping at a doorway at the top. She stepped aside and pointed a French-manicured index finger to a chair in front of a white desk large enough to land a small airplane, or perhaps a drone, where Mimi sat with her eyes down, obscured by a seventeen-inch Apple laptop screen.

  “Bonjour, Kassie. Give me a couple of moments, s’il vous plaît. Finishing an email.”

  Haven’t I given you more than thirty moments already? Bad Kassie’s voice echoed inside her head.

  Nodding her permission to take her time, Kassie lowered herself into a leather high-back swivel chair that resembled marshmallows in its look and feel—much better than the lobby chairs—and tried to suppress her alter ego by scanning the office. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take her eyes off Mimi in her ladybug red V-neck top with sleeves that flowed to her elbows. Her face looked older than Kassie remembered. But then, she probably looked older too, to Mimi.

  Cut yourself some slack, girl, you’ve been through a lot the last five years. She touched the tip of each finger as Bad Kassie silently counted them off—her mother’s death, Mike’s illness, the divorce. Oh, and the on-again, off-again, on-again Chris affair. How many is that? Too many to count and no time to dwell on the past. Time to choose a different fork in the road.

  A different fork? The Eiffel Tower fork. Swiping it must’ve been a sign. A good one. She reached for the spot just below her neck. Not there. Her teeth gnawed a section of the inside of her mouth. Damn it. In a rush to get ready, she’d left the new necklace on the desk before she’d showered. Another sign? A not so good one. KO, focus. This time it was her mother’s voice she heard.

  All right already, she’d focus. On Mimi again. Her hair was different than she remembered too. The style. A ponytail. Unusual, Kassie thought, for an executive to wear a long ponytail adorned with a red bow and a flip at the end. And the color. Where had she seen that dark silver tone, almost the shade of gunmetal, before? Her eyes narrowed as she touched the sparkly belt around her waist. Gabriella, of course. Leave it to the French to take gray, and its many silvery shades, and make it trendy for women of all ages.

  “Bonjour again, Kassie. Sorry about that,” Mimi said, remaining seated. Her ponytail swung as she swore at the computer. At least Kassie assumed Mimi swore. Whatever she said was in French, after all.

  Taking her lead from Mimi, Kassie stayed seated and leaned across the desk to shake Mimi’s ringless hand, which seemed warmer than she expected and a bit swollen. Probably the July humidity. Kassie hoped her new nail ring hadn’t scratched Mimi’s palm.

  With that, their tête-à-tête commenced, pretty much flowing according to Kassie’s checklist, which remained out of sight in the closed journal she’d rested on the desk. When Mimi asked why she happened to be in Paris, Kassie kept her response short and sweet. “Vacation. It’d been a while since I visited your beautiful city.” Kassie refrained from detailing how she’d arrived there from Venice, or from saying, “I’m here with my husband’s son, whom, by the way, I’m going to marry.” She had no desire to be schooled on the French word for cougar . . . or stepmom.

  With her right hand sitting snugly under her left palm, she thumbed the ring again. She couldn’t quite figure if she was developing a nervous tic or if the ring was quickly becoming her source of strength, her totem, supplanting either the gondola or the Tower.

  When it was her turn to take the lead, Kassie sucked it up, was the good corporate colleague from across the pond, and asked about Mimi’s family. Not surprisingly, Mimi beamed, pointing to a photo of her daughter playing soccer. Kassie would’ve done the same thing if she was sitting in Mimi’s seat and had family to crow about. Gratefully, this gave Kassie a segue from a painful discussion about children to a topic more to her liking: sports and France’s recent World Cup victory. “Felicitations!”

  “Sorry the USA was absent this year,” Mimi pouted unconvincingly.

  Always the competitor, Kassie squirmed, planting her feet on the floor, pushing out her chest, and rubbing her hands along the arms of the chair. “Well, we have baseball and football. American football. I predict it’s going to be a championship year for the Red Sox and Patriots.” You say that every year.

  “I’m not familiar . . .” Mimi rolled her chair back, signaling a shift in the meeting’s agenda. She stood with her fingers touching the desk, seeming to brace herself.

  Kassie’s head and shoulders reared. Her eyes grew large as Mimi’s very pregnant stomach popped out of a body-hugging jumpsuit that resembled comfy jammies, adorned with a red and white polka-dotted sash below her very pregnant boobs.

  “Let’s move to the couch.” Mimi approached Kassie, who by now was also standing out of necessity and in awe. When Mimi pointed to an adjoining sitting area and touched Kassie’s elbow, she wasn’t sure Mimi was being polite or if she needed to hold on to Kassie for dear life. This woman’s huge.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the chair.” Mimi laughed. “It’s easier to get in and out of these days.”

  “I can only imagine.” That’s an understatement.

  As if on cue, Patricia entered the office with a silver tray and placed it between them on the glass coffee table.

  “How about tea? Croissants?”

  “Non, merci. I had—” How many pastries can one person eat in a day?

  “Hope you don’t mind. I’m eating for three these days.”

  “Oh my goodness! Twins! How exciting.” Kassie fake smiled. You’ve got to be kidding. Not fair. “When are you due? Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “Au contraire. That is precisely the question you should be asking, Kassie. And precisely the reason Thomas and I wanted you here today.”

  “Excusez-moi?” Flummoxed beyond all comprehension by what she was seeing and hearing, Kassie blurted out one of the five or six French expressions she and almost every American knew. She hoped she hadn’t given Mimi an open invitation to continue the meeting in her native language.

  “With all due respect, I’m not sure I understand. Why is your having twins sometime in the not-too-distant future the precise reason I’m here today?”

  Mimi ignored Kassie’s declination of tea and filled a porcelain cup for her anyway and placed a delicate matching plate with a croissant on the table in front of her as well.

  “Here. This is going to take a while.”

  Before Kassie knew it, an hour and a half had flown by, and she still wasn’t clear as to why she was there. Mimi had spent most of the time telling Kassie about a small firm in London they were considering merging with—acquiring would be a better way to describe it. Mimi said she and Thomas, not Tom—if the French are so formal, why doesn’t she call me Kassandra—decided the London firm would open a market for the company that would complement their current portfolio and was expected to grow rapidly over the next decade. She and Mimi discussed the pros and cons, and it seemed the pros had it.

  “Except for one small detail.” Mimi stood, balancing herself with both hands on the small of her back.

  Kassie was relieved, literally, when Mimi suggested a bathroom break. Mimi directed Kassie to a ladies’ room down the hall. Naturally, Mimi had a private salle de bain adjoining her office. Oh, how Kassie would love a peek in there.
Everything about Mimi and the Paris office screamed magnifique and élégant.

  “I could get used to working here,” Kassie mumbled as she washed her hands in the rectangular white ceramic sink with the soap dispenser, hot and cold water faucets, and hand dryer all conveniently lined up in a row. The choice of three hand lotions—lavender, shea butter, and aloe—was a nice added touch. She considered lavender but opted for the less fragrant aloe lotion in deference to Mimi. Didn’t some scents make pregnant women gag? I may be jealous, but I am not spiteful. She waved her index finger at herself in the mirror and then combed through her hair, imagining what she’d look like as a silvery blonde.

  When she returned to Mimi’s office suite, Mimi was sitting at a glass dining table overlooking the Seine.

  “Thought we could continue talking over lunch. I’m starved.” Mimi patted her bloated belly.

  The china on the two placemats matched the teacups and plates from earlier.

  “This pattern is exquisite. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Merci. I believe they’re from the Philippe Deshoulieres collection.”

  “All the colors—red, lime green, aqua, lilac, pink—are so vibrant. The design looks like wallpaper.”

  “I think it’s crafted in the image of Persian and Indian silk. If you like, I could find out where you can purchase place settings right here in Paris.”

  Kassie flashed back to the two china collections she already had, the one her mother had purchased from a door-to-door salesman back in the day, and the one she’d acquired herself one place setting at a time after she and Mike were married. Both sets were more than thirty years old and looked it. Maybe she was due something modern and chic once she and Chris were hitched. Oh God, Chris. She looked at her watch as inconspicuously as possible. Almost twelve thirty.

  “Are you supposed to be somewhere else?”