Lala decided to put on the cute new black pants and her sneakers. That part was relatively easy.
“Which top, which top, which top,” she muttered to Minou, who was asleep on her bed. “Like you’re any help. DAMN IT!”
Clive had suddenly knocked on her front door loudly enough to startle Lala, but not to wake up Minou.
“Let’s go, Lala! We’re going to be late!”
In an entirely unnecessary panic, Lala grabbed the first shirt she saw, pulled it on, and picked up a black sweater on her way through the living room. She opened the door and Clive smiled when he saw her.
“Ahh, the lovely lady’s got my favorite top on! We screw!”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Clive,” Lala huffed. She took his arm and yanked him down the stairs. “I told you, it’s for the crew team. The Wesleyan crew team. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
It was a gorgeous, sunny day. Lala put her sunglasses on when she got to street level.
“You lead the way, Keeper of Secrets,” she ordered.
“I’ve allowed time for us to walk where we’re going, unless you’d prefer to take the metro?”
“To whom are you speaking, young pup?” Lala demanded. “I LOVE to walk! I am a walker in every city I visit. Point me in the right direction and try to keep up, sonny boy.”
Clive wrapped Lala’s hand in his and led her down the short street to the Seine. At the bank of the river, they headed in a direction that offered Lala no clues as to their destination. They could have been going to meet Gérard and Marie-Laure at the Tuileries Gardens, or the Place de la Concorde, or the Champs-Élysées, or the Arc de Triomphe, all of which were options on their path. After passing a few beautiful streets on their way and looking up and down the sunlit facades of so many charming old buildings, Lala found herself forgetting to wonder or worry about where they were going.
“Yikes, I think I may be doing that ‘living in the moment’ thing,” she confessed to Clive. “That is so not me.”
It’s such a lovely day and I am having such a lovely time, Lala thought. I’m going to take a sabbatical from worrying or overthinking or maybe even from thinking at all. Just for a day. I’ll be fine just for today. As long as I don’t get tipsy at any point and start thinking again about David maybe not being immortal. And as long as they don’t have some clichéd, crazy, terrifying idea for this double-date like going to the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Ohhh, fuuuuuuuuuck, Lala thought.
“What a great idea!” she said. She held her hands together and clapped them in tight, rapid bursts, grinning as though she were a toddler unable to control her delight.
What the fuuuuuuuuuck? I haven’t told any of them that I’m terrified of heights, have I? Of course I haven’t. How would that come up in conversation unless we were about to go up into the sky somewhere? Into the sky somewhere not in an airplane. Fuuuuuuuuuck!
“I think we should walk up!” Clive said.
“Absolutely!” Marie-Laure said.
“Absolutely!” Gérard echoed.
“Absolument!” Lala cheered with every ounce of her legendarily bad acting skills that she could muster.
Clive and Gérard and Marie-Laure flinched in unison. Lala wasn’t sure if it was because of her transparently false gusto, or because of her universally vilified French accent. When she next spoke, she tried to mix a wounded tone with a proud one.
“Okay, once, when I was performing with this comedy group I was in in New York, I said this one line and it got a very big laugh, so I must have some talent . . . never mind . . . Anyway, my fiancé-to-be-my-fiancé thinks my French accent is very good. He said that. Once. When we first met. Just before we were about to . . . never mind.”
Marie-Laure scrunched her shoulders in a paroxysm of delight that was utterly confusing to Lala.
What is that all about? Lala thought.
“Ohhh,” Marie-Laure said, “he must love you soooooo much!”
Hmm, Lala thought. I’m not sure if that’s a backhanded compliment or a forehanded insult.
“I remember when we met briefly when I moved to New York,” Marie-Laure continued.
Oh, merde, you’re not going to mention my public nervous breakdown, are you? Lala thought.
“I remember being so impressed by your command of French grammar and vocabulary and syntax.”
Aaaand not my accent. Still kind of a backhanded-compliment-slash-forehanded-insult . . .
They were standing a small distance from the base of the Eiffel Tower. There was a long line for the elevator leading to the top. There was no line for the stairs.
“Come on,” Lala said. “Let’s get this done. Let’s do this. Now.”
No one will know. I will be confidence personified.
Lala sprinted over to the entrance to the stairs and wondered what she would be dealing with.
Please, god, let it be entirely enclosed. Fuuuuuuuuuck!
The seemingly infinite steps leading up the tower loomed before her. For an unnerving moment, Lala thought they might be undulating. Surrounding the steps were wire mesh walls. Through which one could easily see. Because they were not in any way an enclosure around the stairs.
“Oh, fun!” Lala said.
Oops, I think a note of sarcasm may have slipped through . . .
“Fresh air! Fun! Let’s go!”
Okay, just don’t look down . . .
Lala sprinted up the first flight of steps and turned toward the interim landing to tackle the second set of steps.
I’m just going to count to myself and just focus on the numbers and I’ll do it in French because that will certainly keep my mind occupied, and if I’m doing it to myself no one can disparage my accent, merci mille fois.
On the second set of stairs, Lala paused for a moment to wave and smile at Clive and Gérard and Marie-Laure, who were just starting their ascent.
“Let’s go, people! Last one to the top is a rotten egg! Do you have that idiom in French? Isn’t that the one of the oddest idioms ever?”
And she was off again, keeping her eyes straight ahead and not looking at the rapidly retreating ground.
Dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt . . .
Lala kept going, and she kept reminding herself, in between counting and giggling because “eighty” in French is “four twenties,” that this “fucking nightmare” had a limited shelf life and that one day, perhaps even one day soon, it would all be a distant, terrible memory, and she was very surprised when an upbeat, inspiring song came into her mind out of nowhere and forced itself out of her mouth with confidence and vigor.
“It’s the EYE of the TIGER, it’s the THRILL of the FIGHT!”
“Lala!” Clive yelled from somewhere below. “Don’t sing!”
“Okay, okay,” Lala grumbled.
Seven hundred and four steps later, Lala emerge onto the second floor, where the steps ended.
“WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!”
Clive came sprinting up behind her and wrapped his arms around her in a protective hug.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“There’s a champagne bar!”
Lala dragged him over to the Bar A Champagne with his arms still around her in a kind of exercise in slapstick physical comedy. They stood in line, and Clive still had his arms around her when Gérard and Marie-Laure joined them.
“He’s doing this because he’s heroic because he’s a movie star and he plays heroes a lot and apparently it rubs off. This is not us flirting. I think we need a bottle of champagne, oui? Une bouteille, n’est ce-pas? I am gonna need some serious fortification before I approach that ledge and that indescribable view.”
They walked back down the stairs. Lala was uncharacteristically quiet and was moving at a much slower pace than she had on the way up. Indeed, she was lagging behind the other three, an
d Clive had to keep turning around to check on her.
“Are you okay?” Clive finally asked.
“We were up there on our honeymoon. It was raining then, but the view was still spectacular. In a kind of wonderfully gloomy and intense way. I don’t think I ever told Terrence I’m terrified of heights. Oops, cat’s out of the bag. That’s kind of a funny idiom, too, huh?”
When they were back on terra firma and Lala’s feet hit solid ground, she stumbled just a little. Clive caught her.
“Seriously, are you okay?”
“I am feeling a little lightheaded,” Lala said.
Clive steered her toward an empty bench nearby. Gérard and Marie-Laure followed. Lala eased down onto the seat and put her head back with her eyes shut.
“Big improvement. Immediate. I love when that happens.”
“Do you need to go home?” Marie-Laure asked.
“Nah,” Lala said. “I think I was having the widow vapors. All better now! Why are you two looking so conspiratorial?”
Marie-Laure and Gérard smiled at Lala and Clive.
“Did you bring a gown with you?” Marie-Laure asked.
“A . . .? I don’t . . . I’m pretty sure I don’t own a gown . . .”
Marie-Laure insisted that Lala and Clive come to their apartment so that Lala could borrow one of Marie-Laure’s dresses. As they walked to the nearby building on a charming side street, Lala pestered.
“Why would I need a gown? WHAT are you up to?”
“Patience,” Marie-Laure said.
She pronounced it “pah-see-ohns.”
Damn it, that damn sexy language is so damn sexy when she uses it, Lala thought.
Their apartment was every bit as sunny and airy and perfect as Lala expected.
“Please tell me you paid a professional to decorate this place,” Lala said in the welcoming entryway.
“No, no,” Marie-Laure said. “I love interior design. It’s so relaxing to make a house a home.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lala thought. How delightful is that?
Clive and Gérard decided to sit on the terrace and polish off a few bottles of Alsatian beer while Lala and Marie-Laure went shopping in Marie-Laure’s massive closet.
“Seriously, Marie-Laure,” Lala said. “How many time zones does this thing cross?”
Lala and Clive left the apartment an hour later with Lala carrying a dress bag under her arm. They had promised to meet Gérard and Marie-Laure back at their place at seven o’clock. Gérard would arrange for a car to pick up Clive and then Lala. Clive had assured Gérard and Marie-Laure that his white tuxedo jacket would work well for whatever elegant surprise they had planned for that evening.
“You travel to your film locations with a white tuxedo jacket?” Lala asked. They were back walking along the Seine toward Lala’s apartment.
“Well, I am a movie star,” Clive said.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“And I do rather fancy myself a bit of a James Bond. Specifically a Sean Connery James Bond. A Sean Connery James Bond in Dr. No.”
“I can see that,” Lala said.
After Clive dropped her off and she showed Minou the beautiful deep purple gown that was temporarily hers, Lala decided she needed to catch a nap on the couch along with her foster cat, who had not been so impressed by Lala’s new duds that she was going to actually open her eyes.
Lala slept through the alarm she had set on her phone at a too-low volume, and only woke up when Kenny knocked on her door because he was feeling like having Minou come over to his place early so he could watch television with her purring on his lap.
“Merde! What time is it?” Lala stood at the front door. She had been sleeping on the couch on her stomach with her face mashed into the cushions. Her face had fabric creases in it and there was a not unsubstantial deposit of drool in her hair.
“It’s almost six o’clock.”
“Merde!”
“Actually, I wish you’d just say ‘shit’ instead of ‘mairrrrd’,” Kenny admitted.
“Really? My accent’s even bad with monosyllables?”
“Yeah.”
“Shut up. Listen, you have to sit with Minou on the couch while I take a quick shower and get dressed and do a catwalk for you both, okay, I didn’t even think about Minou when I said catwalk, and then you both have to tell me I look fabulous, okay?”
Kenny dutifully took his place on the couch and was there, watching an episode of Les Feux de l’Amour with Minou sleeping on his lap, when Lala emerged from the bedroom in her finery. She stood in the doorway to the living room and did a twirl. Lala thought, if her full-length mirror was reflecting accurate reality, that she might be looking better than she expected. And then she saw that Kenny had either not heard the bedroom door open, or her appearance had not been enough to distract him from the show on the screen.
“I do not understand why Jack doesn’t just deck Victor,” Kenny muttered to himself. “And what is up with Ashley and her sucky taste in men?”
“KENNY!” Lala yelled. Kenny whipped his head around. “I am going to need your FULL attention!”
“Wow! You look great!”
“Really? I can pull off strapless? I don’t think I’ve worn strapless since I graduated from college.”
“Well, it’s about time you did. You look great!”
“IIIIIIIIIIIII don’t know what I’m doing with my liiiiiiiiiiiife.”
“Who does?” Kenny said. “I’m thinking don’t worry about it tonight. Just go have fun.”
There was a knocking on her front door, and Clive called out.
“Scribe! We gotta move it!”
“He’s got a bit of a James Bond thing goin’ on, don’tcha think?” Lala said. She winked at Kenny. “I like that in a man.”
She opened the door. Clive held a single red rose. Lala took it and smiled.
“Even I would feel silly saying this is not a date. I would, however, like to point out that it’s a semi-platonic date. I’m not sure what I mean by that.”
“Whatevs, m’lady. You look beautiful. Let’s book it. Hey, Kenny, how are ya?”
The car Gérard had hired definitely fell into the grand limousine category. The wet bar included a bottle of champagne. Clive popped it open and poured two glasses. He asked the chauffeur to take them to their destination by way of the Champs-Élysées, and to please “spin us on that grand traffic circle around the superb Arc de Triomphe twice, my good man, if you would, please, sir.”
“WHOOOAAAAAAAAA!” Lala yelled as their car plunged at highway speed and with no hesitation into the inchoate mass of traffic that resulted when a dozen boulevards converged around one of the most famous monuments in the world.
Lala had her arms up above her head in the way that she had seen on footage of people riding monster rollercoasters, an experience she would never personally have because she had once ridden on a “choo choo train for babies,” as her older and way cooler cousin Louise had described the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, when their families were visiting Disneyland when Lala was ten, and the memory of that event still gave her the shivers. She had determined on that long-ago terrifying day at the Happiest Place on Earth that she would never again go anywhere near anything that in any way resembled a rollercoaster.
“This is flippin’ FABULOUS! I might barf, but it will be SO worth it!”
Gérard and Marie-Laure were waiting for them at the entrance to their building as the car pulled up. When Marie-Laure came into Lala’s line of vision, Lala’s shoulders crumbled.
Lala remembered that Monty’s daughter Helene, a friend whose success had always intimidated Lala just a bit under the surface of their affectionate relationship, had once told her about going to an awards ceremony and making the mistake of wearing black.
“When you wear black, you�
�re wallpaper, Lala,” Helene had told her. “No one notices you if you’re wearing black. It’s been done, what, five million times already?”
Marie-Laure, Lala reflected as she tried to reignite her rapidly extinguishing confidence, would never be considered wallpaper in any context in the black gown she was wearing.
Marie-Laure’s short, bright silver hair was slicked back in a severe style that looked sexy in a threatening way that Lala suspected every man and a substantial selection of women would find a challenge impossible to resist. The dress was off the shoulder, and Marie-Laure’s arms were covered in sheer black lace. There was a slit going up the front of her dress that ended just below the top of her thighs. Lala watched Marie-Laure turn toward Gérard to adjust his bow tie, at which point she was able to see that the back of Marie-Laure’s gown was essentially non-existent. The fabric plunged down to the top of her tush, and her shoulder blades were bisected by a long line of pearls.
Awwwwwww, man, she looks so effortlessly gorgeous. Awwwww, MAN, fuuuuuuuuck, Lala thought.
The chauffeur opened the back door and Gérard and Marie-Laure entered the car. Clive handed them each a full flute of champagne. Gérard raised his glass.
“In French, à la vôtre. In English, bottom’s up.”
Lala downed her newly full glass in one gulp.
“Marie-Laurie,” she said, “you look trop belle.”
“My dear, if I could write a story as charming as your Dressed Like a Lady, Drinks Like a Pig, I would never even give a passing thought to how I looked.”
“Thanks!” Lala said.
I think? she thought. Hmmm, was that a backhanded compliment? Or a forehanded insult? Like I don’t care how I look? Fine. Who cares. I wrote a book. And I’ve got champagne. Life is beautiful.
Lala smiled and raised her empty glass and twirled it in the air to get Clive’s attention. She had just enough time to finish the glass he poured for her before their car arrived at the Quai de Grenelle. The chauffeur drove them to the end of the street, which was in fact the Seine. And where a small yacht was docked.
“Ohhh, boy,” Lala said. “If that’s our destination, I am thinking it is time to do some serious partying! There’s more champagne on board, I assume?”
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