G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 01 - Fashion Victim

by G. T. Herren

  “Paige?”

  I almost jumped out of my skin when Ryan placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I gave him a weak grin, and his face relaxed into a smile. “I was just thinking about this Marigny Mercereau piece I’m working on.” I shook my head.

  “Ugh, that awful woman.” He made a face.

  “Baby, she was murdered yesterday,” I gave him a bit of a frown. “And you know, she was really more sad than anything else.”

  “Well, that’s terrible.” He sighed. “Poor thing. I went to Newman with Bonaparte, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.” New Orleans really was a ridiculously small town. “Were you friends?”

  “We were on the football team together, and we got along, but we didn’t hang out or anything like that.” He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t think I’ve seen him since graduation.”

  “Then why do you think she was an awful woman?” I tilted my head to one side and looked up at him.

  “Your breakfast is ready, my love.” He grabbed my hands and pulled me up out of the chair, kissing me on the cheek. “We can talk about it while we’re eating.”

  We always ate sitting next to each other on the couch. Skittle stared at us balefully from the coffee table when we sat down. The blueberry pancakes were delicious— and Ryan had brought blueberry syrup to pour on them. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating, and I gulped them down along with two pieces of crispy bacon at a most unladylike speed. Finished, I wiped my mouth with a paper towel and picked up my coffee cup, more than a little embarrassed.

  To make matters worse, I burped.

  Fortunately, Ryan had the decency to laugh.

  We’d gone out on a date about six months after his divorce was finalized. Blaine had set us up, and within five minutes of being seated at a table at Le Crepe Nanou in Uptown, I was cursing Blaine out under my breath. Setting me up with someone whose political beliefs were somewhere to the right of Ann Coulter’s and whose views on feminism made Rush Limbaugh seem like Gloria Steinem, must have been his sick idea of being funny. Blaine is twisted that way. Somehow, I managed to make it through dinner without losing my temper completely and braining him with a wine bottle. I somehow managed to sit through the horrible male masturbatory fantasy of an action-adventure movie he took me to see. It had no discernible plot, was filled with loud explosions and gunfire, and the women were all one-dimensional mannequins with enormous breasts who, for some equally inexplicable reason, couldn’t wait for the first available opportunity to rip off their clothes and have sex with the male lead who was apparently so mind-blowing they became instantly and obsessively in love with him.

  Needless to say, I neither kissed him goodnight nor returned his calls.

  We ran into each other again at a fundraising party about a year later. I tried avoiding him, but he would have none of it— he wanted to know why I had blown him off so thoroughly after our first date. I was able to deflect the question until I had several glasses of wine in me, and I let him have it with both barrels.

  He just stared at me as I ranted at him, and when I was finished, he said, “But I was just playing devil’s advocate, Paige. You mean to tell me you actually thought I believed that shit?”

  Turned out he was on the board of the local Planned Parenthood, frequently did pro bono work for abused women, worked for gay rights, and was politically almost as far to the left as me.

  We’ve been dating ever since.

  I’ve never really figured out what he sees in me, to be honest. He was raised in a New Orleans society family and went to the best schools in the city. His ex-wife Nancy’s blood was just as blue as his— her mother had been Queen of Rex and she herself had been in the royal court. Nancy was nothing if not a lady. I couldn’t imagine her belching, or gulping down food the way I do sometimes. I wasn’t the least bit sorry Nancy chose to live on the north shore with her two kids. I figure the less opportunity people had to see us side by side, the better for me. Nancy was one of those cool, overly sophisticated women who also are effortlessly stylish. She looked more elegant in a T-shirt and sweat pants than I did in an evening gown. She was an excellent tennis player, and she was a great mom— their two sons were well-mannered, polite, and incredibly smart. All Ryan would say about the divorce was they’d just grown apart and they’d mutually decided they’d be better off not married. They got along beautifully— watching them together, they seemed like the best of friends.

  Fortunately, she also harbored no jealousy towards me. She was always lovely to me, and I really liked her.

  Which, of course, just made me want to hate her all the more.

  And that made me feel even smaller.

  “So tell me, dear heart, why did you think Marigny was an awful woman?” I asked, setting my plate down on the coffee table.

  He slid his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder. This was how I liked spending lazy Sundays— not reading terribly written memoirs. “I really didn’t know her that well,” he said slowly, stroking my upper arm with his big hand. “Like I said, Bonaparte and I were both on the football team, we were in the same grade, we’d gone to school together ever since we were little, you know? So I’d see her from time to time, at school functions or picking him up after school, just around. Mom really didn’t like her.”

  I didn’t say anything. If he didn’t know about Marigny and the Judge, it wasn’t my place to tell him. “That’s all? Because your mother didn’t like her?”

  He took a deep breath. “No, it was more than that.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “You know how kids hate having their parents around?”

  Did I ever. “Yeah?”

  “It seemed like it was more than that for Bonaparte. She used to embarrass him all the time, and she had to know what she was doing. Does that make sense?” He exhaled. “She would always make a scene— like after football games. She’d corner Coach Channing and yell at him for not playing Bonaparte more, that sort of thing. She was always chewing teachers out in front of crowds of people, you know? And he always looked like he wanted to jump off the Huey P. Long Bridge. She always made me grateful—” he swallowed, “—that my own mother wasn’t like that.”

  I tried picturing Athalie screaming at a football coach and couldn’t. I’d never heard Athalie raise her voice, even when she was angry.

  “Mom felt bad for Bonaparte, and she would always say things to me, like ‘doesn’t she know she’s humiliating her child?’ But she was glad Bonaparte and I weren’t friends. He hung out with some of the other guys from the team, but he wasn’t what you’d call one of the popular kids, I guess.”

  “Like you were?” Blaine loved to give Ryan a hard time about being Homecoming King, and it still made his face turn red whenever I brought it up.

  “Paige—”

  “I’m teasing you,” I nestled in closer to his body. “She was an overbearing mother.” I kind of already knew that— Jackson had often alluded to it when he was well into his cups.

  “She had a chip on her shoulder, you could tell.” He frowned, squeezing me softly. “Because she wasn’t, you know, old money. Like any of that really matters.”

  I loved how that kind of thing didn’t matter to him. “Did Nancy buy clothes from her?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He thought for a minute. “I think she designed Nancy’s wedding dress, maybe. But Nancy wasn’t into the whole clothes thing. I mean, she always looks nice, and she likes that, but she likes shopping at sales.”

  Unlike me, who shops at second hand stores and consignment shops, I thought with a pang. “So, that was it? Your whole impression of Marigny was from football games?”

  “Well, you know Clarisse dated Bonaparte?”

  “Your mother told me.”

  He laughed. “You asked Mother about Marigny Mercereau? I wish I could have seen that— I’m surprised you lived through it.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I replied. “You forget, your mother lik
es me. But you’re right— she didn’t like Marigny at all.”

  “Clarisse didn’t like her, either.” He frowned. “She really loved Bonaparte… I thought she might marry him. But she fought with Marigny all the time.” He made a face. “Weird how as soon as Bonaparte did get married, he left town.”

  “He left the country,” I replied, thinking, Aramis left once he got married, too. Interesting.

  He kissed the top of my head. “So what are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

  I moaned and sat up. “I need to finish reading Marigny’s memoirs and see if I can get started writing this piece. But I’d rather just hang out with you all day.”

  “Well, I’ll get out of your hair for a while, then.” He replied. “But before I go—” he hesitated for just a moment. “Brady asked me this weekend when, you know, we were getting married.” Brady was his younger son.

  “I—” I fumbled for something, anything, to say. Married? Dear God in heaven.

  “I know we’ve never talked about it,” he went on, rushing his words to fill in the awkward quiet created by my inability to form words. “But we have been seeing each other for a while, and I know you’ve got some kind of issue with marriage—”

  “I don’t have an issue with marriage.” I replied stiffly, my mind still racing at about a million miles per hour the way it always did when I was panicked. “I’ve always thought marriage was fine for other people.” Oh, God, did I just say that? Back track, you idiot!

  “Other… people?” He looked stricken, like I’d reached into his chest and pulled his heart out. “Just not us?”

  “I didn’t say that.” My voice sounded sharp to me, and I gulped, taking a deep, cleansing breath. I held it, and let it go. “I’m sorry, you just— you kind of caught me off guard.” I forced a smile on my face and hoped it looked more sincere than it felt. “Wow. Marriage. Is this your way of proposing? Your technique could use some work.”

  He laughed, and I let myself relax. He leaned over and took me in his arms, giving me a deep, passionate kiss that turned every muscle in my legs into jelly. “I sprang it on you, I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just when Brady said that— I started to think about it, you know? I’d love to wake up with you every morning.”

  You pretty much already do, I thought, but kept the smile on my face. “It’s— it’s something to think about, yes.” I said aloud.

  “You’d never thought about it before?”

  “Well, sure,” I lied. “It’s something we should talk about.” Buy some time, buy some time. “But right now, I have this article to write, and—”

  He stood up and pulled me to my feet. He kissed me again. “I’ve got some work to do over at my place, but I can head back over here this evening.” He gave me a slight wink. “If you want me to, that is.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d want more,” I replied.

  “Next weekend let’s just camp out here.” He stood up and stretched. I followed him over to the door. He leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, then.” He opened the door and started down the steps. He hesitated partway down, and turned back to me. “I do love you, Paige.”

  “I love you, too. I’ll see you tonight, then.” I closed the door and leaned back against it, taking some deep breaths to calm myself down.

  Married? Dear God.

  I slid down to the floor, black dots dancing in front of my eyes. Deep breaths, go to your happy place, Paige. I pictured a white sand beach, with green water and warm breezes as the waves gently lapped against the shore. Breathe in nice and slow, and then back out.

  The panic began to fade.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them.

  Married.

  “Oh, Ryan.” I said out loud. I can’t marry you because I’m already married.

  How could I tell him that?

  I got to my feet, walked over to my desk and plopped down in my chair.

  I touched the mouse and my computer came back alive.

  The email’s subject line was right there on the screen, accusing.

  I know who you are.

  “You don’t know a fucking thing about me,” I groused, deleting the message before closing the browser.

  Chapter Ten

  I stared at the damned cursor on my computer screen.

  “Fuck it all to hell,” I said crossly. I got up and poured myself a glass of wine.

  It was just after seven, and I hadn’t written a damned word.

  I walked back into the living room and picked up the half-joint Chanse had left sitting on the coffee table last night. I plopped down into the easy chair and lit it. I sucked in a huge hit and savored the green taste for as long as I could before my lungs insisted on spewing it all out.

  Skittle blinked at me from the coffee table. “Don’t judge me,” I said. He blinked again and hopped down from the table before lazily sauntering into the kitchen. I sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

  I couldn’t figure out what angle to take on the damned article. I had more than enough information to write the six or seven thousand words necessary to fill the blank pages in the magazine— and enough for several sidebars as well— but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out a goddamned way to make the whole thing fit together.

  You can’t concentrate on it because Ryan dropped the M-bomb.

  I pushed that thought right out of mind.

  Part of the reason was, I knew, that I still didn’t have a handle on what kind of person Marigny had been, what had made her tick. I needed to come up with a hook to hang the story on.

  But, plenty of times before, I’d written pieces with less of an idea than I had now. I usually just started putting sentences together and typing. Before long, the story would sort itself out, and the creative side of my brain would take over. I’d have to go back and rewrite the first couple of paragraphs, but the story got written. I’d always managed to pull it out somehow But now?

  I couldn’t even think of an opening sentence.

  Had I really become that rusty since leaving the Times-Picayune?

  I could feel the pot starting to work its magic on me.

  “Think it out, Paige,” I said out loud. When I’d been in college, writing for the Daily Reveille, whenever the words wouldn’t come I’d just gone out on the balcony of my apartment and smoked a joint. The pot had always greased the wheels of my creativity— like WD-40 for the mind. Obviously that hadn’t been an option at the Times-Picayune, but writing several pieces a day under the pressure of a daily deadline while also working on longer feature pieces had become second nature to me.

  But I hadn’t really done much writing since I’d left the paper.

  You’re lying to yourself, you haven’t written a damned thing since you left the paper.

  “Think,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning back in the chair. The leg rest popped out with a loud click.

  I’d finished reading the memoir around six.

  The most interesting thing about the manuscript wasn’t necessarily what she’d talked about, but more what she had left out.

  What had promised to be a juicy, gossipy read had turned out to be a big snooze.

  Marigny had pretty much skipped over her years as a college student and as a French Quarter bohemian— those years had only merited a few pages about the importance of studying and being a good student. I’d thought maybe she’d cover that time later in the book, but I’d finished the entire thing and there was nothing. There wasn’t a word about Athalie and the Judge, or any of her other lovers from that period.

  I wondered if people had paid her to be left out.

  But Athalie hadn’t.

  There also wasn’t anything about her purported time in Paris. She closed out her chapter about college by simply saying she decided to spend some time in Paris to learn the fashion industry, and began the next chapter “When I returned from Paris…”

  Of course, she’d been dining out in New Orleans for year
s about her time with Chanel; and if Athalie was right, she could hardly have put a lie in print— especially one so easily exposed.

  I suspected Athalie was right. As a fashion designer, she wouldn’t have left it out were it true.

  She’d also glossed over her first four marriages entirely, like they hadn’t mattered to her. She barely mentioned her sons other than in passing, which was either a sign she hadn’t cared much about them or she was protecting their privacy.

  The middle part of the book primarily focused on her building up her design business, and had been boring as all hell. As my eyes crossed and my mind wandered, I found myself wanting to skip ahead but didn’t out of fear I might miss something important. I’ve always taken pride in being thorough, so I read every word. Even when I reached the point where taking razor blades to my wrists seemed preferable. But finally, I got to the good part— the part where she met her last husband.

  She wrote this section in a breathless, confessional style— like she was talking in a whisper to her best friend over drinks. The end result was TMI, and rather than making her seem like the innocent victim of a scheming fortune hunter, she wound up seeming like a silly old woman who’d been ripe for the plucking.

  She’d met Tony Castiglione shortly after Aramis had married and moved to Memphis. Jackson hadn’t yet given up his job with Saks to come to work with her. In other words, she was lonely. Tony was as a personal trainer at a gym on the West Bank. He came into her shop one day with one of his clients, who was looking for a dress to wear to her daughter’s wedding. She described the fateful meeting in great detail:

  I was in my office, going over the accounts, when I overheard two of my girls giggling outside my office door about the gorgeous man in the show room. (She always referred to women as “girls,” which I found incredibly offensive… but to be fair, she referred to herself as “a girl” as well— as in “a girl has to have her nails done, doesn’t she?”)