All together, the visitors raised their heads and, like a choir, let out an “Ooh!” of amazement when they saw two massive chandeliers with crystal beads. They looked around, walking carefully on the restored, polished parquet, which creaked under their feet. People ran their hands over the brown satin tapestry, fascinated by the fine embroidery of tree branches in golden thread, while others looked inside the large fireplaces at the extremities of the room. A little group stopped by the four high windows that bathed the ballroom in sun and took pictures of the Italian garden.
“Oh, look! Élodie Faber and Paul Dumont are outside!” said a woman.
Everybody in the room rushed to the windows to have a peek at the celebrities, making comments.
Amused, Fred let the visitors satisfy their curiosity for a moment and then resumed the tour. “Now, please, follow me this way to the piano lounge. Although it’s a much smaller room, I’m sure you will appreciate the lounge’s elegant and cozy atmosphere, where the Baron d’Orvilly loved to sit, read a book and smoke his pipe, his dog at his feet, while his spouse, Églantine d’Orvilly, played the piano.”
People remained glued to the windows.
“And I will also tell you how the Baron was horribly murdered by a robber while he was reading in his armchair one evening, stabbed five times with a butcher knife.”
All at once, everybody gathered behind Fred and followed him to the piano lounge.
Chapter 14
“O h, what is this?” asked a woman, turning around an antique pan embossed at the bottom.
“A copper fruit mold from the early 1900s,” answered Liliane. “It was used to bake cakes. Once the mold was cold, they would turn it upside down and the cake would slide out easily. Same principle as the molds we use today. But the difference is the elaborate fruits shape that appeared on the top of the cake. Hence the name.”
“Fancy!” said the woman. “And it’s not that heavy.” She put the mold back on the table, directing her attention at another item.
A dozen tourists were browsing the antiques shop, looking at and handling the artifacts displayed on the shelves and on the floor. Liliane was thrilled to see so many customers in the store for its opening day.
A man was trying on a top hat when Amanda arrived holding a tray filled with appetizers, pastries, and a glass of cider. Liliane’s face lit up when she saw her friend coming bearing delicacies and refreshment.
“Thank God you didn’t forget about me! I’m starving,” said Liliane.
“How could I forget about you?” Amanda handed a plate to Liliane, who grabbed a little sandwich and took an eager bite. The friends walked to the back of the store and sat on a wooden bench near a harvest table. Amanda removed the little scarf that covered her head and exhaled.
“So, how are things going on your end?” asked Liliane.
“So far, so good,” answered Amanda. “Guests are checking in and we have more visitors than expected for the inauguration. Everybody’s running in the kitchen. Bertrand and Camille are as busy at the reception as we are in the kitchen, and Fred is about to start his fourth guided tour of the château. I’d say this inauguration is a blast!”
The women slapped their hands in a high-five victory.
“And what about our famous couple?” asked Liliane. “How is it going with them?”
Amanda grimaced and shrugged. “Demanding and annoying. I guess they behave like stars. I have to admit, they bring visitors though. It’s good publicity for us. How are things going here?”
Liliane took a notebook from a shelf nearby and opened it. “So far, I’ve sold cast-iron pans, several books, a pair of lace gloves, an old kettle, a cane, and a few postcards. For a total of 602 Euros and 15 cents. And it’s only past lunch.”
The women smiled, proud of their success.
“Is that Bronx hiding in the yellow jar over there?” asked Amanda.
“Yep,” answered Liliane, eating her second mini-sandwich. “He’s come by a few times since yesterday to hide in there, thinking nobody can see him. I think he made this jar his observation station or something like that. Customers find him quite funny, but he might be disappointed once the jar is sold and must go.”
Amanda chuckled. “If we can even let it go! Look at him.”
His body at the bottom of the jar, the cat had extended a front leg and was wagging his paw at its opening, fighting with a customer’s hand who tried to take it. People in the shop were laughing, amused by the situation.
“Well, I guess this jar will never go…” said Liliane, smiling.
A man holding an old typewriter waved his hand at Liliane. “How much for this?” asked the man.
“200 euros,” answered Liliane.
Amanda stood up. “That reminds me about the journalists outside and our famous guests. I’d better go back there to make sure everything is fine.”
Amanda left Liliane in the hands of her active antiques shoppers, all hoping to find a unique and priceless object they could bring back home.
The man holding the typewriter walked toward Liliane and handed her two 100 Euros bills.
“Do you have ink ribbons to go with it?” asked the man.
Liliane wondered if he was serious or making a joke.
*
Hands typing fast on the keyboard, Barbara Clément wrote her article’s closing paragraph. She read the text one last time and saved it in a folder titled ‘E and P’s Wedding.’ She took her cell phone and plugged it into her laptop with a USB cable to import dozens of pictures and a video she uploaded on a website. Then she clicked on the button ‘Save.’
The author of the successful French celebrities’ blog, ‘Spread the Word,’ scheduled the release of her new post for midnight, this Saturday evening. The top headline in flashy pink letters and yellow background read: ‘Élodie and Paul’s Wedding: Just Another Act?’
By Sunday morning, thousands of people would have already read this post and viewed the pictures and the videos she had taken. And they would have replayed it a thousand times. And reposted it on other websites.
The blogger closed her laptop, put it away in a briefcase she locked with a code, and left her room. Her work wasn’t done yet.
Chapter 15
T he camera was rolling. Élodie and Paul leaned toward each other slowly, smiling and holding each other’s hands. They closed their eyes and their lips met to share a tender kiss.
“Cut!” said the director after a few seconds. “It’s perfect. I believe we have everything we need.” The man turned to his team. “It’s a wrap.”
The technicians from TF1, the first French TV network, switched off spotlights and unplugged their equipment.
“It will be our ending segment for the news show at eight tomorrow night,” said the journalist to the famous couple, shaking their hands. “It was great doing this interview with you. Thank you.”
“Oh no, thank you,” said Élodie to the journalist with a large smile. “It was great doing this with you.”
The network team left, and another came in. It was time for the second national TV network, France 2, to set up their equipment for the next interview.
While Flora talked to the team to discuss details, Élodie walked to a table where a bottle of sparkling water and lemon slices were left at her disposal. She poured herself a glass, dropped in a lemon slice, and drank. Her mother trotted over to her, still holding in her arms her precious, fluffy dog. Was he ever allowed to touch the floor?
“You should eat something, honey. You skipped lunch to do another interview and you won’t be done with all this before seven tonight. Do you want me to order something from the kitchen?”
“No, mom. I’m fine,” answered Élodie. “If I eat, I’ll feel bloated… Look at them. It’s so pathetic. Can’t someone keep those lurkers away, for Christ’s sake?”
On the other side of the veranda’s windows, a crowd of people were peeking inside, pushing each other to get to the front, excitedly taking pictures or videos of
the famous actors with their cell phones. People waved to say hello.
Paul Dumont waved back.
“Don’t encourage them!” protested Élodie.
“Come on,” said Paul. “If it makes them happy, why not? And it’s good for us. It’s free publicity.”
“I want to control who takes pictures of me or who films me,” said Élodie in a dry tone. “Maybe you don’t care about your image, but I do care about mine.”
“Yes, this I know,” said the actor to himself.
Flora walked toward the couple. “France 2 will be ready to start the interview in a few minutes. Are you ready or do you need a quick break?”
“Of course, we’re ready,” said Élodie. She walked to a journalist, presenting her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Peggy. So, how are we going to do this?”
While the journalist and the actress were talking, Flora and Paul sat beside each other to enjoy a few seconds’ rest. The busy day was showing on their drawn faces.
“We’re not that old, but I hate to say this,” said Flora. “I don’t have the same energy for all this I had even five years ago. I’m exhausted. How does she do it?”
“There’s no secret, Flora. She’s half our age, that’s how she does it. Why do you think I prefer dating younger women?” Paul realized too late the impact of the words that had just left his stupid mouth.
“Thanks for that sensitive and tactful comment,” said Flora.
“Sorry, this is not what I meant to s—”
“Don’t apologize. I know that is exactly what you meant to say. You know what, Paul? I might not be getting younger, but neither are you. I’m giving you a last bit of advice, as a friend: you still can stop all this. You don’t have to marry that spoiled, selfish brat. I know why you’re doing it, but I think it was the wrong decision to make just to reboot your career.”
Flora stood up and walked away. Paul grabbed her hand to stop her. He looked at her, worried. “What do you mean by ‘last bit of advice?’”
Flora hesitated for a moment.
“After this weekend, I’m done, Paul. You and Élodie will have to find another publicist.”
Paul’s face fell. “What?”
“Oh. And our friendship too will be over. I’ve had enough Paul. I’m tired. You can count on my professionalism until tomorrow evening, but once the wedding celebration is over, you and I will part ways.” Flora freed her hand from Paul’s and walked away.
The actor couldn’t believe it. How could Flora sweep away a twenty-five year friendship in one second? His throat tightened as he stared at her walking away. It was the worst scene of his life.
Chapter 16
“O h, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you,” said Isabelle.
“It’s fine, answered Anita. No worries.”
Facing the mirror in the employees’ bathroom, Anita was replacing a wig on her bald scalp. She adjusted it by pulling gently on the sides and smoothed the fake, long hair over her ears. She tied it in a low ponytail.
Isabelle felt embarrassed to catch Anita in an intimate moment. She looked away but couldn’t help glancing at her colleague in the mirror. She would’ve never guessed Anita wore a wig.
“Were you looking for me?” asked Anita.
“Yes. Amanda needs our help in the restaurant to set the tables for tomorrow’s reception. You know, Faber and Dumont’s wedding…”
“Ah, yes. Sure. Let’s go.”
The women left the bathroom and walked down the cold stone corridor leading to the kitchen in an awkward silence. Isabelle felt embarrassed. Should she say something? She didn’t know what. She was still disturbed by the vision of Anita putting a wig on her bald head. She surprised herself with an ugly thought. She pitied Anita for not being pretty and being bald wouldn’t help. She felt guilty thinking such horrible thoughts.
Amanda was lifting a table when the housekeepers arrived in the restaurant. She put the table down and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Perfect timing! Please, help me place the tables and chairs. The kitchen staff is way too busy right now. We’ll start with the bride and groom’s table over there.”
The women moved furniture around the room for about twenty minutes and then set the tables. They covered them with freshly pressed white tablecloths. Amanda took a stack of fine, white china plates edged in gold from the oak sideboard in the room and put them on a table. She showed the housekeepers how she wanted them to place the cutlery. It surprised her to see Anita already knew the art and rules of elaborate table settings.
“Where did you learn this?” asked Amanda
“From my grandmother,” replied Anita. “She taught me the upper-class rules and etiquette when I was only seven, hoping it would be helpful someday.” Anita chuckled bitterly. “Unfortunately, she died disappointed.”
The women stopped working when they heard a loud noise coming from the kitchen. It sounded like an avalanche of pans falling on the floor. Amanda’s face froze with worry.
“I’d better go and check that.” She walked away hastily and left the housekeepers on their own. The uncomfortable silence came back. Anita decided to break it.
“It’s just a wig, you know,” she said with a smirk.
Isabelle blushed, embarrassed. “Oh, yes, I know… I’m sorry. I feel so silly.” Should she dare ask the question? “May I ask what happened to you? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, of course.”
Anita hesitated a moment. She was about to answer Isabelle when Amanda came back into the room. “It’s all good. More noise than damage done over there.” She noticed something was off between the two employees. “Are you two OK? Is there something wrong?”
“No, all is fine,” replied Anita, smiling. She took a small, engraved silver fork and placed it at the far, left side of a plate on the bride and groom’s table, aligning it perfectly with the rest of the cutlery.
Chapter 17
R ichard Barquet gave a sharp and quick roll of his thumb on the lighter’s flint wheel. A large flame ignited the cigarette, its tip burning red as he breathed the smoke in. A last one, he thought, before registering at the reception.
It was already past 8 p.m. and dark outside. The last cars of the villagers who had attended the inauguration were leaving the Domaine. Barquet walked along the castle’s front facade and raised his head. Grandiose, but gloomy. He preferred modern architecture.
When he walked into the quiet reception a few minutes later, Bertrand and Camille were sorting out papers, guiding William, the night receptionist, through administrative details.
“Good evening. My name is Richard Barquet. Someone booked a room for me.”
“Yes, Mr. Barquet,” said Bertrand. “We were waiting for you.” He handed room key 24 to the man. “I just need a signature here, please.” Bertrand put a form on the desk. The man signed at the bottom of the paper, without even reading it. “It was our last room available,” continued Bertrand. “You’ll notice it’s still undergoing renovations, but it’s clean. It’s on the second floor, on the left once you exit the elevator. It’s at the far end of the corridor. You might miss it if you don’t pay attention because the door is just behind a pillar. Would you like me to show you the way?”
“No, I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“As you wish, sir. Don’t hesitate to call the reception if you need anything. Enjoy your stay at the Château d’Orvilly.”
Barquet gave the employees a brief smile and walked to the elevator. He pushed the button and, while waiting, texted on his cell phone.
Just arrived here. We can talk tomorrow.
An answer chimed in right away.
No. Let’s do it tonight.
The man gave a little chuckle with a satisfied smile.
A few seconds later, he walked down the corridor on the second floor. He glanced at the paintings of the castle’s ancestors hung on the walls. Definitely, modern art was more his cup of tea.
He reviewed menta
lly his busy schedule for tomorrow. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to drive all the way down here. But he wanted to sign this contract as soon as possible. It was worth the trip. Enjoying fun time too was a plus. Work hard, play hard, as they say.
He found the door with the number 24 behind a pillar as Bertrand had mentioned. He liked the fact the door couldn’t be seen from the rest of the corridor. Although Richard Barquet was a prominent publicist, he liked to put the spotlight on his clients, not on himself. He protected his privacy more than anything else.
The room smelled like a mix of glue, wax and cleaning products. A wall was still unfinished, missing wallpaper. Barquet didn’t care. He left his binder and briefcase on the bed and went directly to the bathroom. He turned on the bathtub faucets and the hot water poured in. Clouds of steam progressively covered the large mirror facing him.
He undid the buttons of his expensive, purple shirt, revealing a toned upper body. He trained every day at the gym. Just enough to stay in shape and remain an attractive man in his forties. Nature had been kind to him, anyway. Gaining women’s favors had never been an issue, quite the opposite. They always flew his way like bees attracted to honey.
He was about to remove his shirt when two hands stopped him. He startled and saw a human shape in the steamy mirror, behind him. He turned around.
Élodie Faber stood in front of him, wearing her wedding dress. The man raised his eyebrows.
“You scared me! What are you doing in your wedding dress? You know you’re not supposed to wear it until tomorrow, right? It’s bad luck.”
Élodie grinned. “Who cares? You’re not the groom, so it’s not bad luck. In fact, I was quite excited with the idea of paying you a visit, wearing it. Have you ever done it with a bride? I mean, other than your wife.” A devilish smile drew the corners of her mouth.
Barquet chuckled. “I confess to having done it with many women other than my wife, but not with another bride, no.”
“Well, there’s a second time for everything,” said the actress in a syrupy voice. She removed Richard’s shirt and dropped it on the floor.
French Weddings Can Kill You Page 5