After a working lunch at the 21 Club with a new client, Paul returned to the office and forced himself to work, although his heart wasn’t in it. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he read the travel report that Charlotte had emailed him. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 5 o’clock. He knew that Dina and Veronique were on an Air France flight to Paris, having boarded at 4:50pm. They’d be taking off soon, arrowing up above the snowy clouds of New York on their way across the Atlantic, landing at the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.
He pushed up from his desk and turned again to the glass-to-ceiling windows, facing New York City lit up in the darkness, a wonderland of glittering lights and glowing office windows. A stab of loneliness returned, and suddenly he felt like one of those towers standing alone in the cold night, with snow flurries landing on his head and shoulders, chilling him. What was happening to him, and what was he going to do about it?
CHAPTER 7
It was nearly six o’clock in the morning, Paris time, Thursday December 15th, when Veronique and Dina arrived at the 17th-century Hotel d’Aubusson, a 49-room luxury boutique hotel. It was formerly a stately home, located in Saint-Germain des Pres on the Left Bank of Paris.
Dina was dizzy from travel, their sunrise flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport, and the private auto tour of Paris that Veronique had arranged on their way to the hotel. Though weary and fatigued, Dina had been enthralled by the shops, restaurants and lighted Christmas markets, and by the Champs-Élysées, with its eleven intersecting streets. Even in the early morning, vehicles of all sizes, traveling at crazy speeds, darted in from every direction. She thought it was a miracle the cars didn’t smash into each other in the clashing streets.
They had taken a spin around the nearby Ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde for a delightful view of the festivities and then, on impulse, Veronique had told the driver to stop. She’d taken Dina’s hand, shoved the door open and tugged Dina outside. For the next half hour, they strolled through the winter wonderland strip of lights and decorated storefronts along the Champs-Élysées.
Back in the car on route to the hotel, Dina gazed out excitedly at the great city. She loved the broad boulevards, the picturesque cafes, and the symmetrical and organized Roman architecture, giving the buildings a majestic feeling. The maze of narrow streets was baffling and quaint, the people smartly dressed, the cars small.
Veronique pointed out the distant Eiffel Tower, gleaming with lights, the Arc De Triomphe, the impressive Notre Dame Cathedral and the River Seine, all landmarks Dina had read about and seen in movies and photos, but had never in her wildest dreams imagined she’d ever get the chance to see.
The Hotel d’Aubusson was elegant, stylish and sophisticated, with Versailles parquet open beams, an enormous fireplace in Burgundy stone, and rich Aubusson tapestries, which inspired the hotel’s name.
Veronique escorted Dina to her room, where her suitcase had already arrived. The room had charm and character. It had once been part of a convent, and its original rustic overhead beams made the space cozy and private. Overall, it was a luxurious and comfortable room, with houndstooth carpets, a king-sized bed and a full marble bathroom.
Veronique noticed Dina’s slumping shoulders and drowsy eyes that were focused on the wide, inviting bed. Dina had been too excited to sleep on the plane, and now exhaustion rolled over her like a wave.
“You must be exhausted, Dina. I will leave you now so you can rest. Please sleep as long as you wish and when you awaken, call me. You have my room number. I’m just down the hall.”
After a shower, Dina slipped under the rich burgundy comforter and instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She awakened with a start, confused, reaching, searching the darkness for anything familiar. Where was she? What time was it? The digital clock on the night stand said 1:34pm. She sat up, feeling hungover and blunted. Seconds later, her mind cleared and she switched on the light. Yes! She was in Paris. It hadn’t been a dream. She was actually in Paris, France.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, reached for a soft comfy towel and blotted her face. She stared at herself in the mirror and her eyes were little slits, her face drawn, her color pale. So, this was jet lag. She could have easily sunk back into sleep, but she refused. Time was slipping away, and she wanted to see Paris.
She called Veronique’s room and the phone was answered on the third ring.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Veronique.”
“No, Dina. I awakened a half hour ago. How do you feel?”
“Hungry, excited and jet-lagged. I love it.”
Veronique laughed. “Good. I know a good bistro in Montmartre. We’ll take a cab—it’s only about 20 minutes away—and then we can walk. It will do us both good. Bring a coat. It’s 39 degrees and it might rain.”
After arriving at Montmartre, they exited the cab and Veronique led Dina past the famous night club and cabaret, the Moulin Rouge, with its signature red windmill. Dina was distracted to see a Starbucks across the street, not what she’d expected. They continued along the busy streets, passing stylishly dressed women and a young man who had two baguettes tucked under his arm, one partially eaten. Dina watched him tear a piece off, stuff it into his mouth, and chew distractedly as he stared into his cell phone.
Minutes later they came to Bistro des Deux Théâtres.
The stiff Maitre d’ escorted them into the narrow space, and they slid into a red-velour banquette and took the menus. Dina glanced about curiously at the interior, which was designed in the spirit of a theatre, with red velour benches, white table cloths, red velvet curtains, photographs, and a large painting of artists and celebrities who had visited the restaurant.
She stared at the menu, not understanding many of the items. Veronique laid her menu aside and folded her hands.
“I think we should start with the oysters. They are quite large here, and we’ll also go for the eggs cocette in morel sauce. Then we should share the lamb chops. We don’t want to spoil our dinner appetite. How does that sound to you, Dina?”
“Wonderful.”
“Of course, we must have a very good bottle of Pinot Noir with our lunch,” Veronique added, with a quick nod.
A crisp, aloof waiter, dressed in a long white apron, took their order and whisked away, as if he were skating across ice.
The food arrived promptly, the wine was poured, and the ladies talked of shopping, sightseeing and how delicious the food was. Dina relished it, sipping her wine much too fast and soon feeling buzzed and giddy.
Just then, from out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared before them. His long black hair was stylishly disordered, accenting his broad face, high forehead and sky blue eyes. There was a high-pitched energy of excitement in his voice, and he spoke English with a thick French accent.
“Of all the bistros in all the towns in the world, I meet the sexiest, the most beautiful girls in the world,” he exclaimed.
Dina was speechless. Veronique eyed him with a pleasant boredom. She said something in French to the man that Dina didn’t understand.
“You are French,” he exclaimed to Veronique. “Très bien!”
“And you, Monsieur, are rude,” Veronique responded in English.
He stepped back, pretending to be wounded. “No, not me. Not rude me. I am told I am so handsome and charming,” he said.
“And impolite,” Veronique said.
The man looked at Dina. “In French we say, Être un bold romantique.”
Veronique shook her head and rolled her eyes. “In English, Monsieur, we say I’m not interested, so please leave us alone and let us continue on with our lunch.”
He screwed up his face in mock insult. “Oh, no, no, no, mademoiselle. Please just give me one minute. When I saw you both sitting here looking so charming, I said, what beauties, and I thought, I’ve got to meet them. Just like that. So here I am. Voila! I’m very impulsive. That’s part of my charm.”
Veronique lifted her ch
in in defiance. “And what am I supposed to say to all that? I’ve been waiting for you my entire life?”
He shrugged. “But, of course!”
Dina grinned, enjoying the interchange. He was handsome. Probably in his early thirties, and nicely built, with boyishly playful eyes.
Veronique turned from him. “Please go away before I call the Maître d’.”
“Who, Philippe? I know him. We go drinking together. We are very good friends. He likes me.”
Veronique faced him, pointedly. “Will you please go away and leave us alone?”
He frowned, then reached into his black jacket pocket and drew out two theatre tickets. “Okay, okay. But, please take these—complimentary of course—and come listen to me and my two guys tonight. We are The Guillaume Gaillard Trio. I am, of course, Guillaume. I guarantee you will love it, and you will fall in love with me and my jazz music.”
He lifted his hand, as in a pledge. “I pledge allegiance to you.” He looked at Dina and smiled, flirtatiously. “You, my pretty blonde girl with the superb smile, you hurt my heart because you are so, how do you say, a knock out. You must be American, and I love American women. They are so… well American!”
Dina laughed.
“And Americans love jazz music, n’est-ce pas?” he asked Dina.
“Some do,” Dina said. “Some don’t.”
He pointed an enthusiastic finger at her. “But you like jazz, yes?”
“Now and then. I listen to a lot of country music. More country music than jazz.”
He clapped his hands. “Country. Good! I like country music too, but I love American Jazz. I can tell, you love jazz too. As soon as I saw your face, I say she must love jazz.”
And then he stepped back, looking Veronique over, with a raised eyebrow. “Tu es si belle avec ta robe, mademoiselle.”
Veronique turned to Dina and translated. “He likes my dress.” She faced Guillaume and glared. “Monsieur, will you please leave us. Now,” she demanded.
“Okay. Okay, but mademoiselles, I guarantee you a superb evening and it will not cost you.” He displayed the two tickets, then slapped them down onto the table.
“Please come,” he said, and then blew them a kiss. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselles.”
When he was gone, Veronique said, “He is one of those all-about-me guys. Did you notice he didn’t ask us one question about ourselves? Where are we from? What do we do? Why are we in Paris? And I bet he uses that useless Casablanca movie line on every girl he meets. He makes me embarrassed to be French.”
Dina took a thoughtful bite of her lamb. “Yes... but he is good looking.”
Veronique nodded, finally releasing a trapped smile, as she reached for her wine glass. “Yes, Dina, he is very nice to look at. From his accent, I’d say he’s from Brittany.”
Dina reached for the tickets and looked them over. “It might be fun to go.”
Veronique studied Dina. “It’s your vacation, Dina.”
“What else are we going to do tonight? And, it’s free.”
Veronique shrugged. “Then we’ll go and listen to Mr. Full-of-himself and his guys, because I can see that you want to, Dina.”
Dina leveled her eyes on Veronique. “You speak excellent English, Veronique, and I bet you speak fluent Italian.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Veronique, do you live in the United States?”
Veronique lowered her eyes. “My mother was an American. I grew up in France for 15 years, and then I moved to San Francisco. That’s all I’m at liberty to say, Dina.”
They took a taxi to Rue du Commerce, which Veronique insisted was the best shopping street in Paris, for its fun selection of popular brand shops, small boutiques and traditional Parisian charm. Dina noticed it was just a short stroll to the Eiffel Tower, so they went there first so Dina could blend into the crowds, sightsee, take Selfies with Veronique, and crane her head to take in the towering wonder.
In one of the expensive shops that Veronique insisted they browse, Dina tried on and then purchased a French blue, V-neck ruffled lace evening dress with cap sleeves and a mermaid silhouette. Veronique said the dress had a romantic design that fit Dina perfectly. Dina felt sleek and sexy in it. It was expensive, as were the matching shoes and evening bag she chose to go with it. While Veronique conducted the purchase with a credit card, Dina felt a little like a teen-ager preparing for her first prom.
Dina wore her new dress that evening, as the ladies ate in opulence and splendor at Epicure, a 3-star Michelin restaurant located in the legendary Hotel “Le Bristol.” Their table was near a gilded luminous fireplace, beneath a stunning gold leaf chandelier. Dina couldn’t help but notice the wandering flirtatious gazes of men, and the cool glances of women.
She and Veronique had a three-course meal, each course a new awakening of flavor and art. With all the extras provided, it turned into more of a six-course meal, and Dina had never tasted food so alive and flavorful, each course a taste bud sensation.
By ten o’clock, both ladies were full, relaxed, and a little high from all the Champagne they’d consumed at dinner. They were weary, but Dina insisted they stop by to hear The Guillaume Gaillard Trio.
Veronique shrugged. “If you want to, Dina, we’ll go. After all, it’s your trip to Paris! We can sleep in in the morning. So, let’s do whatever you want.” Despite her tone of resignation, Dina suspected she was mildly interested.
Le Cabaret François was a close room. Low ceiling fans twirled. Marble-topped tables held flickering candle globes, cardboard coasters and elegant champagne and martini glasses. All but one table was occupied by the stylish and indifferent. The bar was chrome and gray marble, crammed with young men and women staring despondently into space. Some appeared bored in their Givenchy gowns or Helmut Lang dresses. Dina noticed a young girl done up with piles of blond hair and makeup, wearing a low top, old jeans and faux zebra skin flip-flops. And it was winter.
The men studied the women with shifting eyes and lazy gestures, otherwise displaying an unbearable state of ennui, even if a sexy girl dreamily found their eyes or studied their bodies.
Veronique presented Guillaume’s card and they were ushered to the one available table near the mounted stage. Two flutes of Champagne were placed in front of them. Dina nodded her approval to Veronique.
“Not so bad. A bit classy.”
Veronique pouted a little. “This place is so painfully Paris, Dina.”
“Good. Then I love it.”
Veronique offered a little smile as she lifted her flute of Champagne and they clinked glasses. “Okay then. A votre santé,” Veronique said, as The Guillaume Gaillard Trio emerged from behind a purple velvet curtain.
The room erupted into applause and whistles.
The two girls exchange surprised glances.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Veronique asked. “Sorry, Dina, that mean’s something like ‘What is this all about?’”
“Maybe they’re famous,” Dina said.
Guillaume’s surprised and pleased eyes found the two ladies and he bowed. Dina raised her glass to toast him. Veronique frowned and looked away.
He winked, and then he sat down before a glossy, black lacquered grand piano, while the drummer and upright bass player took their positions.
The room settled in anticipation, then grew silent.
Guillaume swept the room with his eyes, paused, then began to play Les Parapluies de Cherbourg, by Michel Legrand. He approached it simply, allowing the haunting melody to rise and drift with decelerandos and fades. When the bass and drums entered, he added richer chords and unpredictable rhythms. He played cat-and-mouse games with the bass, then moved into a waltz, then a samba and then a tango. His proud head tilted into the light as the music exploded from his nimble fingers in rich patterns and expressive bursts. And then with his eyes closed and his body hunched close to the keys, he found a maniacal cascade of notes, and the room erupted into applause.
Dina looked at Veronique, and it was
obvious that her companion was both amazed and moved by the music. It seemed to electrify her, as she straightened with interest, riveted to the sound and the frenetic energy. Dina could see that, against her will, Veronique’s body had awakened to the music and her eyes began to fill with desire.
Guillaume was not Dina’s type, and she found his music a bit too hectic and unfocused for her taste. She liked simple melodies, not wandering ones.
The audience seemed to sigh as the music fell back into the delicate main theme, quietly melting into a final, aching chord. Thunderous applause reverberated. As Guillaume took a bow, looking toward Dina and Veronique, Dina noticed Veronique flashed him a flirtatious grin, allowing her approving eyes to linger on him.
Dina laughed a little. “You like him, don’t you, Veronique?”
Veronique recovered her impassive face. “Not him so much. His music, yes.”
After the first set concluded, Guillaume joined the two women, ordering three glasses of Champagne. By this time, Dina felt woozy, sleepy, disoriented—and she was having the time of her life.
She noticed jealous eyes nearby, probing her, as Guillaume leaned toward her with a quiet question.
“So, do you like my music, Miss America?”
Dina’s eyes wandered the room, avoiding his. “They certainly liked it,” she said, with a little nod of her head.
“But do you...?”
“I’m still here.”
He swung his gaze toward Veronique, and Dina saw her new friend’s mouth part ever so slightly, and her eyes fall on him with a new interest.
“And what about you, beautiful and sexy French girl?”
“You play beautifully, but you’re too arrogant.”
He laughed. “Yes. Yes, I am, and I’m told it is what makes me so good.”
Veronique ignored him, turning her attention to Dina. “Shall we go, Dina? It’s been a long day.”
Dina was exhausted. “Yes, Veronique. It has been a very long day. I feel like I’ve lived three days in one.”
Guillaume’s face fell. “No, no, no. This is Paris. The night is young. I have another set and then, as you say in America, we go paint the town red, blue or white or some other color. Whatever color you want, we paint.”
The Date Before Christmas: A Novel Page 7