The latch clicks shut. My fingers slide into the back pocket of my jeans. Everything I need is there. I extract the small bag and dangle it in front of Megan. The corner of her mouth lifts up.
“Have you done coke before?”
“Sure.” She turns and shuts the toilet lid. Soon she’s dangling her Black Amex from the tips of her manicured fingers in front of my eyes. In her other hand she has a one-hundred dollar bill that she hands to me. From her purse, she extracts a small mirror. These are all the props we need. I pour the Coke on its flat surface, then cut it with the card, shaping it into thin lines.
Meg is an enthusiastic little snorter. After that, she’s so high she gives my dick some TLC. I’m in heaven. Each one of my heartbeats pumps fire through me. I feel invincible and free.
We manage to leave the restroom without getting caught. I’m still conscious enough to be grateful. The Murdoch name doesn’t need another smear campaign. I don’t intend to stay at The Gatsby any longer anyway. I’ll drive Meg home and we’ll expand on what we’d just started.
“You appear to have gotten over that cold rather quickly.” Lenor stands in our way, her arms folded firmly across her chest. She holds her chin high.
“Oh, I’m feeling much better.” I’m being a jerk but I kick guilt in the ass. My arm wraps around Meg’s shoulders and we move forward.
Lenor doesn’t take the hint and we almost bump into her.
“Get out of the way.” Meg warns her. Her voice is harsh and I want to tell her off. As if I want the exclusive right to hurt Lenor.
“Meg Alistair,” Lenor sounds uncharacteristically friendly, “long time no see. I am not going to say I have missed you because I would be lying. So, now, would you please be kind enough to leave us alone?”
Meg fidgets against me. “Who do you think you—”
“Meg, give me a minute, will you?” I say without looking at her.
Her gaze swings back and forth between Lenor and me. I reassure Meg with the most charming smile and she nods. Lenor swallows hard, she hates confrontation. Meg goes away.
“Who’s that guy anyway?”
“What guy?” There’s a crease between her eyebrows.
“The geek you came with tonight.”
She shrugs. “Freddie. His dad went to Oxford with mine. They’re over here for the summer.” She shakes her head as if it’s inconsequential and zeroes in on me. She steps forward and wipes something from the corner of my nose. “Some sort of white powder. I wonder what it could well be.” I don’t miss the anger vibrating in her voice.
She’s definitely ruining my high. “Are we done here?”
“Not even close.”
Lenor grabs my hand and pushes through the crowd. We step through the wide, glass sliding doors that lead to the balcony that wraps around the top floor of the building. The Gatsby stands by Two Mile Hollow Beach and she marches me down the steps that lead to the sand. Lenor walks briskly, dragging me behind her, but doesn’t spare me a look or a word. I shouldn’t let her boss me about this way, but I can’t help it. I can’t help being happy she’s with me.
We step onto the beach and I fight the unsettling sensation of the sand underneath my feet. There’s hardly any wind tonight and the thunder of the ocean has replaced the wild pounding of the music. We’re ten yards from the water when Lenor kicks off her shoes.
“Do the same,” she orders.
“No way.”
“Do it,” and then she adds, “please.”
I can’t refuse her, so slowly I remove my sneakers. She takes hold of my hand again and breaks into a sprint. We’re heading towards the water; we splash into it and I stall.
“You’re nuts. What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
Lenor keeps advancing in the icy swell so that both our arms are now fully stretched but our hands are still joined. She’s in the water up to her waist.
“You’ll feel better after this.”
“I feel perfectly fine. I have no desire to freeze to death.”
“Come on! Toughen up. It’s July.”
“That’s the North Atlantic at about midnight.”
She lets go of my hand and strides further into the water. As a wave breaks against her, she raises her arms and jumps in motion with the water. She’s soaked but doesn’t seem to care. She goes on and on until I lose sight of her.
“Lenor!” I call. “Lenor!”
Nothing.
“Shit.” I wade against the tide and dive into the water. The cold is like a punch but I recover quickly. Energy runs wild through my body. I welcome it.
I shout her name again. And again. I splash wildly around, my clothes a dead weight on me, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The metallic tang of fear replaces the salty taste of the ocean. I haven’t reacted quickly enough. I dive under but all I see is a blurred darkness.
I come up again and that’s when I hear a rasping outrush of breath to my left.
“You idiot! You scared the shit out of me,” I scream at her. She giggles in reply. “I could already see myself telling your dad you had drowned.”
“Are you scared of him?”
“I don’t have a death wish.”
She swims toward me and our legs intertwine. “If you still enjoy life so much, why are you wasting it?”
“I’m not wasting anything.”
“You drink like a fish, you take drugs, you drive while intoxicated, and then have unprotected sex with strangers.”
I’m thankful for the darkness because her words strike me. “Whether I use a rubber or not, is really none of your business.”
And should never be. An undercurrent pushes her against me. My hands circle her waist to steady her. She’s swallowed some water and lets out a strangled cough.
“Are you okay?”
“I am fine. I’m not as fragile as you think.”
Lenor is like a porcelain doll so, of course, I worry about her.
She’s so close to me now that, despite the pitch black around us, I can’t miss how delicate her features are. Her lips are pressed tightly together, whether from the cold or something else, I can’t say.
“Zach, can you do something for me?”
“Depends… but go ahead.”
“Can you try to stay sober this summer?”
I’m tempted to argue that she’s exaggerating about me. I’m having fun, that’s all. But it isn’t. I pull Lenor closer to me so that her breasts push against my chest. I try not to pay them any attention. She takes hold of my shoulders, her thumbs parallel with my collarbone. Our bodies rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the water.
“I promise you.” I sound surprisingly solemn. At that point, it’s very simple. I’d have Lenor over coke any time, any day.
“Good.” She kisses my cheek, then wriggles and pushes me away with a splash. “The last one to reach the beach is having lunch with Megan tomorrow.”
She’s already swimming back to shore. “Wait, you’re cheating, Duchess.”
I laugh. I laugh out loud. Then I stop. I have no desire to lunch with Megan Alistair. Not tomorrow or any other day. Especially if I have now to stay sober through it.
I start swimming back.
Chapter 8
LENOR
Paris ~ Present.
I attempt to pretend I’m not sitting next to him in the back of a chauffeur-driven car, our hands inches apart on the leather seat. I admire the reflection of the moon on The Seine as the car drives across le Pont-Neuf, its first span leading us to the tip of the Ile de la Cité, then its second span from the island to the Right Bank and Le Louvre. The pyramid in the Cour Carrée du Louvre is sparkling across the night.
I enjoy the warm air that blows through the half-open window and plays with the wisps of my hair. I even take a couple of sips from the small bottle of Evian tucked behind the passenger seat. All of this requires a tremendous effort because I’m pretty drunk.
And the whole time my skin burns with the knowledge that he hasn’t tak
en his eyes off me.
“Charlie could have taken me back to her place,” I finally blurt out.
Zach looks relaxed, his long body curled in a feline way. This is a laid-back version of him I’ve only glimpsed a few times before. “Your cousin is about as intoxicated as you are. I’ve asked Clara to look after her for the rest of the night. One of our cars will take her back to her place safely.”
“Glad to see you’ve thought of everything.” It was a failed attempt at a joke. I empty the bottle of Evian. I’d prefer vodka, but the twists and turns of the car unsettle me. Paris has few avenues, so driving anywhere is never a straightforward experience. If I throw up in Zachary Murdoch’s car, a slow and embarrassing death will follow.
“I’m taking care of you tonight.” His hand rests on my shoulders. “Just send a text to your mom saying you’re sleeping at your cousin’s so she doesn’t worry.”
I take my cell out of my clutch and I’m relieved to see I’m still in control of my fingers as they move over the keyboard. Zach is holding his own cell while his free hand stretches across my shoulders. I welcome its steadying feeling. If I tilt my head sideways—just a tiny bit—my cheek will touch the tips of his fingers. Warning sirens sound through the fog in my drunken brain and I focus on keeping my head upright.
But slowly—oh so slowly—Zach’s low voice lulls me into a half-sleep and my eyelids flicker at each passing lamppost. He’s giving instructions to Clara. The night isn’t over—his work hours not exactly being nine-to-five. I mumble an apology for disturbing his schedule before the muscles of my neck betray me. My cheek slops against the back of his hand. At the contact, his fingers squeeze my shoulder.
I lose track of time, of where I am, or where we’re going, of everything.
“We’ve arrived.” Zach whispers.
I answer with another indefinable mumble. I climb out of the car and exhale in relief: I can master my Manolos’ vertiginous heels, despite the steep incline of the sidewalk. The street snakes uphill.
Zach turns towards his chauffeur who’s still holding the door open for us. “Merci, Ziggy.”
“Merci.” I smile at Ziggy, who smiles back at me.
“Should I pick up Mademoiselle tomorrow morning?” he asks in a baritone.
Zach has his arm around my waist and I fully expect to be whisked off my feet again. He does nothing of the kind, which leaves me fractionally disappointed.
“I’ll drive her back to her place myself. Take the morning off.”
We turn away from Ziggy and Zach leads la Mademoiselle to a double-fronted door. He inputs a code. A buzzer rings. He pushes the door open and holds it open for me to walk in. I advance like a robot: Alcohol has caused exhaustion to creep into my whole body.
A thick burgundy carpet covers the entrance hall of the building. Zach kneels at my feet. His fingers wrap around one ankle, lift it and remove my stiletto. He repeats the same gesture with my other foot, then stand again, keeping the Manolos in one hand.
“These shoes are lethal.” There’re sparks in his eyes. “Watch your step,” he warns me, holding my hand to make sure I trod carefully.
A couple of steps lead to an old-fashioned Parisian elevator with an outer sliding grate door. The elevator itself is on the ground floor. Inside, I lean against the wall opposite to where Zach stands, creating as much space between us as possible. I want to sway forward and nestle myself against him
The small lights on each floor flash like digital buttons as we pass up through the building. A tiny ‘ding’ sounds that we’ve reached our destination: le sixième étage. The ride has been silent.
Zach escorts me to another door, which he unlocks. Dimmed lights turn on automatically as we enter the apartment. The space is uncluttered but homey: dark wooden floor, a long corner sofa, a Le Corbusier chair, and a billiards table.
“Your grandfather’s?”
Zach’s eyes follow my pointed finger. The billiards. “Yes. They were in our house in East Hampton. I’m surprised you remember.”
I swallow another chuckle: I remember everything.
I breathe in the waxy smell of the wood polish. It gives an old-fashioned feel to the place. Our gazes lock for a second, but I force myself to look away, towards the three French windows that open onto a balcony. It takes my scattered mind several moments to gather itself and register the view outside.
“Breathtaking,” I say as I stumble barefoot across the living room. I lay my hand flat on the glass of the door. “We’re in Montmartre, aren’t we?” That’s the only place you can have Paris at your feet.
“Correct, but before you start enjoying the view, let’s fight the hangover.”
I tear my eyes away from the panorama. The pounding inside my head hurts badly and my stomach hasn’t yet returned to safe harbor. I place one foot carefully in front of the other and follow him into a bathroom. Everything there is turn-of-the-century, from the elaborate taps to the vintage freestanding bathtub.
Soon he’s switched on the shower full-blast and has laid soft towels on the edge of the sink, together with toothbrush and toothpaste still wrapped in their packaging. He then silently leaves the room, only to return a moment later with a neatly pressed, striped shirt in his hands.
“It’s one of mine,” he nods at the shirt, “but it should protect your modesty.”
“Thank you,” I say, although I’m drunk enough not to worry about my modesty.
The steam from the shower starts to fill the bathroom.
“Based on my extensive experience of boozy nights, I can vouch that the shower will help. Not quite a midnight swim in the Atlantic, but it’ll do.”
I nod at him hesitantly and accept the shirt, but he keeps hovering near the door. For a split second, I can see the boy I had a crush on throughout all my teenage years. And then the image is gone and his mask firmly back in place.
The man redefines ‘unreadable.’
“Take your time. If you need anything, just shout.”
I want to shout right now, because I need to know why he keeps coming to my rescue. Between saving my mother’s life last week and my honor tonight, his performance is Academy-Award worthy.
I remain mute.
Alone in the bathroom, I undress, step into the shower and throw my head under the torrent of water. I don’t care about my professional blow-dry or the thick layer of mascara that will now surely be smudging my cheeks. The water runs in lines down my body and it feels like a baptism. My hands cover my face. Awareness rises within me, and with it the knowledge I’ve made a fool of myself.
I stay in the shower a long time.
The subsequent teeth brushing, hair combing and face washing bring me back to the realm of humanity. By the time I’ve finished, the nausea has receded. Tentatively, I venture outside of the bathroom. The vast living area is empty, but one of the French doors is half open. Pulling down the hem of the shirt, I step out on the balcony and find Zach sitting on a narrow bench, his bare feet dangling over the railings, a cigarette resting between his fingers. This view in itself would be overwhelming enough, if it wasn’t for the magical panorama that spreads before me.
“My God,” I gasp.
“I never get bored of it. I never will.”
Montmartre is atop a hill in the north of Paris. At the summit stands la Basilique de Notre-Dame with its white dome and cascading down the slopes from it, a tangle of steep, narrow streets, intertwined with a mass of steps. Zach’s apartment building has to be close to the top of the hill because I’m looking down at the city from a cloud. Pretty much everything is there for the eye to behold: the Eiffel Tower, Beaubourg, and a sea of rooftops with illuminated windows popping out from everywhere. The sounds of the capital ascend to us but are muffled and unobtrusive.
My hands curl around the railing “It’s like being a bird.”
Behind me, I hear him move and he comes to lean next to me. I don’t want to look at his face so I focus on the tip of his cigarette instead, an orange point in
the surrounding darkness. He exhales a small cloud of smoke and I want to extend my hand to touch the air he’s just released.
“I knew you’d love it,” he says, as if he’s been waiting for my approval all this time.
“I’d be crazy not to. How long have you lived here?”
“I bought the apartment shortly after I decided to settle down in Paris. It was pretty run down so it took a while to get it back into shape.” He nods over his shoulder at a small table. There’s a plate with a couple of pieces of toasted baguette and a glass of clear liquid. “Something to fill your stomach and some Advil to take with water.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, as you well know… been there, done that.”
I sit down and carefully place the plate on my lap. The toasted baguette covered with some deliciously salty butter vanishes in a few bites and is quickly followed by the water in a few gulps. I start to feel refreshed. As he watches me eat and drink, Zach rests his back against the railings, parts his legs and spreads them on either side of mine, which are bare and crossed. I shuffle on the bench and glue my thighs tightly together.
I listen to him, inhaling and exhaling smoke, in a regular cadence. My breathing slows down to match his. It’s past two in the morning and the night is hot, humid, and inhabited by only us.
But I grow restless staring down at the crumbs in my plate. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice to me?”
A last puff on his cigarette rewards my curiosity. He then stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray on the arm of the bench. His legs shift and he comes to sit by my side, hunched forward with his forearms on his thighs. Throughout his movements I keep the plate as my sole focus.
“I don’t need your pity or—”
“I don’t pity you,” he cuts me off.
“You don’t have to make it up to me either.” I summon up all the courage I can muster and turn to face him.
His eyebrows narrow. “Make up for what?”
“For breaking my heart.” I want to suck back the words. I want to vanish.
I brace myself for his long-delayed apologies, for a heartfelt confession of his guilt. I dread every syllable of his speech already.
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