Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

by Celia Kennedy

  Unfolding myself from the nest that was my bed, I extended one foot to the smooth hardwood floor. The other foot followed, and, mercifully for me, the rest of me slithered along without too much complaint. Turning the shower on to blazing hot, I leaned against the travertine tiles, gradually moving under the showerhead so that scalding water plastered my hair against my body. After a few minutes, fatigue melted away, allowing me to move through my familiar morning routine. Somewhere between sudsing and rinsing, the past had been compressed back into its tidy beige box, the lid again firmly in place.

  I was determined to make an impression on anyone who saw me. Somewhere during the night, I’d convinced myself that the past was the past and I needed to continue to move forward. I carefully chose an Andy The-Anh color-block dress in dark and light brown with taupe trim, a square neckline, and cutaway straps. The straight skirt accentuated my legs—I sent a silent thank you to my mother for giving me legs that appeared to begin just under my armpits. I paired the dress with Dolce and Gabbana leopard-print pumps. Purposefully, I added a bit of asymmetrical whimsy to my clean-lined dress by pulling my hair up, slightly off to the side, in a tangled, twisted knot.

  More importantly, it said, “Look at my outfit, not in my eyes.”

  ***

  I arrived at my desk very early, needing to review the final set of documents on the purchase of a US chain that L’Oréal was procuring. As I was reading, my secretary stepped in. “You have a call. A Ms. Hillary Cavendish.” I smiled my thanks as I picked up the phone. “Hi, Hill.” She hated that nickname.

  “Kathleen, do you have a minute?”

  I looked at my clock. “One minute, exactly.”

  “Do you know if Jean-Victor Meyers is in town?

  “As in Lilliane Bettencourt’s grandson?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I had no idea. Just because his grandmother owned a third of the company and he was once an assistant product manager at L’Oréal didn’t mean he strolled the hallways making sure we put our shoulder to the wheel. “No. I can ask. What’s up?”

  “There are several people in town who I want to meet. I was hoping you could introduce me.”

  “I dunno. He and I aren’t exactly on a first name basis.”

  Hillary worked for the Institute for Philanthropy in London, and Mr. Meyers represented the Bettencourt-Meyers family on several boards. I assumed that was why she was asking but didn’t have time to get into it. Instead, I said, “I’ll let you know what I can find out.”

  We finished our call, I organized myself, and then, before hurrying to the bathroom, I gave a packet of documents to Denise, asking her to distribute them to members of the team for review. “Do you happen to know if Jean-Victor Bettencourt is about?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I can find out.”

  I called thanks as I left to go to the restroom. In the mirror, I touched up my lipstick and muttered to my reflection, “This is any other day.”

  With false confidence, I walked to the lobby and greeted my colleagues. I noted a few regarded my outfit with appreciation. My boss, Monsieur Detriche, a man in his early sixties and the epitome of a well-dressed businessman, was the first to greet me. “Very stylish, Mademoiselle Ehlers.”

  Daniel Huse, Monsieur Detriche’s boss, joined us. “You do represent the company well. I received your email regarding the Niely Cosmeticos Group early this morning, Mademoiselle Ehlers. I would like to meet with both of you later this week, if possible, to discuss the details of the acquisition.” Monsieur Detriche immediately set about bobbing his head. I nodded. Once.

  Monsieur Huse wore a dry look of amusement. I appreciated his recognition of my work and possibly my attire, though I was somewhat uncertain of the latter. He, himself, looked quite handsome in his expertly cut, obviously expensive suit. It took me surveying his suit to realize that he was handsome, in a very classic, French sort of way: lean, well-groomed with wideset eyes, defined jawline.

  I had been worried that my passion for fashion while climbing the corporate ladder would be detrimental to my career ambitions. I had tried bland suits and benign shoes. In the end, it was Marian’s sage advice that I took. “Don’t be a slut! Just wear something tasteful, lose the Lucite heels, and use your brain.” No sooner had those words been spoken than I’d donated my bland suits and shoes to a charity and hit the shops.

  I contemplated this on the ride to the Balenciaga showing at the historic Laennec Hall. How did Balenciaga manage to get a showing here? I wondered as we entered the church. The simple, clean architecture was the perfect foil for couture.

  Knowing that the girls would be here, I was on the lookout. Tiziana was not one to disappoint. I saw her and Ted posing for photographers. The girls stood near the makeshift seating and made faces at her, causing her to giggle. Her ample cleavage quivered in a low-cut, black-lace Balenciaga gown. To reach them, I took a wide arc around the long reflecting pools that ran the length of the central aisle. Instead of splitting off from me, the entire L’Oréal team had followed me.

  It immediately occurred to me they wanted an introduction to Ted. “I’m sorry,” I whispered in Ted’s ear, just before introducing the heads of our five divisions. While he politely made small talk with them, I found myself in Tiziana’s embrace. “Are you all right, bella?” she whispered. Knowing she was referring to last night’s conversation, I nodded, though, in truth, I still felt like a truck had backed over my heart a time or two.

  I turned to the others. “How about you? How are you?” They took my lead, immediately filling me in on the gossip. Apparently, the night before, at Vivienne Westwood’s after-party, everyone had been gossiping about some incident involving her driving a tank up to David Cameron’s front door in Chadlington, a few weeks back.

  “Jaysus, that woman has balls. Feck, I would have paid a million euros to see her straddling that beast. The tank. Not David Cameron.” Marian took a breath, ending the tale with a flourish.

  Tiziana, looking confused, glanced around cautiously before asking sotto voce, “I still don’t understand. Why is she protesting fucking?”

  My jaw dropped. While Tiziana stood in confusion, we laughed to the point of tears. God, I needed that! Once we’d recovered, Marian explained the difference between “fucking” and “fracking.” She quickly wrapped up her explanation as a hand came to rest lightly on my back, startling me. Sébastien. My heart pounded.

  I breathed in his cologne when he greeted me with a single kiss on my cheek. I waited while he kissed Tiziana and Charlotte, too, and warmly shook Hillary’s hand. When he reached for Marian, she took a step back dramatically and pointed at me. “I don’t think so! You gave her one kiss, Charlotte and Tiziana got two, and then you shook Hillary’s hand. What do I get? A poke in the eye?”

  He chuckled at her comment. “I like you.”

  Marian raised her eyebrow and cast a playful come-hither look at him. Sébastien continued graciously, “I have yet to poke a woman in the eye!” He slowly extended his hand to hers, still laughing. “May I?” She trepidatiously let him approach, offered her hand, and was rewarded with a kiss to each cheek.

  She turned to me afterwards. “My god, he smells like heaven.”

  I know!

  Hillary shushed Marian. “Lower your voice, for heaven’s sake. Think of where we are, and remember, Kathleen is at work.”

  Marian quickly sneaked a peek at the people around us. “Who exactly is your boss? Are any of them available? You could set us up.” She nudged Hillary, who looked absolutely horrified.

  Monsieur Huse chose that moment to end his conversation with Ted. “The president of the consumer product division is unattached. I believe it is time, Mademoiselle Ehlers.”

  As Marian candidly assessed my boss, my jaw dropped again. I couldn’t believe her… or Monsieur Huse. I continued to ponder him and his comments as he and Sébastien shook hands.

  “I need to beg a moment, Monsieur.” I tipped my head to Sébastien, silent
ly asking him to talk to me away from the group. He followed, eyes twinkling. “Are you available for dinner?” I asked.

  His eyebrows rose. “Yes. But I assumed you would be busy.”

  I had made a bold decision while getting ready for work. “They’ll be there, too, but I would like to find an opportunity to talk to you without all this.” I gestured to the opulence, the crowds.

  “So no romantic dinner for two?” His words made me blush. My rosy cheeks made him smile. “Text me the information.”

  “I need your number.”

  In response to my comment, he pulled out his phone, asked for my number, and texted me. “Now we have each other’s numbers.” The intensity in his eyes left me feeling fizzy with happiness. All I could do was offer a smile and a nod.

  Returning to my boss, I said, “Après vous, monsieur.” I gave Sébastien a quick glance over my shoulder and added just the teeniest bit of bounce to my walk, flirting with him and hoping to keep his attention.

  While walking next to Monsieur Detriche with my armor restored, I updated him on the paperwork I had reviewed that morning.

  “You must have arrived quite early. I appreciate your dedication. Being out of the office most of the day and keeping the ball rolling on the NYX Cosmetics merger must be challenging.” His compliment was genuine, and I felt pleased at his acknowledgment.

  ***

  It was an odd juxtaposition to listen to Dr. Dre and Tupac while I watched the models, clad all in white, wearing angelic pieces, saunter alongside the reflection pools. I was in awe of Alexander Wang’s talent.

  In this last showing with Balenciaga, Alexander Wang seemed to have taken “taking flight” literally but angelically. The celebrity cast of models wore ruffled slip dresses and low-slung, billowing trousers paired with crop tops in wistful shades of white. This collection of lace-covered knit, shimmering satin, and delicate embroidery begged to be touched.

  Once the designer took his final, exuberant bow and followed the models off the runway, I was distracted from my mental purchase list when Monsieur Detriche spoke candidly. “I hope Monsieur Langevin is not trying to lure you away from us.”

  I shook my head. “No. We met by chance last weekend. He is an old friend of the Blackwells. Mrs. Blackwell and I were at Oxford together,” I answered factually, seeing no reason to offer him more details.

  Daniel Huse quickly intervened. “Monsieur Detriche, Mademoiselle Ehlers has proven her dedication to L’Oréal. To keep her, we must show our appreciation, and if we have done our job well, she cannot be lured away.”

  Pleased with this unsolicited review of my abilities, I smiled my thanks and let the conversation drop. Monsieur Detriche offered an apology and quickly joined another conversation. It was then that Monsieur Huse said, with a nod in my boss’s direction, “He is excellent at his job but a little outdated in his approach. I hope you do not find his comments or expectations uncomfortable.” Was this behind the grin earlier?

  I quickly assured him that Monsieur Detriche and I had a comfortable working relationship. “Good. I just wanted to make sure,” was all he said, before excusing himself. “I need to call the driver.”

  As I walked toward my friends, I checked my phone. There was a text from Denise. “Monsieur Meyer is in town.” I quickly sent a thank you and let Hillary know.

  “How are you going to get an introduction?” I asked.

  She swiveled to Tiziana and Ted. “Of course.” Silly me! Having added Ted to our arsenal appeared to be a definite boon.

  Circus Clowns

  Back at work, my cell phone buzzed. “Allô?”

  “Kathleen, darling, I must tell you Issey Miyake is not my favorite. So boring,” Tiziana announced melodramatically. “All those bland colors and fabrics. Where is the joie de vivre?”

  “Well, if you really want to be annoyed, check out Manish Arora. I’ve heard the collection is circus-like. The invitation alone put me off.” I glanced down at my invitation for the New Delhi-based designer’s show. On it, the model’s makeup was done in the style of a colorful pantomime, and her boxy dress resembled a child’s rendition of a house in a garden. From the windows of the house, large, bright-green eyes peered out.

  “Darling, are you joining us for dinner? We have a reservation at L'Arpège at 9:30.”

  “Excellent choice. I invited Sébastien to join us. Can we add one?”

  An explosion of happiness erupted on her end. “Darling, lovely. I’ll take care of it.”

  The background noise puzzled me. “Where are you now?”

  “Comme des Garçons’s show is about to begin!”

  “At least that will be kookier and colorful! I’ll let you go.”

  “Ciao, bella. We’ll see you later.”

  “Ciao!”

  I texted Sébastien, L'Arpège at 9:30?

  A few minutes passed before I received his answer. Perfect.

  Since last night, I had had an overwhelming desire to tell him how sorry I was about his wife. Over the last week, I had wondered repeatedly what he’d thought of me sharing my broken heart, as I had. All I knew was that I had wanted to be single, solitary, for a very long time, but meeting him had changed that. Was it good or bad to respond so strongly to one person? Was it good or bad that we had both lost someone we loved? In sharing this, could we understand the other’s loss in a way no one else could? I wanted to hear his thoughts. If he wants to share them.

  Le Gourmand

  As soon as I entered the showrooms of Jean Paul Gaultier, Marian, in her usual pouncing fashion, asked, “Can you sit with us or are the bloody suits here?” I scanned the room and found Sébastien across the sea of people, talking to a group of beautifully dressed women. The jolt of lust I felt every time I saw him amazed me. I hadn’t been remotely attracted to anyone since Mikkel’s death.

  While I wanted to ponder, “Why now? Why him?” I answered Marian instead. “No suits. Just me. Where are the lovebirds?” Both married couples appeared to be missing.

  “Charlotte needed to sit down,” Hillary answered.

  As we walked to the entrance, I asked about Lea Peckre’s showing that afternoon.

  “A continuation of last year’s theme of the dowdy tunic, I’m afraid.” Hillary had barely finished speaking when Marian scoffed, “Except for the lip rings. And nudity. You could see everyone’s tits and bums.”

  I scowled at the image Marian conjured, and was about to ask for details when we came face to face with Sébastien. I tripped. He quickly grabbed me. I looked to see what I’d tripped over but saw nothing but my feet.

  “Hello… Sorry… How is your—” I babbled breathlessly. I took a deep breath to calm down. “We were just heading in. Would you like to join us?”

  Hillary and Marian discreetly left to join Charlotte.

  Still holding me close, he grinned, clearly pleased at our close proximity. “I would love to join you.” The way he spoke, deep and slow, made my heart race faster, and the look he gave me made my body tingle in long-forgotten places. Softly, he murmured, “I have been looking forward to after dinner all day. I want to kiss you.”

  I gently pushed away and surveyed the room. “I’m not certain how to respond, except to say that I’m not into exhibitionism.” When my words sunk in, his eyebrows shot up in amused surprise. I smothered my amusement at his response.

  “You definitely have my undivided attention. I wonder what are you into?” He quickly kissed me just below the ear, and I literally felt a swoon coming on.

  I revealed, “Okay, enough of all that. You’re making me… woozy.”

  “Woozy is good, no?”

  I got woozier. There was something unbelievably sexy about the word “woozy” sliding off the tongue of a lust-filled Frenchman. I gave him a look that said “yes” and “stop it!”

  “All right, chérie. Shall we?” I nodded again, noting the word “chérie” and how incredibly happy I felt.

  Tiziana caught my attention as we entered. Amidst a sea of
black, gray, and white clothing, she wore a fitted dress in burnt orange, the only color in the room, and she wore it well. “Literally, all eyes are on her.” I grinned, but when I looked at Sébastien, his eyes met mine.

  “Who?”

  I felt pretty confident it wasn’t just flirtatious banter. I almost tripped again. Woozy had progressed to something else. All I could focus on was his hand resting low on my back.

  I and everyone in my group became keenly aware that his hand remained there as we greeted them and took our seats. After the lights lowered, I covertly glanced and found him openly watching me. He reached over and squeezed my hand, holding on to it. The tingling concentrated where our fingers were interlaced, making it impossible to focus on anything but him. My mind wandered down several paths, all ending with me breathing hard.

  When the show finished, he kept hold of my hand, as if afraid I would let go. I wasn’t letting go. While he talked about the collection with Hillary, who had been sitting in front of him, I felt mystified. He had been able to observe and absorb the show, while all I could manage to think about was every inch of him.

  I tuned in as Hillary said, “It’s a great improvement over last spring’s collection. That was hideous, taken straight from Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “It was spectacularly awful! But this was good, no? I particularly enjoyed the pieces at the beginning. Explain to me, what were they? Bathing suits with capes?” Sébastien diplomatically praised and criticized the designer in one breath.

  Marian, clearly enjoying his banter, added, “I particularly enjoyed the little hats! They looked like silk stockings plopped on their heads.”

  “I know what I’m getting you for Christmas,” I informed her.

  Liam and Ted joined us as Hillary dashed off in the direction of a group of elegantly dressed men. I could only assume that one or more of them were people she wanted to meet. “She’s committed, you gotta give her that,” I said to Marian, who stood beside me. “Maybe you ought to join her in a minute, let her introduce you to them.” While I was mostly joking, I wasn’t all that startled when she took me up on my advice and wandered over.