I kept pace beside her, listening to her talk about how glad she was to meet me and how happy her father had been since meeting me. I found her emotional exuberance sweet and a little overwhelming. Grateful that the morning air was crisp, I burrowed my face in my coat and scarf, hoping to hide my feelings. We walked familiar streets until I wasn’t too surprised we ended up at Du Pain et Des Idées.
Peeking through the large glass windows, we saw a myriad of people making their selections of fresh pastries stacked in baskets and piled on trays. The buttery air was heavenly when we entered, and I found myself at peace.
“Mademoiselles?” asked a kind-faced man when it was finally our turn.
I gave Chantal the go-ahead to order for me. “We would like three fruit mouna, three croissants, three fig tartine, and two pain des amis. Oh, and two baguettes.”
As he handed Chantal her bag, I asked for a dozen chocolate and pistachio escargot. When she raised her eyebrows, I said, “I have friends in from out of town, and I thought they would enjoy trying them.”
I offered to pay for breakfast. She looked dubious for a moment and then accepted, after negotiating paying for the coffee. I knew they didn’t serve coffee here, so I immediately began to wonder where our next stop would be.
The shop owner handed me my pastries and change before offering a hasty, “Au revoir.”
I opened the bag containing the delicate pastries and inhaled. Inside were pinwheel-shaped layers of golden, flaky dough topped with finely chopped green pistachios and gooey chocolate. “Heaven,” I said.
She smiled politely at me.
You need to live somewhere without a boulangerie every block to know how heavenly this really is.
I followed her without question and was surprised to find us out front of Sébastien’s building. “Papa should be awake. He will make us coffee.”
Papa? Papa, indeed. My brain worked double time to combine the concept of someone’s father with the man who had loved me so thoroughly and without restraint the previous night.
As she fumbled with her keys, I took a deep breath of Parisian autumn air and remembered why I had chosen this remarkable place to live. A quote by Honoré de Balzac rushed into my thoughts: “Whoever does not visit Paris regularly will never really be elegant.” I had stumbled my way here, and here I wanted to stay.
When we walked in the front door, he looked up from his paper and greeted us. “Bonjour! What a lovely way to start the day.” Before he kissed me, he gave me a questioning look. “Merci for the note. I was wondering what happened to you,” he whispered in my ear.
In lieu of answering him, I handed him bags of pastries. “We bought food. Chantal promised me you’d make coffee.”
“Of course, chérie.”
***
As Chantal departed, I stood in the kitchen, cleaning up and watching them at the door. He slipped a handful of euros into her hand and kissed her hair before saying goodbye. It was a perfectly normal scene.
By the time she had announced her departure to meet friends, I had merged Sébastien’s two selves, to some extent. I had also absorbed the facts that I was twelve years older than she and he was eight years older than I. Did that mean anything? No. It didn’t. Well, it kind of did. I was a little uncomfortable, but “early days” yet.
He came to me and nuzzled my ear. “Merci for everything. I’m sorry if her rattling around this morning frightened you. I gave her money and told her to buy coffee.”
I chuckled at his words. “Will she buy coffee with it? Or will she be here tomorrow for coffee?” I couldn’t resist asking.
He turned me around and hugged me close. “I think now that she knows you spend the night, she’ll be more restrained.”
I pulled back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to change anything.”
“Chérie, I want you to change everything.” He kissed me tenderly. My knees trembled; my heart fluttered. “Let’s go back to bed.”
Breathless, I said, “I have to go to Vivienne Westwood and Rahul Mishra. I’m supposed to see Nina Ricci, but I’ve never really liked their collections.”
“We have time, chère, I promise.”
Our lovemaking was passionate, intense. Clothes were quickly shed, and desire tossed leisurely foreplay out the window. It was breath stealing, raw, and honest. It was sensual.
“You might have bruises later,” Sébastien softly chuckled. I only managed a grunt of concern, still catching my breath. “I promise to be gentle from now on.”
Feeling brave, I looked at him. “Variety is the spice of life. Now, let’s shower.”
Fracking Me Up
“Oh. My. God. That was a fecking train wreck,” Marian pronounced Vivienne Westwood’s show. We were in complete agreement. She continued, “Jaysus, what was up with the floating coat? What was that supposed to represent? It’s a bit early for Halloween.” Her off-the-cuff comment about one of the models draped in a gold dress within an armature hidden by a man’s overcoat sent us into hysterics.
“Sorry, but that was one of her lesser sins. The men in booties, rope belts, and the knotted-up, tattered fabric were atrocious,” Hillary added, once we’d caught our breaths.
I made some kind of zerbity sound, chastising, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the red toga or the jester suit bedazzled with feathers at the nipples. Were those just to make the other pieces actually look good? Oh my god, I think she has actually lost it.”
We had ducked out of the Westwood show without any remorse. We fled to Rahul Mishra’s showing. Since we had plenty of time, we went in search of somewhere to get a drink.
I had promised Liam that I would coddle Charlotte, so instead of walking, I hailed a taxi. I could tell that our driver was clearly dazzled by the carload of beautiful, well-dressed women. Impersonating an American speaking atrocious French, I asked, “Excuse me, can you take us somewhere really special for a drink, a cocktail, near Palais de Tokyo? We’ll pay you a little extra.” I threw in the last bit, thinking this would be something a naïve American would do. I added a silent apology to the universe for betraying my countrypersons.
He cast a glance at Charlotte’s belly. “For just a little extra, I can give you my cell number, wait for you, and take you to your next rendezvous.”
Well, that was a surprise. “How much extra?” I asked, sounding a whole lot more French. He named an ungodly number of euros. I covertly looked at Charlotte’s belly, where her hand stroked the massive mound. In perfect French I said, “Fine. But you’d better be less than two minutes away.”
He gave the typical response, “Of course.” I rolled my eyes and prayed it would all work out. He said, “I recommend the bar at Hotel De Sers.” I nodded, and off we went.
The bar in the hotel was super-trendy: chrome, glass, and mirrors. It reminded me of one we had gone to a few years before, in New York City. Liam had returned to Ireland and Charlotte had been a mess, not knowing when she’d be seeing him again; we’d gone over to cheer her up. The de Sers was beautiful. It just could have been anywhere.
We were debating between two cocktails, a French 125 or the Summit, when the waiter arrived. He waited while I said, “Given the press coverage, controversy, and deliberation every designer inspires, I think we should try the Summit.”
“Perhaps, you begin with it and then have a French 125, to remember that Paris is a city of romance.” He dazzled us with his sexy, French-accented English.
Marian was white knuckling it. I could practically see her talking herself out of crawling across the glass table after him. Apparently, Charlotte could, too. She whispered in Marian’s ear, “Easy girl.”
When he gave her a flirty look before leaving, I thought, Poor man. He has no idea what could happen if he keeps that up. While I only had her stories to base my theory on, my instincts told me Marian could be quite adventurous in bed.
We arrived at the showing in prime form, ready to be dazzled by the one designer we all agreed upon: Rahul Mishra.
***
Perched on the edges of our chairs, we strained to see every delicate piece of fluttering fabric waft by. Elegant, effortless, fresh.
“How does he do this?” Tiziana asked me.
I shrugged. I had no idea. In between gasps, oohs, and ahhs, I ticked off the items that I wanted.
Quietly, Marian called out to Hillary, “That would be great for you. Contemporary chintz.”
I waited for the scathing retort, but instead Hillary gave the white dress, heavily embroidered with bright flowers and geometric patterns, a closer look and then jotted something down on the paper she was taking notes on.
“Oh my god, Kathleen, that is so you!” Charlotte clutched my arm excitedly. Walking toward us, a model wore a full-length gown in pale, stormy gray that was heavily embroidered. Asymmetrical, one sleeve was full length and the other arm and shoulder were bare. Sultry lines were created by a cluster of small flowers hugging the right side of the waistline that radiated out to larger geometric shapes and bold, organic lines that ran the length of the dress. The effect was stunning. I was in love. I quickly tallied and, of the thirty-three pieces we’d seen, nineteen I could wear to work and four I would wear for fun.
“What do I do?” I asked Marian. “I can’t afford all these.”
She inclined her head in Tiziana’s direction “Quick! Touch Queen Midas with your bag, and see if it turns to gold.”
I snickered at her quick wit. The tote I had that day was enormous, and it would take about that much gold to purchase everything I wanted.
After lingering at the after party while I checked my watch repeatedly. It was time for me to make a getaway. “Girls, I’m going to head out for just a bit. We’ll meet at Brasserie Lipp, right?”
They sent me telling glances but said nothing, only waved goodbye.
Moonlight Serenade
Sitting in the back of the taxi, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my black silk top and added a thin silver necklace with a square crystal that sparkled amongst my cleavage. I let my hair down, brushed it, and quickly swiped bright red lipstick on. The taxi driver dropped me off at the corner of Rue Yves Toudic and Rue Beaurepaire. At the heart of Enclos-St-Laurent, I spritzed myself with my favorite combination of Jo Malone perfume, discreetly misting some of the secret places of my body. As I walked, I smoothed my skirt and wondered if I ought to do one of the buttons back up. Kathleen, be brave. Be sexy.
I was at Du Pain et Des Idées once again. The shop was empty, except for the same attractive man who’d helped Chantal and me earlier. “Bonsoir,” he greeted me, while his eyes subtly took me in, head to toe. I flushed. Nowhere to hide; no throng of people. I smiled benignly and looked about at the old-world elegance of the boulangerie. “We don’t have a very large selection, as we are about to close. I’m sorry.” Warmth bloomed in his eyes. “I recognize you. You are the l ’escargot chocolat pistache!”
“I am.” I felt pleased and surprised he remembered me. He must have hundreds of customers per day.
“Did your friends enjoy their escargots?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him they were still sitting on my kitchen counter. “They did.” Before he could say more, I apologized, “I’m meeting a friend. Do you mind if I wait here until he arrives? I know you need to clean up. I can wait by the door.” He must be tired after a long day, I thought.
He said, “Mais oui. I never mind the company of a beautiful woman,” and went about sweeping the floor of the shop.
I perched close to the door and looked out the large plate glass windows. Sunset. Golden rays of sunshine began to give way to the sherbet orange and lavender hues of dusk. A street light suddenly flickered to life, causing me to jump. I laughed at myself.
My watch showed it was 7:58. The shop closed in two minutes. I wandered to the counter and gazed at the gorgeous remnants of the day. I was trying to decide whether to buy something or not when Sébastien rushed in, concern filling his expression.
Before we could speak, the shopkeeper jabbed Sébastien. “A little close, non?”
He immediately replied, gallantly, “Oui! If she gives me a chance, I am undeserving.”
“If she doesn’t, I will ask her to give me one. One would be all I need.” The shopkeeper, very handsome actually, smiled with confidence.
Sébastien acknowledged the man’s challenge with a nod before offering his arm to me. Given this was our favorite boulangerie, I smiled brightly at the man and said, as I slipped my arm through Sébastien’s, “Goodnight.”
***
Outside, Sébastien apologized, “I am sorry, but there is still a chance.”
We walked quickly down Rue Marseille and turned northeast at the Quai de Valmy, keeping our pace up until we reached Jardin Villemin. There, amidst apartment buildings and a school, we found a large open space filled with flowers, fountains, and gazebos. The young trees were short enough that we had an open view of the western sky. By the time we found an empty bench and sat down, the sky was fading to purple and deeper shades of orange. White and yellow flowers popped like neon dots in the growing night.
Softly, as if not to disturb my observations of the park, he apologized again. “I am very sorry. Today felt like a waltz through a mine field. Chantal, fashion shows, clients.”
His arm, resting on the bench just behind me, was hard to ignore. Between the backdrop of Paris, the scent of fading flowers, and my flagrant desire, I found myself staring at his lips and not the beautiful sunset. He gave me what I wanted. He kissed me gently, a breathtaking kiss.
Sitting in the park surrounded by people, I agreed with him. “This whole week has been a beast. Soon, things will return to normal. Or better.” I offered him my lips, and then, after being thoroughly kissed, I settled my attention on a group of young children randomly chasing each other. I felt relieved he seemed comfortable with silence. I needed silence. It was as necessary to me as breathing.
He pointed to a gaggle of geese flying overhead, their passing announced by loud, honking calls. I watched the faint outline of their bodies against the darkening sky. “It must be beautiful to fly.”
“I always wonder where they go. I suppose it must be Africa, but my imagination wants them to go somewhere tropical. Maybe Indonesia.”
I enjoyed his flight of fancy then said, “In Seattle, we always assume the geese fly south, to Mexico. I’ve never really thought about where French geese migrate.”
“Speaking of migrating, I’ve been meaning to ask all week, how exactly did you meet Tiziana?”
I laughed out loud and then told him, “It’s a great story. There was a pub crawl for new students—which is how I met Charlotte. She and I were new. We were in the Bear, the oldest pub in Oxford, where a bachelor party was taking place. Charlotte and I met Marian because she was friends with the bride-to-be and was spying on the groom, to make sure he didn’t get out of line. One of the groomsmen happened to be Hillary’s brother. Keep in mind, we had been in and out of several pubs already and were a little drunk. While we were ordering a round of drinks, we heard, ‘Stripper! Stripper!’ being chanted. The next thing I knew, Charlotte’s elbow collided with my kidney, and she was pointing at Tiziana, who was being manhandled by Marian and Hillary. You know Tiziana! She was wearing a dress that resembled a man’s white dress shirt, with a long string of pearls and a pair of flashy stilettos.”
Throughout my story, Sébastien chuckled. “To be fair, Tiziana was shocked. She was there to meet some girlfriends. You’d think a girl who oozes that much sexuality and gets that kind of attention would get used to being the topic of conversation… Back to the story. They frog-marched her out of there, and we followed to offer some sort of help. Tiziana was clearly surprised by the whole experience. But after everyone calmed down and Tiziana’s friends found her, all of us went out for drink and have been friends ever since.”
His eyes glistened with laughter. “I would have loved to have been there. Tiziana does always seem to find trouble. Well, I should say, did. I
would imagine, now that she is older and married, things are different.”
“Don’t hold your breath!” I turned the tables and changed the subject. “How did you come to work for Vogue International?”
“Oh, I don’t. I work for Condé Nast.”
I snorted. “So, I’ve been utterly intimate with a man I know nothing about!”
He gave me a reassuring look. “You know the important facts. As for work, I’m a technology person. Condé Nast has an e-commerce project I am working on right now.”
My surprise was waylaid when my phone rang. “I’m meeting the girls for dinner,” I said in response to his questioning gaze. Invite him or not? “We’re meeting at Brasserie Lipp. Tiziana’s into all things Hemingway. She read A Moveable Feast and wants to go. Would you like to join us? I can understand if the answer is no. Together we can all be a bit much.”
“I’d love to, and on our way you can tell me which shows you are planning on attending tomorrow.”
Inside the taxi and headed toward the restaurant in St. Germaine, he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it against his thigh.
Sunday, 04 October:
Kenzo/ Junya Watanbe / Celine / Maison Rahibh Kayrouz / Roland Mouret / John Galliano / Akris / Leonard Paris/ Alexander McQueen
He gave me a sizzling look that made my heart flip. His words made it flip again. “If I am very fortunate, I will see you first thing tomorrow morning. No Chantal.” Then he passed me the paper, so I could use the streetlights to see it. “Do you have any favorites?”
“My plan is to see Galliano and McQueen, and I haven’t made my mind up about any of the others.”
“What about me? Have you made your mind up about me?”
Playfully, I scrutinized him. “I don’t know. The jury is still out. We’ll see how the evening goes.”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 13