Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  All those adjectives are how I have felt about Bastien Josephs since Tuesday.

  But that man wasn’t who was here tonight. He wasn’t.

  And God, I miss Joe.

  I miss him badly.

  So very badly.

  My stomach turns, and I push myself up to go to the bathroom, positive I’m going to get sick.

  I’m so angry at myself, which is normal after getting drunk and dragging my ass into the bathroom. I feel horrible. I deserve it. It was stupid to drink without eating or sleeping.

  Anger at ones self is natural. It’s acceptable. But right now, hanging over my sink and dry heaving, I’m not angry at myself. I’m disappointed at myself, because I knew in my head, and then my heart, and lastly in my soul that, the first moment I met him, he would ruin me. I didn’t even let my ex-husband in deep enough to ruin me.

  I look up in the mirror at myself and cringe. “Screw you, frown lines.”

  I wake up to my phone ringing, my head pounding, and I’m on my air mattress.

  Blindly reaching for the phone, I hope to hit accept. It works.

  “Hello,” I whisper.

  “There’s water, Ibuprofen, and a croissant next to your”—he chuckles—“bed.”

  “Wha …? What?” I’m so confused as to why he’s calling me.

  “Am I that easy to forget, Brigitte-Angela, because you certainly aren’t.”

  “How …? Why …? What?”

  “Hmm … I could play this in so many ways, but I suppose honesty is best.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Check your messages; that should give you some answers. While doing so, drink that water. It has added electrolytes, which you’ll need. Take the pills and eat, for fuck’s sake. You look like you haven’t eaten in a damn month.”

  I open my mouth to respond.

  “Remember, eight o’clock tonight. There’s a dress hanging up in your closet. I’ll send a car—”

  “No!”

  He laughs, and it’s annoying. “You signed a contract.”

  “I was drunk!”

  He laughs again. “Don’t blame it on the alcohol.”

  I look down and see my bracelet, Be Present, and truly have no idea what went on.

  “Bastien—”

  “My friends call me Bass, Angela-Brigitte. Last night, we were friends. Today, we still are. I have to go. See you tonight.” And he hangs up.

  What the hell have I done?

  The first thing I see when I open my messenger is a picture of very familiar crumpled letters.

  Dammit!

  I look through my messages, which seem vaguely familiar.

  Bridge,

  Maisie has a concussion. She’s staying the night for observation. I hate that you didn’t say goodbye either. Thank you for dinner, for the note, for the memories, for not kicking me in the nuts today.

  Joe

  I replied an hour later: I liked Joe.

  His response: He liked you, too. I’m hoping Angela and Bass can get back on track. Do the three months w/ de la Porte. It needs you.

  I replied: Beg me.

  What the hell? I palm my face then spread my fingers, peering through them to scroll through the rest.

  His response: Beg you?

  I replied: Damn spell check …

  His response: I think we’re getting off track here.

  I didn’t reply, but he sent another response.

  You’ve been drinking; therefore, it would be unfair of me to come there and take advantage of that. I’ll be by to get the contract in an hour.

  After that, there were no more texts. And I don’t remember him coming here. But he clearly did. How the hell did he get in?

  My head pounds as I push myself up on the air mattress. It’s not without struggle. I look next to the bed and see everything he said he left there.

  Laughing, Autumn walks into my room. “You’re awake.”

  “No.” I toss the two pills in my mouth and drink them back with the enhanced water. After swallowing them down, I look at her. “What the hell happened?”

  “Well, apparently, you and the boss man agreed via text that you’d come back for the rest of the year. He called me and insisted I meet him here. After hanging up on him, I tried to call you. You didn’t answer. I called him back and he told me, if I didn’t come, I was fired.”

  I groan and cover my face.

  “He also told me he thought you were intoxicated and was worried. You told me you would be, so I came.”

  “And?”

  “The signed contract was on the kitchen island. You were on the bathroom floor.”

  I swallow another drink of the water. “Did he come in here?”

  “I sure as heck didn’t carry you to bed.” She giggles.

  “Oh, my God, spill it.”

  “I will, but first, you need to get up and get showered. We have pampering appointments before—”

  “Pampering?”

  “I did him a favor. He owed me one. From the looks of you, he owes you one, too.”

  I tried convincing Autumn that I wasn’t going, but she laid the guilt on as thick as the wax being pulled off my body. A body that, after a massage, should feel relaxed, but when the mind is preoccupied with questions, it’s impossible.

  “More champagne, Miss Autumn?” Javier asks.

  “Yes please.” She grins.

  “And you, Miss Angela?”

  “Still a no for me.” I cringe as the last strip is pulled from my body.

  Once the room has emptied and we lie there, waiting for facials, I look over at her. She’s sitting up and smiling.

  “Not feeling well still?” She takes a drink.

  “I’m feeling fine. I’m just not looking forward to tonight.”

  “Because you have feelings for … Bass. He’s the guy from the beach, isn’t he?”

  I shrug.

  “And you and Jean—”

  “I really don’t want to—”

  “When you do, I’m here,” she interrupts. “I’m your friend, Angela, your vault with a built-in NDA.”

  I nod. “I trust you. It’s just—”

  “Complicated?”

  “Very.”

  Walking into the La Plume Manhattan for a company-sponsored dinner shouldn’t feel at all awkward. I have planned events like this for several years. In fact, twice a year the ballroom was rented for board members, major shareholders, and typically new designers to socialize and discuss business. Typically, Jean would speak about the newest designers and lines coming out. It built excitement and unity amongst a company that had taken out many competitors in previous years, had survived the surge in designers for less via the internet, and as the owner, he strived to run the company in a way that made it feel like a family.

  Tonight appeared like a typical dinner. The place looked spectacular; wait staff dressed in black and white, the tables draped in the same color linens and topped with the finest dinner and glassware, with the de la Porte banner hanging beautifully behind the podium in the corner.

  Typically, weeks before the event, much more was going on behind the scenes. I would e-mail Jean, who spent ninety percent of his time in Paris, with all the minor details about each person he’ll be meeting for the first time, and attending major and minor events going on in the lives of those he knows, so he could keep things personal with those who kept de la Porte US running smoothly. He even insisted on knowing the small particulars for the dinner, wanting his personal touches to be on it to make sure everyone felt like he cared. He would email me back with any changes he felt were necessary. And typically, he would email me the speech he would make, and I would make suggestions for revisions.

  It looked like the typical semi-annual event. It looked as if nothing at all had changed. The reality is that everything has changed, and I feel like a stranger in a room full of people who I have known for many years.

  With my head spinning, I ponder my thoughts.

  It isn�
�t just that Jean, a man I respected, is gone. It’s like I didn’t even know him. Was he the conscientious business man or the cold, cruel, and uncaring man who hurt his own flesh and blood?

  It isn’t that his son, a man I could easily fall in love with and who is now in charge of the business, has made me question my judgement. It’s the reality of the situation, and that reality is I didn’t truly know the man I had worked with, who had been my escape, a man I thought I knew everything about … for years. I trusted him, thought I knew him, and I didn’t. Especially not the important things about him.

  Then there’s the man I allowed myself to not just have a physical relationship … a fling with, a man I could easily fall for, is his son. The parts I cherished about Joe … Bass, the carefree attitude, the love he seemed to have for simple things, the passion he carried for people, the protective yet possessive way he cared for me, was something I had never experienced.

  “You okay?” Autumn whispers from beside me.

  “Yes, of course,” I lie.

  “Then let’s get a drink.”

  “I’ll be skipping the alcohol.”

  She smiles, but when she turns away, her face drops.

  I follow her line of vision and whisper, “Shit.”

  “We need to get the hell out of here.” She starts to turn to head back to the door, but I stop her.

  “If I have to be here, so do you.”

  “But—”

  “You will not leave here because Eric Cartwright is here.” I don’t even give her a chance. I guide her toward the tables so we can find a drink for her on the way to our seats.

  I shouldn’t find the angst of a woman who has become my best friend a welcome distraction, but I do. It takes my focus away from the constant need to focus on organizing the chaos of what has become my life and the internal damaging dialogue to what I have single-handedly done to screw up my idea of a perfect life.

  I pluck a glass of champagne off the waiter’s tray and hand it to Autumn as I tell him our names. He guides us to our table that is directly to the left of the podium.

  As Autumn sits, the waiter asks if she would like another.

  “We’d really appreciate two glasses of seltzer water, preferably in a champagne flute.”

  “Of course, Ms. Petrov.” He smiles as I sit down.

  “You’re enjoying this,” Autumn whisper-hisses as she looks down.

  “It’s a distraction.”

  “For you maybe,” she huffs, looking up at me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She rolls her eyes and lets a sad smile quirk at the corner of her red lips. “I feel like Taylor Swift’s album titles somehow mimic my life at the time she releases them. Like she knows me.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  “Speak Now was released in 2010. I knew I shouldn’t have married my ex. The ‘Wedding March’ sounded like the imperial storm troopers march. In 2012, she released ‘Red.’ In 2014, ‘1989’ was released, and I wished I could go back to that year because I was in marital hell. Now ‘Reputation’ is released, and I have single-handedly ruined mine, and in the fucking Hamptons of all places.”

  “Oh dear, you’ve just not visited the right parts of the Hamptons.” I look behind me and see an older woman smiling. Her white hair is shoulder-length, her dark skin a beautiful contrast. She looks to be in her sixties, but I could be wrong. And her eyes are brown, soft and kind. She’s stunning. And I have no clue who she is.

  “Angela?” She looks at me, and I nod. “It appears we’ll be sitting next to each other for the evening. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Maisie.”

  My diminutive reprieve from my own problems is over.

  I stand to extend my hand to her and see Oliver pulling out her chair.

  I try to sound unaffected and convincing when I say, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  She gives a silent chuckle as she shakes my hand with one of hers and pats it with the other. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course,” I say as I sit.

  Her eyes hold mine, just like his did. Except, with her, I feel like a million admissions are being pilfered from me with no words exchanged.

  After she’s finished, she pats my hand, the one I didn’t realize she was still holding, and whispers, “You’re going to be just fine, beauty.”

  Shocked at the endearment and how she seems slightly amused, I whisper, “I’m sorry?”

  She smiles. “Don’t be. Just fix it while you have the time.”

  “I don’t understand.” I look down at my hands knotted tightly on my lap, honestly not having a clue as to what this woman is trying to get at.

  “You will.” There’s a smile in her voice that is incredibly frustrating. “When you’re feeling down, look up.”

  Is this some kind of joke to her?

  I look up to see if she’s in fact laughing at me, and my eyes meet his milk chocolate ones as he places his hands on her shoulders, bends down, and kisses the top of her head reverently.

  “Impeccable timing.” There is still a smile in her voice.

  “Are you causing problems?” he asks as he looks down at her.

  She reaches back and pats his hand. “Have I ever been a problem starter, young man?”

  He laughs.

  “Is he smiling, laughing, rocking the hell out of that tux, and kissing old ladies?” Autumn whispers.

  “Watch the old lady comment, will you?” I whisper back as I watch him and Maisie interact.

  “There’s no excuse in his change of behavior, aside from mental health issues or something that can only be seen in a movie.”

  He is definitely subhuman, I think as I look him over in that tuxedo which, to me, Bass Josephs in a tux is the male equivalent of a runway model in sexy lingerie.

  When he looks up at me, I quickly look away.

  God, help me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bass

  She looks stunning, as I knew she would, in the floor-length, black evening gown with the deep plunging neckline showcasing her tits. What I didn’t consider is how hard it would make this evening.

  I glance around the room and see several of the board members looking at her. Clearly, I also didn’t consider how much I hated those bastards. And the fact that they are looking at her … this is going to make tonight all the more enjoyable.

  I decide to sit, which serves several purposes: settling Maisie in, hiding my hard-on, and giving those pricks no alone time with her for business or otherwise.

  I lean over and whisper to Oliver, “You’ve made arrangements to get Maisie back to the penthouse right after dinner, correct?”

  He nods. “Before the speech, Bass. I know.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I’m aware.” He narrows his eyes in thought and annoyance as he sits back in his seat.

  “Dinner’s in about ten minutes. How are you feeling?” I ask Maisie.

  “I’m fine, dear.” She looks around the room. “This is pretty impressive.”

  I disagree. It reeks of him. But I know that she thinks I should consider it a blessing and not a curse. Glancing next to her, at Angela, it’s clear he taunts me even from the grave.

  “You can do with it as you wish. Make it all you. Do great things with the fortune you’ve come into.”

  I glance at Angela, who is quietly talking to Autumn. I want to know what they are saying.

  When they stand, Angela looks at Maisie. “Please excuse us.”

  Maisie nods. “Of course.”

  I like the way Angela speaks to her, the kindness in her eyes. I’ve seen it, felt the warmth in it, and I want it back.

  As I watch her walk away, I see several board members and one new designer, Mona, whose submitted designs have been tossed aside. They’re clearly in a different league than the others he tossed. Honestly, they seemed far more trendier than anything Jean put his stamp of approval on.

  Before standing, I kiss Maisie’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a few mi
nutes.”

  As I turn to walk away, I hear Maisie laugh. “Oh, Oliver, stop your bruting and go with him. I don’t need a sitter.”

  “Look around, Maisie, and ask yourself whose company I’d enjoy more than yours in this room.”

  “I appreciate it, son, but he needs you more than I. And you need him, too.”

  “Right now, I’m good where I’m at.”

  Walking up to the crowd gathered around Angela and Mona, I hear laughter.

  “It’s a beautiful dress, and our Angela wears it very well.”

  Mona smiles. “I’m not sure which of us you’re complimenting, Mr. Burns, but thank you.”

  “Both of course.” Standing behind her, I watch as his eyes drop to Angela’s chest.

  I slide between Angela and Burns and address Mona, “You’ve met Ms. Petrov.”

  Mona leans forward and kisses one of my cheeks then the other before standing back. “I have. And along with your board members, I agree; the design is stunning on her. I appreciate you contacting me. After receiving the rejection email from Monsieur de la Porte over a year ago, it was shocking to hear from you.”

  Angela looks confused.

  “Have you not seen the line?” I ask her.

  “No, sadly, I haven’t.” She takes a sip from her glass.

  “It wasn’t like Jean to overlook such beauty,” Burns interjects.

  Mona giggles. “Well, he did tell me he felt it was too young a look for the majority of his customers’ demographic.”

  “Meaning?” I ask, knowing damn well what it means.

  “That women in their forties and fifties should dress their age.”

  I look at Angela. “I disagree.”

  “I’m glad, because women in their forties and fifties are still sexy and should certainly be able to look that way.” She looks at Angela. “Tell me, how do you feel in that dress?”

  Angela blushes, but answers honestly, “Beautiful.”

  “That’s because you are,” Mona tells her.

  Damn right she is, I think as I look her over.

  When Angela, Autumn, and Mona excuse themselves to use the ladies’ room, I look at Burns. “I’d try to be a bit more professional if I were you.” He knows damn well what I’m talking about.