Love under contract

by Karin Fromwald

  “Gregor Levy wants to marry me,” Zara repeated slowly. Aceline shook her head. “How did he arrive at that decision? How did you actually meet him?” She had no idea about Zara’s plan. “I work as an attorney for LHM and he was sailing with your ex-husband, the two are friends . . .” “Antonio had never mentioned that,” Aceline said, offended. “Well, now he’s your ex, so don’t get upset!” Zara leaned back. “And, no, I haven’t slept with him yet, and no, I have no plans to marry him,” Zara said, before her mother could ask these questions. “But – I don’t quite understand?” She waved to the waiter. “Please bring me a Cognac.” She needed one to get over this fright.

  Zara folded her arms across her chest. “I am, for him, some kind of status-symbol, which he would like to have!” Aceline shook her head, she still didn’t understand. Then, yes then, she had wanted him, and how! This very young banker, former model, breathtakingly handsome , she would have done anything for him, but he?

  “And you?” Does he still look so good?” She had seen pictures of him in the newspaper from time to time, but they were mostly photos out of focus. People said he didn’t like to be photographed. “Yes, he still looks good,” Zara said, a little unnerved. Her mother still seemed to be morose about him. “And what will you do?” “I’m going to finish him. He will be held accountable for everything, but everything,” she said softly, and reached for her mother’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Mama, believe me, he will regret that he robbed our firm and that he hurt you.” Her eyes flashed with anger. “Zara, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Aceline cautioned, weighing every word. On the one hand, she was grateful that her daughter was on her side, but on the other hand? All of that lay in the past and at that time . . . she hadn’t told Zara the whole truth about what had happened, but she simply couldn’t.

  “Yes, it is a good idea, you’ll see – at the same time he’ll also clean up our finances and so discreetly – no one will even hear about it . . .” She already had her plan in mind, she just will have to have a little patience, he has to feel that he has conquered. She has to play the aloof aristocrat who lets no one, let alone any man, get near her.

  “Zara, be careful, the man is not stupid,” Aceline cautioned again. Zara smiled; she found it touching that her mother was afraid for her; she usually saw her mother in an entirely different light.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, I know my way around men!” Aceline sighed. “Apparently better than I do,” she admitted and it didn’t sound as if she was happy about it. Zara made a face. “I only make a mistake once!” she said, alluding to her mother’s many marriages and her own short one.

  Lost in her thoughts about the dinner with her mother, she hadn’t noticed that Gregor was still nearby.

  “Zara?” She stopped in the door of the salon briefly and looked at him. What else did he want? “You will marry me,” he said assuredly. Oh no, she thought, that she will not, but she would get him anyway and finish him off.

  Her eyes were so sad, he thought, something wasn’t the same as usual; she was also not as confrontational as usual. She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and sighed. Her plan seemed to be moving along, she saw compassion in his eyes. Suddenly she smiled: Maurice had arrived. She left Gregor standing there and went off to welcome Maurice.

  Maurice, a man in his sixties, still wiry and well-groomed, with salt and pepper hair and dark eyes, had worked as a designer for years, a few of them in renowned fashion houses such as Dior and then as head designer at Amacord. After all these years he was burned out, and, to be honest, the take-over had come at a convenient moment for him and gave him an excuse to step down, with his head held high. But he still wanted to haggle a bit, to assert himself, above all when he found out with whom he was dealing, one of his former top models, to whom he had even dedicated a perfume. He had always described him as one of the most beautiful of men. He was so perfect, but unfortunately not homosexual. Gregor Levy, the blond German Jew, who fit none of the clichés, neither model, nor Jew, or now as CEO. He was, however, even more astonished when he saw Zara.

  Zara, Aceline’s daughter. The little girl who, even in her younger years, already wore his collection; the little one in the school uniforms and her incredibly beautiful mother. The family was a little crazy. The father, who preferred girls under the age of consent; the mother, who chased after younger men – yes, and the daughter, who didn’t miss a party, although highly intelligent, was also a little loopy. An unusual family, if one can describe that as a family. He saw Gregor, whom he still found as handsome as ever, in conversation with Zara.

  So that’s what it was; the handsome CEO had fallen in love with the little princess, Maurice thought, amused. If he doesn’t get burned by her, like half of the men in Paris. He had heard rumors; no one escaped when Zara was in campaign mode, intent on conquest. Well, he wasn’t her father – and he didn’t seem interested, living on his drafty estate and planting vineyards!

  A little later Gregor asked Zara where she had gotten her dress. She grinned. “From my mother’s closet, a bottomless font.” Who knows, if these didn’t also belong to the bank? But even that could be changed by this man with the hard German accent, if she wished.

  As the multi-course dinner progressed, Gareth had to apologize to Zara, who was sitting next to him. He, an American, was very impressed by the elegance of the evening. It was just as he had seen in films, and she, the hostess, reminded him so much of a combination of Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn, that he himself felt as if he were in a film from the fifties.

  “I’m sorry about the lawyer’s apartment,” he said and took her hand. “Yes, it’s quite something when someone doesn’t recognize me,” she said graciously and characterized him as a damn uncultured American banker in her mind.

  After dinner Maurice withdrew into the salon with Gregor, Zara, Nevill and the bankers. Even before they got there, Maurice whispered to Zara, “I never thought that you would be working for LHM.” She knew exactly what he meant. She shrugged her shoulders – she couldn’t tell Maurice of her plan, since Gregor was once one of his top models. Who knows what kind of close relationship he still had with Gregor. So, she said only, “Times change, Maurice; one can’t always make the choices one would like.” He sighed. How right she was.

  At some point in the discussion the freedom of artistic expression came up, and Gregor, who had kept relatively quiet and left the discussion to Nevill, spoke for the first time: “Maurice, is the issue about your creativity? Are you afraid that we’re encroaching too much?” Maurice nodded, that was exactly it, that’s what he was concerned about, the business itself was never his interest.

  “My heavens, Maurice, how naïve are you? Today almost no one can afford haute couture – and if, the collections must sell – and besides a few good years,” he looked at Zara; her dress clearly belonged to that time, “that is certainly not the rule in your case!” Maurice opened his mouth and wanted to defend himself. He had always received words of praise in the press, his collections were rich in ideas, creative, unusual . . . but he remained quiet when he saw Gregor’s gaze. “Don’t tell me that it’s not true; I personally had the pleasure of wearing your artworks for a few years!” His blue eyes glinted. A few of the men, particularly the two bankers, perhaps didn’t know how he had made his money, and grinned in amusement. Now Maurice had found his voice again. “But it was a sensation!” he interrupted. He thought about the almost-twenty-year-old blond boy in the hot jackets.

  “Maurice, I wore jackets that were tied at the ass!” Gregor said calmly and twisted his mouth into a grin. The two bankers whom Gregor knew only too well snorted with laughter, and Zara could also hardly suppress a smile. She had to make an effort to find those photos!

  Maurice grinned too. He had a point, but Gregor looked divine in those jackets. He had legs that a woman could envy.

  “But it all looked wonderful on you,” he repeated petulantly. “You forced me to wear the absurd things, and it w
asn’t up to me-- I was only nineteen or twenty,” Gregor said, shunning any responsibility, and thought of the straitjackets that Maurice had designed at that time. “Those straitjackets were a horror and that white latex,” and Gregor also laughed, the thought of it alone was crazy. Latex -- Zara could hardly control herself, white latex! She had to get her hands on those pictures! “But you were on the cover of every magazine . . .” “Well, no wonder, Flash Gordon was once also on every cover,” Gregor laughed. The tension was gone – and even Nevill had to wipe away his tears of laughter.

  “Okay, you have a point, the straightjackets didn’t sell,” Maurice admitted. “But, when I look at Zara in your dress, that was surely one of your best years!” Maurice nodded. He was right, those were his best years, his collections praised to the skies and also commercial successes. Clients who were already ordering, before the entire collection was even in the shops.

  “Alright, I’ll sign and will stay through the next collection, until you’ve found your new designer,” Maurice finally said, and he sounded a little relieved.

  Later Zara walked Maurice to the door and embraced him. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “Don’t be, Princess. He’s right, I’m burned out and I wanted to stop anyway.” He stroked her cheek. Your mother’s shops are doing better than ever, he understands the business, he has hired young designers, like the young Lebanese, who are really outstanding.”

  Zara had lost interest in these details a long time ago; since it was no longer her mother’s business, it was no longer important. She didn’t want the business back, either. What she wanted was revenge.

  But Maurice said that the shops were doing so well?! What would the value of the stock currently be? “If my name lives on, it will be more than I can expect, and you . . .” “Oh, I’m doing fine,” she interjected, avoiding the subject. “Look ahead, you’re too young to look back in anger all the time.” Zara smiled; Maurice wouldn’t understand.

  He had already opened the door, but stopped again and said, “He was my top model, my star, he was like a god – and . . . Maurice smiled dreamily. “He still looks very good, different, but . . . Zara.” She looked at him, the graying, lanky man at the door, who once was the great talent of the fashion scene, the star. “Yes, Maurice?” “He’s attracted to you, the way he always looks at you . . .!” Zara laughed quietly; that’s what she had hoped. If the first plan didn’t work, then the second would. “Maurice, he wants to marry me.” Maurice grinned. “Do it, Zara, do it!” Zara shook her head. No, she wouldn’t go that far.

  In the meantime, Nevill had opened more Champagne, and the few remaining guests gathered in the Music Room and made a toast, clinking their glasses. Zara, who as always, had eaten almost nothing, only sipped from her glass. Soon the next bottle was cracked open. They all had a reason to celebrate. Gregor had raised the wings of the piano and begun to play. What can’t that man do, Zara asked herself, unnerved.

  Pondering, Zara sipped her Champagne and leaned over the side of the grand piano toward Gregor, so that he suddenly had a view deep into the neckline of her dress. She looked at him with eyes half-closed – and drew her index finger across his cheek slowly, so that it hardly touched his skin.

  He thought his heart would stop. He had never seen anything so seductive. In the candlelight, her hair shimmered as if golden, her skin seemed as if made of velvet, the gleam of every diamond in her jewelry was competing in a wager with her eyes.

  The touch of her hand was like fire; the hairs on his neck were standing up.

  He leaned forward a little, his face was so close to hers, that he could see little more than her large eyes; his lips came closer, and he thought “I want to kiss her; I must kiss her.”

  No, it wouldn’t be that easy, Zara thought and turned away with a cool laugh, smoothed the flolds of her dress, and went over to the others – as if nothing had occurred.

  Gregor, however, asked himself what had just happened. The expression on her face was as if it belonged to another woman, not to the cool aristocrat whom he always saw. He wanted more of it, much more . . .

  Gregor saw Zara the next morning, running like crazy through the Tuileries Gardens. What was the matter with her? Something was already wrong with her last evening.

  He wanted to talk with her, but she didn’t appear to see him or hear him, until he noticed that she had ear-buds on. He ran next to her, and held her tight. She stared at him, frightened. Perspiration ran down her cheek. She wore a scarf on her head, tied in the back like a pirate, and the tight T-shirt clung to her; she was bathed in sweat. She was breathing heavily. Gregor reached for the earphones and took them away from her ears. He heard rap music coming out of the headset, loud enough to wake the dead.

  Rap music? What was going on? Was this again a break from her façade – classic, jazz, he would have expected of her, but surely not gangsta-rap!

  She seemed entirely disoriented to him and he saw that she must have wept while she was running; her eyes were red, and the traces of tears could be seen on her cheeks.

  “What’s the matter, Zara?” He held her tight at the shoulders. She said nothing, just stared at him, as if she didn’t know who he was. Her cheeks were red from running.

  Zara was not yet quite aware of who he was. This morning she had read the bank reports that her mother had given her – at first glance it appeared that there was absolutely nothing left of their properties – everything was burdened with mortgages, credit payments were in arrears – and her mother was lucky that Antonio would be paying her alimony, at least until her next marriage.

  The mere thought that the property that had belonged to her family forever was gone had completely shattered her. First her mother had sold the family jewelry and now this. What was she to think? In addition, if it became known that she had to sell the remaining properties, a scandal would ensue. Yes, and then Zara had danced through the night with friends. She had dipped back into her old life and had also taken some of these colorful little mood-enhancers, and was now completely beside herself. Her body was no longer used to it.

  “Zara, say something already!” This was not the arrogant aristocrat, this was simply a girl that was completely messed up, with pupils as large as a wagon wheel. She still couldn’t answer, and she also didn’t want to cry in front of him, not him! She pressed her lips together and lightly pushed him away from her with both hands.

  “Come on, Zara, we’ll go get a coffee,” he suggested and took her hand. She let him, feeling his fingers on her arm. It wasn’t unpleasant – and didn’t she want it?

  There was a small café very close by, and Gregor ordered a large cup of black coffee, which he pushed toward Zara; she had sat down on the sofa and now ran her hand over her forehead.

  As if she were hypnotized, she took the coffee and drank some. Her hands were shaking. It was bitter and strong and her stomach rebelled. Aghast, she hurtled past Gregor toward the toilet, who didn’t understand at all what was now the matter with her.

  She returned looking very pale, and ordered a bottle of water. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I feel terrible,” Zara murmured, thinking that there must have been too many little pills, or she had gotten the wrong ones, which could have happened. She couldn’t remember too much. How long had the party lasted, where did she actually wake up – and with whom? Did she spend the night alone? Ugh, she must also have gotten her hands on too much of that powder.

  What was Gregor doing here, in running clothes, unshaven . . . hmm, even like this he didn’t look bad – really manly.

  “You haven’t eaten anything,” he realized. Since Christmas, he had already suspected that she had an eating disorder. Zara didn’t answer. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Gregor laughed. “Well, marvelous! You have time-outs!” he said, and ordered toast and coffee.

  Zara wanted to get up but Gregor held her down. “Don’t get up; the toast is for you. You can tell me now what’s going on, or I’ll find out. I hear things.” “Are you crazy?
! And I don’t know why you’re being so forward and familiar?” Gregor grinned. Judging by her snippy tone, she was obviously feeling better.

  The toast arrived and Gregor pushed it in front of Zara. She looked at the two slices of bread as if they were from another planet. She wasn’t hungry; she was rarely hungry; eating was a waste of time and made one fat besides.

  “Very well, Princess, then we’ll talk about our future instead. We’ll prepare a contract, you’ll get it when we’re back in New York, and I’d like to have it back – signed – before my birthday . . .”

  He was handling her like a business, she thought, and was speechless for a few minutes.

  “I believe I haven’t said yes, right?” She asked, astonished – or did she? No, surely not. “But also not no . . .” He leaned forward, she bent back. “I didn’t come for that . . .” She looked at the toast and stood up. “Doctor Levy, I am not a car!” “No, much more expensive, and moreover, I’m not that interested in expensive cars,” he said, and smiled. Gregor crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at her, standing before him at the table, a little confused as to what she should do. “Why do you actually want to marry me?” She still didn’t understand why he was so eager. Sex, she could understand; but marriage? Gregor leaned back and still smiling, looked at her.

  “To you, I’m just this conceited aristocrat . . .” She had heard him say it himself. “Hmm, I won’t deny that,” he said seriously.

  He noticed that the couple behind them suddenly began to listen to what they were saying and got up, quickly laid down the money to cover the check and took Zara by the arm, pulling her out of the café.