by Meg Cabot
Except, of course, for Dominique.
I hurry back to my room, tug a matching Lilly Pulitzer sundress over my suit, and hurriedly make my bed, pausing to throw back the rose curtains, then open the small diamond-shaped window so I can let in some fresh air…
And catch my breath, struck by what I see out my window…
Which is nothing less than the daylight view of the valley stretching out below the château. Green velvet treetops and rolling hills, pale brown cliffsides and, high above it all, the bluest, most cloudless sky I have ever seen.
And it’s all so beautiful. I can see, seemingly, for miles, nothing but trees, and the silver river winding through them, dotted by tiny village hamlets, with the occasional château or castle perched on a cliffside above. It’s like something out of a book of fairy tales.
How can Luke, I wonder, go back to Houston after having spent any amount of time here? How can anyone go anywhere else?
But I don’t have time to mull over this. I have to meet Shari at the pool or face her wrath.
It’s no joke, trying to find my way back downstairs through the myriad hallways and staircases that seem to make up Château Mirac, but I manage somehow to end up in the marble foyer, and slip outside into the soft, sweetly scented summer air. Somewhere in the distance I hear the whine of a motor—possibly a lawn mower, judging by the smell of freshly cut grass—and the tinkle of…cowbells? It can’t be.
Or can it?
I don’t pause to investigate. I put on my rhinestone-studded sunglasses, then hurry across the driveway, and finally across the lawn to the pool, where I see Shari, Dominique, and another girl all stretched out across chaise longues with blue-and-white striped cushions. The chaise longues face the valley, and the sun. Dominique and the other girl are already brown—this is undoubtedly not the first day they’ve spent lying out. Shari, I can see, is determined to gain on them before the summer is over.
“Good morning,” I say to Dominique and the other girl, who is on the chubby side and looks like a teenager. She’s in a blue one-piece Speedo while Dominique, beside her, is in a black Calvin Klein string bikini.
And the strings don’t seem to be tied very tightly.
“Bonjour,” the teenager says to me cheerfully.
“Lizzie, this is Agnès,” Shari says. Only she pronounces it the French way, which is Ahn-yes. “She’s staying here for the summer as the resident au pair. Her family lives in the millhouse down the road.”
“Oh!” I cry. “I saw the millhouse! It’s so beautiful!”
Agnès continues to smile at me pleasantly. It’s Dominique who says, “Don’t bother. She doesn’t understand a word of English. She claimed she did when she applied to work here, but she doesn’t, beyond hello, good-bye, and thank you.”
“Oh,” I say. And smile back at Agnès. “Bonjour! Je m’appelle Lizzie,” which pretty much exhausts what French phrases I know, with the exception of Excusez-moi and J’aime pas des tomates.
Agnès says a lot of stuff back to me, none of which I understand. Shari says, “Just smile and nod and you two’ll get along fine.”
And so I do. Agnès beams at me, then hands me a white towel and a bottle of cold water from a cooler she’s brought with her. I wonder if there’s any diet Coke in the cooler, but a glimpse before she closes the lid tells me there’s not. Do they even HAVE diet Coke in France? They must. It’s not the Third World, for crying out loud.
I thank Agnès for the water and spread the towel out on the chaise longue between hers and Dominique’s. I peel off my dress, then kick off my sandals. Then I lie back against the comfy cushion and find myself gazing at a cloudless blue sky.
This, I realize, is something I could get used to. Fast. England, and its cool, moist air, seems a long time ago.
So, for that matter, does Andy.
“That’s an…unusual swimsuit,” Dominique says.
“Thank you,” I say, even though I have a sneaking suspicion she didn’t mean it as a compliment. But I’m probably just projecting again, on account of the six-hundred-dollar flip-flops. “So where are Luke and Chaz?”
“Trimming the branches along the driveway,” Shari says.
“Ouch,” I say. “Don’t they have—I don’t know. A tree-trimming company who does that?”
Dominique shoots me a very sarcastic look from behind her Gucci sunglasses.
“Certainly—if someone had thought to call them in time. But as usual, Jean-Luc’s father waited until the last minute and couldn’t get anyone. So now Jean-Luc has to do it, if he doesn’t want Bibi to have a fit when she arrives.”
“Bibi?”
“Jean-Luc’s mother,” Dominique explains.
“Mrs. de Villiers is kind of…particular, from what I understand,” Shari says tonelessly from her chaise longue.
Dominique lets out a delicate snort. “You could say that,” she says. “You could also say, of course, that she’s merely frustrated by her husband’s complete and total absentmindedness. All he thinks about are his stupid grapes.”
“Grapes?”
Dominique waves a hand behind us, toward some of the château’s outbuildings behind which I’d seen some kind of orchard stretching.
“The vineyard,” she says.
So it was a vineyard, not an orchard! Of course!
“Oh,” I say. “Well, shouldn’t Monsieur de Villiers think about his grapes? This place is primarily a vineyard, isn’t it? Isn’t the wedding thing just sort of a side business?”
“Of course,” Dominique says, “but Mirac hasn’t had a decent harvest in years. First there were the droughts, then a blight…anyone else would take this as a hint to move on, but not Jean-Luc’s father. He says the de Villiers family has been in the wine business since the 1600s, when Mirac was first built, and he’s not going to be the one to give up on it.”
“Well,” I say admiringly, “that’s kind of…noble. I mean, isn’t it?”
Dominique makes a disgusted noise. “Noble? It is a total waste. Mirac has got such tremendous potential, if only Jean-Luc and his father would see it.”
“Potential?” What is she talking about? It’s gorgeous the way it is. The perfect grounds, the beautiful house, the frothy cappuccino…what needs changing?
Dominique has a few suggestions, it turns out.
“Well, it’s obviously in terrible need of updating. The place needs a total renovation—particularly the bathrooms. We need to replace those tacky claw-foot tubs with Jacuzzis…and pull-chain toilets! My God. They have to go as well.”
“I kind of like the pull-chain toilets,” I say. “I think they’re sort of…charming.”
“Well, yes, of course you would think that,” Dominique says, and raises an eyebrow meaningfully in the direction of my swimsuit. “But most people do not. The kitchen, too, needs a total overhaul. Do you know they still have a—what do you call it? Oh yes. A larder. Ridiculous. No chef in his right mind could be hired who would work under the current conditions.”
“Chef?” I say. And even as I think of cooking food, my stomach rumbles. I’m starving. I know I’ve missed breakfast, but when’s lunch? Is there really a chef? Did he make the cappuccino?
“But of course. In order to turn Mirac into a true world-class hotel, it will need a five-star Michelin chef.”
Oh. So…
“Turn it into a…” I sit up and stare down at Dominique. “Wait. They’re thinking of turning this place into a hotel?”
“Not yet,” Dominique says, reaching for a bottle of water she has sitting by her chaise longue. “But as I keep telling Jean-Luc, they ought to. Just think of the fortune that could be made in corporate retreat and convention business alone! And then, of course, there’s the spa route—they could easily get rid of the vineyards—turn them into jogging paths or horseback-riding trails—and convert the outbuildings into massage, acupuncture, and hydrotherapy rooms. The plastic surgery recovery industry is booming right now—”
“The what?” I i
nterrupt. I’m sorry to say I yelled it, too. But I was just so shocked at the idea of anyone wanting to turn this fabulous place into a spa.
“The plastic surgery recovery industry,” Dominique repeats, looking annoyed. “People who’ve recently undergone liposuction or a face-lift need a place to recover, and I’ve always thought Mirac would be outstanding in that capacity—”
I can’t help it. I have to look over to see what Shari thinks about all this.
But she merely holds the book she is pretending to read even closer to her face, in order to hide her expression.
Still, I can see her shoulders shaking. She can’t stop laughing.
“Really,” Dominique goes on, taking another sip of her water. “The de Villiers family has failed to see the entrepreneurial potential of this property. By hiring trained professional servers—instead of the local riffraff—and offering services such as broadband and satellite television—installing air-conditioning, and perhaps even a home movie theater—they will attract a much wealthier clientele. And turn over a much bigger profit than Jean-Luc’s father’s puny wine business ever has.”
Before I can make any sort of reply to this horrifying speech, my stomach chooses to do my talking for me, letting out an extremely loud gurgle of hunger. Dominique ignores it, but Agnès sits up and babbles something that sounds like a question. I do hear the word goûter, which I know means “to taste.”
“She wants to know if you want her to get you something to eat,” Dominique translates in a bored voice.
I say, “Oh. Uh…”
Agnès babbles some more, and Dominique says in the same bored voice, “It’s no trouble. She’s getting herself a snack anyway.”
“Oh,” I say. “Then, yes, thank you, I’d love one.” I beam at Agnès and say, “Oui, merci.” Then I add, “Est-ce que vous…Est-ce que vous…”
“What are you trying to ask her?” Dominique asks—a little waspishly, I think. But maybe I’m projecting, because of the liposuction thing. I’m still having a hard time believing that she really wants to turn this beautiful place into one of those hotels where they send contestants on The Swan after they get their new noses.
“I wanted to know if they’ve got any diet Coke,” I say.
Dominique makes a face. “Of course not. Why would you want to put those kinds of terrible chemicals in your body?”
Because they’re delicious, I want to say. But instead I say, “Oh. Okay. Then…nothing.”
Dominique snaps something at Agnès, who nods, leaps up from her towel, stuffs her feet into a pair of rubber clogs—which seem like the appropriate footwear for walking through gravel and grass. WAY more appropriate than suede Manolos—grabs her sarong, and takes off for the house.
“Wow,” I say. “She’s so nice.”
“She’s supposed to do what you say. She’s the help,” Dominique says.
I look over at Shari. “Um…but aren’t we, too? The help, I mean?”
“But you aren’t expected to fetch and carry for people,” Dominique says. “And you mustn’t vous her.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I mustn’t what?”
“You vous’d her,” Dominique says. “When you tried to speak French to her just now. That isn’t proper. She’s younger than you, and she’s a servant. You should tu her—the informal version of you—tu as opposed to vous. You’ll give her airs above her station. Not that she doesn’t already suffer from them—I don’t actually think it’s appropriate for her to be using the pool during her time off. But Jean-Luc said it was all right, so now there’s no getting rid of her.”
I sit there gaping at her some more, completely unable to believe the words that have just come out of Dominique’s mouth. Shari, for her part, is actually covering her face with her book, she’s trying so hard not to let it show how much she’s laughing.
As if Dominique would even notice. Not when she’s busy doing what she does next, which is say, “It’s so hot…”
Which, actually, it is. It’s broiling out. In fact, before Dominique started in on that vous-versus-tu thing, I’d been thinking about taking a plunge into that clear blue water shimmering so tantalizingly in front of us…
But then Dominique does me one better by suddenly sitting up, undoing her bikini top, flipping it over the back of her chaise longue, then stretching and saying, “Ah. That’s better.”
The year 1848 (aptly nicknamed the Year of Revolutions) saw many peasant uprisings throughout Europe and the fall of the monarchy in France, as well as the potato famine in Ireland, and fashion responded to the unrest by requiring women to look as covered up as possible, with “poke” bonnets and skirts that trailed filthily to the floor declared the season’s “must-haves.”
This was the age of Jane Eyre, whom we all remember refused to accept Mr. Rochester’s generous offer to make over her wardrobe, preferring merino wool to the silk organzas he ordered for her. If only she’d had Melania Trump to set her straight on this wrongheaded attitude toward fashion.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 14
Never to talk about ourselves is a very noble piece of hypocrisy.
—Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900),
German philosopher, classical scholar, and critic
And okay. I know this is Europe and people here are much more laid-back about their bodies and nudity than we are (except that Dominique isn’t European. She’s Canadian. Which I guess is sort of like European. But still).
It’s just very hard to sit and talk to someone whose bare nipples are sort of…pointing at you.
And Shari’s no help at all. She’s keeping her gaze resolutely on the pages of the book she’s reading. Though I notice she’s not actually turning any of those pages.
I realize there’s nothing I can do except try to act normal. I mean, it’s not like I’m not used to seeing bare-chested women, considering the gang showers back in McCracken Hall.
Still. I knew all those girls.
Plus, Dominique’s knockers are—how can I put this?—a bit more suspiciously perky than even Brianna Dunleavy’s.
And Brianna worked part-time at Bare Assets Cocktail Lounge.
“So,” I say, casually, “have you mentioned all these ideas you have for, um, improving Mirac to Luke?”
Because I can’t help wondering what he thinks of Dominique’s plans.
“Of course,” Dominique says, lifting a hand to slick back her long blond hair. “And to his father as well. But the old man is only interested in one thing. His wine. So until he dies…” Dominique gives a metaphoric shrug.
“Luke’s waiting for his father to die before turning this place into a Hyatt Regency?” I ask, my voice cracking a little in my astonishment. Because I simply can’t believe the Luke I met yesterday would ever do such a thing.
“A Hyatt?” Dominique looks scandalized. “I told you, it will be five-star luxury accommodation, not part of a cheap American hotel chain. And no, Jean-Luc is not entirely enthusiastic about my plans. Yet. For one thing because he would have to move to France full-time to see them implemented, and he isn’t interested in giving up his job at Lazard Frères. Although I’ve told him it would be a simple thing to transfer to their Paris offices. Then we could—”
“We?” I’m on the word like Grandma on a can of Bud. “You two are getting married?”
“Well, certainly,” Dominique says. “Someday.”
It’s ridiculous that this statement sends a shaft of pain through my heart. I barely know him. I only met him yesterday.
But then I’m the same girl who traveled all the way to England to see a guy I had only spent twenty-four hours with three months earlier.
And look how that turned out.
“Oh,” Shari finally pipes up, “you and Luke are engaged? That’s funny, Chaz never mentioned that to me. I’d have thought Luke would have told him.”
“Well, nothing so formal as an engagement,” Dom
inique says with obvious reluctance. “Who even gets engaged anymore? It’s so old-fashioned. Today’s couples, they form partnerships, not marriages. It’s all about combining incomes and investing in a shared future. And I knew, from the first moment I saw Mirac, that this is a future I wanted to invest in.”
I blink at her. Today’s couples form partnerships, not marriages? They combine incomes and invest in a shared future?
And what’s this about from the first moment I saw Mirac? Doesn’t she mean from the first moment I saw Jean-Luc?
“It is a beautiful place,” Shari says, turning a page of her book that I know she hasn’t read. “Why do you think it is that Luke doesn’t want to move to Paris?”
“Because Jean-Luc doesn’t know what he wants,” Dominique says with a frustrated sigh.
“Does any man?” Shari asks mildly. And I can tell, from her tone, that she is highly amused by the conversation.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be that far away from you,” I offer—very generously, in my opinion, considering my little crush on her boyfriend. Since that’s all it is. Just a crush. Really.
Dominique turns her head to look at me. “I have offered to transfer to Paris with him,” she says tonelessly.
“Oh,” I say. “Well. His mom lives in Houston, right? Maybe he doesn’t want to leave her.”
“That’s not it,” Dominique says. “It’s that if he puts in a request to transfer to Paris and it goes through, he’ll have to go. And then he’ll be stuck there. And there’ll be no chance for him ever to pursue the career he really wants.”
“What’s the career he really wants?” I ask.
“He wants,” Dominique says, picking up the bottle of water she has by her chaise longue and raising it to her lips, then swallowing, “to be a doctor.”
“A doctor?” I’m thrilled. I can’t believe Luke didn’t mention this on the train when I said all those bad things about investment bankers. “Really? But that’s so great. I mean, doctors…they heal people.”