by Colet Abedi
Huh. Aliens. Amelia’s beauty reminded me of an alien. It was like something from out of this world—
“Sophie Walker, have you heard a word I’ve said?!”
Crap.
My dad gave me a knowing look. I was so busted.
“What’s wrong, honey? Talk to me. This silence is so unlike you.” The caring tone in my dad’s voice was nearly my undoing. He looked so genuinely concerned about me. I wanted to tell him—a big part of me wanted to throw myself in his loving arms and hear him say that it would be okay, that he would keep me safe, as he had when I was a child. But I was so afraid of the disappointment I thought I would see when I told him everything, that I couldn’t bring myself to.
“Nothing, dad.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You know I can tell. Something is wrong. You’ve seemed off. Didn’t you have fun in the Maldives, honey?”
Fun? Try, it was the time of my life until I found out—ugh, I didn’t want to go there again.
“It was great, dad.”
“Is it a financial thing? Are you in trouble because of the trip?”
I almost laughed. Even though we had paid for the villas in advance, Clayton had gone behind our backs and taken care of our entire bill. He had paid for our villas, meals, activities, spa, the whole trip. I guess I could thank him for giving me a month of financial freedom I didn’t think I’d have when I’d left on my vacation.
But now I needed to start making money. And fast. There was no way I would ever ask my parents for any help because that would lead to them arguing that I needed to go back to law school.
“I’m really okay, dad,” I lied. “It’s not money, it’s just jet lag.”
“Is it a boy thing?” He pushed.
I almost started hyperventilating. My dad, being the perceptive lawyer, could see it on my face.
“It’s Jerry, isn’t it, Sophie?”
Jerry?
I had almost forgotten about him.
“It’s not a relationship thing, dad. I told you, I’m just tired.”
I knew my dad didn’t believe me but I also knew that he would let up for a while and probably call me the next day to see what was going on. Thankfully, I’d be able to fake happiness on the phone much better than in person.
“Sophie?” Dr. Goldstein’s voice interrupts my revere. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yes,” I lie, then shake my head. “No. No, I haven’t heard a word.”
“I asked if he was still calling you from an anonymous number.”
Right. Since Clayton wouldn’t stop calling and texting me I blocked his cell. Then I started to get calls from a private number. I never picked up. And then he stopped leaving text messages. The last one he left was a week ago. It was simple. To the point. And final.
It appears that my desire to speak to you and explain what you saw means absolutely nothing to you. There’s nothing left to say than goodbye, Sophie.
“No. He has stopped calling me.”
“How does that make you feel?”
Like my life is over.
“It’s getting easier,” I say with false bravado. “I know this is going to take time.”
Dr. Goldstein gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Heartbreak is the hardest experience to go through, especially the first time. But chin up, Sophie. Life is long. You’re bound to have your heart broken at least a dozen more times.”
I will never date again. Never.
I leave Dr. Goldstein’s office twenty minutes later and dread going home to my apartment. My entire existence has turned into either obsessing about Clayton or obsessing about finding a job. And in between freaking out about both topics I usually call Erik and burden him with my problems. I owe him and Orie big time for putting up with me lately. They must cringe when they see my phone number on the caller ID.
I can’t believe I’ve become that person.
So instead I flick through my iPhone while I’m driving and find the Audiobooks app and quickly hit play. Since getting back from the Maldives I’ve forced myself to listen to every single self-help book that I can get my hands on. I’m currently hoping that Dr. Wayne Dyer’s Miracles Happen will somehow magically make a miracle happen and I’ll wake up a whole new person.
“Okay Sophie, you’ve got this,” I say out loud as I begin the I AM mantra that Dr. Dyer says really works.
My caller ID flashes on the dashboard. It’s Erik.
“I am strong,” I call out.
I hit the button to accept his call.
“What you are is crazy,” Erik’s loud voice rings through my car.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” I say.
I don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed.
“Too late. Cat’s outta the bag,” he says sarcastically. “So what are you doing besides driving around LA talking to yourself? How was Dr. Goldstein? And I’m only asking because it’s the polite thing to do. From what I just heard I’m thinking it didn’t go so well.”
“Dr. Goldstein was fine,” I tell him. “I think I need a few more sessions.”
Erik’s snort is telling.
“You’re rude,” I say.
“Stop, you’re hurting my feelings,” he says with a laugh, then, “Wanna come over? I have some news.”
“Good or bad?” I ask.
“Do you honestly think I would give you bad news right now? You can barely handle watching a Tampax commercial without having some type of meltdown.”
True.
“Alright, see you in a few,” I say.
Ten minutes later I pull into the driveway of Erik and Orie’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Their home is a large three bedroom, built in the 1940s and is Spanish style. They renovated the entire interior but kept the original old-world charm of the exterior. The floors are Spanish tiled and paired with comfortable but modern furniture, a collection of pieces the two have found on their travels around the world and at local antique shops.
I ring the doorbell.
Erik answers, looking perfect as usual. He’s wearing gray baggy sweat pants and a white t-shirt that says, I Got This. I watch as he checks out my outfit. I can tell he’s not happy.
“Were you working out?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
“Orie and I were at the gym,” he says as I follow him through the house.
“I just made some fresh green juice. You want some?”
“I’m not really thirsty.”
“I’ll pour you a glass,” he says, ignoring me as we walk into his ultramodern kitchen. I sit on one of the barstools and lean on my elbows over the Carrera white counter to watch as he pours me a large cup of juice. He sets it in front of me. There’s nothing about it that looks appealing.
“Where’s Orie?”
“In the shower,” Erik says. “You should try one sometime.”
“Whatever,” I say as I roll my eyes. “So what’s your big news?”
I watch as Erik’s eyes light up. I can tell it’s going to be good.
“So here it goes—unbeknownst to me my agent put me up for this huge job overseas. Some super wealthy Russian oligarch’s son is getting married and is having a two-week extravaganza in Provence. There are over one hundred guests and everyone’s staying at this one property that is supposed to be sick,” Erik says excitedly, then admits, “Okay, I know it’s sick because I Googled it. I’ll show you the pictures later.”
He rushes on.
“So I’m supposed to shop for the fiancée’s wardrobe here, then go out to Provence and dress her for each event she’s hosting with the oligarch’s son. He wants her to look perfect every day for pictures and media stuff. I guess his family is some kind of big deal. Super rich. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I did have to look up the word oligarch because I had no fucking idea what it meant,” he says. Then asks me, “Do you know?”
“A business magnate,” I say.
“That’s why you’re in law school,” Erik says with a smile.
“I dropped out,” I remind him.
Erik waves my comment off.
“But you got in.”
True.
“So wait . . . you got the job?” I ask in excitement.
“Yes! We spoke on the phone the other day and they hired me!”
“Holy cow!” I stand up and run around the bar to hug my friend. “This is a huge deal!”
“With a huge paycheck to match,” Erik says as he lifts me up in his arms. “They’re paying me more than my day rate and letting me bring an assistant.”
I know the answer as he sets me down. “Orie.”
“You guessed it! It’s too long for us to be apart and since it’s the holidays and most of his clients go out of town for the break he won’t miss much here.”
I’m so happy for my friend. To get such a great job sounds almost unreal—and Provence of all places? It’s too good to be true.
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell him sincerely. “This sounds incredible. When do you leave?”
“Two weeks. So we’ll end up there over the holidays, which has always been a dream of mine. Christmas in Europe. Could you just die?”
“It’s amazing,” I say, but I’m not going to lie, I do feel a bit depressed that he’s going to leave me for Christmas and New Year’s. What will I do with myself?
I can picture myself depressed and dressed in sweatpants, wandering the streets of Beverly Hills like a homeless person. I shiver at the thought.
“But wait, have a seat my friend.” Erik interrupts my mental image as he rubs his hands together. “Because there’s more.”
I take a cautious step back and sit down on the barstool.
“So remember those portraits you painted of me and Orie?” Erik asks.
“Of course. How could I forget? We had the best time doing those.”
Erik nods in agreement.
“Well, apparently rich people like to have their portraits done, especially before they get married. It’s like a gift the brides give to their husbands-to-be,” Erik begins slowly. “And when I spoke to the oligarch’s people—”
“Why do you keep referring to them as oligarchs?” I interrupt.
“Because I can’t pronounce their last name, it’s really long and Russian and I like saying oligarch. Sounds shit hot.”
“Okay,” I nod. “So the fiancé makes all the decisions for the bride-to-be?”
“I guess,” Erik shrugs. “Or his people do. Can I finish my story or do you want to interrupt me one more time?”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“So they told me about this portrait that the wife-to-be has to do and what the fiancé wants her to wear, which is bizarre. I hope for her sake it’s not some kind of fetish.”
“Why?” I ask curiously.
“He wants her to dress up as Marie Antoinette.”
I nod in agreement. That’s definitely weird.
“Yeah, I know,” Erik says as if he can read my mind. And then he continues. “So then after they told me about the Halloween costume the fiancé wants her to wear for the portrait, I told them about you.”
“Me?” I’m confused. Or slow. I didn’t know which.
Erik rolls his eyes.
“Yes, you! I told them that’s what you do and that you’re incredible. And then I sent pictures of your stuff so the oligarch’s family could see for themselves.” He pauses to be sure he has my attention, then says, “So, you’re welcome, because I got you the job.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open.
Erik says slowly, “You are going to paint a rich Russian chick. You are coming to come and hang out with us in Provence. You are going to get paid to do it.”
I don’t know how to respond.
“Ummm, I’m waiting?” Erik says as he impatiently taps his fingers on the counter.
“Thank you?” I say weakly. I still can’t believe it.
“Thank me with a gift,” he says with a smile. “Preferably one from John Varvatos.”
And then it hits me. I’m going to make money doing what I love and get to spend time in Europe with my best friends.
It’s like a miracle just happened.
Huh.
Thank you, Wayne Dyer.
2
Two weeks later Erik, Orie, and I find ourselves headed east, not quite knowing what to expect but open to adventure. We arrive in style at the airport in Marseille and are picked up by the oligarch, aka Lobonav-Dostyanevsky, family’s personal driver, Sergei, who will be taking us to the chateau in Avignon.
Since I’ve never been to Provence I’m beyond excited and actually am not plagued by incessant thoughts of Clayton. Before we left I promised myself I would push him out of my mind and focus on the trip ahead of me, which is really a dream come true. Here I am, about to start my first real, paid job as an artist. If it goes well, which I have every intention of making sure it does, one good painting can get me into the wedding portrait business. That would give me a steady income and the financial freedom to be able to work on my passion art projects on the side. This is my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I plan on making the most of every moment of it.
The L-D family (I refuse to call them the oligarchs like Erik) let me know via e-mail that I wouldn’t have to bring any painting supplies, as they would make sure that I was fully stocked with everything I would need. I did, however, bring a few of my favorite brushes and my camera to take photos of the wife-to-be, because I figured it would be highly unlikely that she would sit for hours during the day. Realistically the portrait would take two to three months for me to complete, which meant that I would have to have all my work shipped back to the States. The L-Ds seemed amenable to all my requests.
It’s kind of insane how generous they are.
Considering that I’m an unknown artist , the amount of money they’re paying me is staggering. A paycheck that will sustain me for at least three months of my life.
Ten thousand dollars.
I’m still reeling from the thought of it.
I remember seeing the number in the body of my e-mail and feeling like someone was pulling a fast one on me. I had actually written back and said, “Are you sure?” They didn’t respond right away so I immediately went to the dark side and cursed my stupidity for bringing the amount to their attention. Lucky for me, they replied the next day with a simple, “Yes.” I didn’t want to push my luck so I just offered a polite thank you.
So here I am, in a chauffeur-driven Maybach (could you die?) on my way to a chateau on a vineyard to basically start living my dream. It feels too good to be true.
I look over and watch as Erik presses the button on the side of his chair to make it lean back the way one does in an airplane. Orie was generous enough to let Erik and I take the backseat; he was sitting in front with Sergei.
A Mercedes Benz van with all of our luggage and the fiancé’s new wardrobe is following us. We’re used to the warm weather in Los Angeles so we figured we’d freeze in the Provence winter and probably overpacked warm clothes.
My phone beeps with a text message.
I pull it out of my handbag and am not surprised to see that it’s from Erik. Orie is also copied.
I read: What’s Sergei’s deal? He’s so quiet. I’m a little scared.
I look over at Erik and shake my head. My phone beeps again.
ORIE: I tried to talk to him three times and he didn’t seem very friendly. He definitely gives off the “I can kick your ass vibe.”
ERIK: He IS Russian.
I turn my phone on silent so it’s not so apparent to Sergei that we’re texting each other, even though I’m pretty sure he knows.
ME: You guys, this is so obvious. He knows we’re texting each other.
ORIE: You think?
My gaze meets Sergei’s in the rearview mirror and from the smirk o
n his face I know I’m right. I’m sure my cheeks are flaming red from guilt so I immediately turn my phone off and stare blindly at the passing trees outside my window.
“Sergei?” Erik says politely.
“Yes, Mr. Johnson?” His accent is thick.
“Can you turn the music on?”
“Of course.”
In a second One Republic’s “Apologize” fills the silence. Erik looks at me nervously and I immediately know what he’s thinking.
“Can we find something a bit more upbeat?” he asks.
“I’ll find us a station, if you don’t mind,” Orie tells Sergei as he takes over the controls. He settles on a song from Ellie Goulding.
“Is this safe?” Orie turns around to ask me. His smile is mischievous and Erik finds his comment vastly amusing.
“You’re rude,” I tell Erik as I roll my eyes. “I appreciate your concern, Orie, but I think I can handle hearing a love song.”
“Doubtful,” Erik replies as he studies my face.
I decide I’m not going speak to him for the rest of the ride to the chateau. It’s easier this way. I’m pretty sure he has a whole bag full of comments ready to hit me with about how I need to be strong and get a goddamn grip. He’s right, but I finally feel like I am getting a bit more of a grip, so I hope he lays off. The smell of croissants in the airport actually gave me hunger pangs and I haven’t felt hungry for weeks. I’ve actually lost five pounds, which is a lot for my me. I guess there’s a silver lining to every cloud.
After we’ve been driving for forty-five minutes and I take in the winter ambience. The vineyards are dried out but the layout and symmetry of the land is still spectacular to see. I can only imagine what it’s like in the summer months, when the vineyards are filled with leaves and the lavender is in full bloom. French lavender is the best in the world.
Sergei says, “We’ll be arriving at the Chateau de Comte Clare in less than five minutes.”
“How’s the weather been?” Orie asks.
“It’s been a mild winter. We haven’t had a Mistral wind yet so we feel lucky. But I am sure it will be very different from your Californian winter.”
“What’s the Mistral?” Orie asks.