by Alix Nichols
She jostles the woman on her left. “Madame, you’re stepping on my foot!”
The woman apologizes and shifts a couple of inches, which is no mean feat, considering how packed the bus is.
Elorie turns back to me. “You said the bistro was in the 9th, yes?”
I nod.
“At this rate, it’ll take us an hour to get there.”
I’m about to suggest we get off and find the nearest métro station when two school kids jump out of their seats and make their way to the exit.
We take their seats immediately.
“Ah,” Elorie says. “This is better. Not a taxi by a long shot, but still.”
We’re on this bus because I’m taking Elorie to celebrate at La Bohème, my favorite bistro in Paris. Perhaps even more than its amazing cappuccinos and out-of-this-world chocolate mousse, I love that bistro because it’s home to two terrific chicks—Manon and Jeanne. Headwaiter Manon is my gym and movies companion, and she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Proprietor Jeanne’s personality is so mood enhancing she should charge a supplement every time she tends the bar. Jeanne also happens to have a brother, Hugo, who happens to be my sister Chloe’s fiancé. In other words, she’s almost family.
How cool is that?
Regardless, I’d half expected her to declare me persona non grata for crashing her latest reception and assaulting one of her guests. The guest in question—Sebastian Darcy—is her husband’s friend and political backer, which makes my smashing a cream cake in his face an even bigger affront. But Jeanne just laughed the incident off, saying the bash had been too stuffy and in serious need of an icebreaker.
Which I kindly provided.
The Manon-Jeanne combo makes me feel truly welcome at La Bohème. So much so that I forget I’m far away from home in a metropolis of eleven million people, suburbs included. The vast majority of them are crammed into tiny apartments and deeply convinced they’re the most evolved representatives of the human race. Here in Paris, if you say bonjour to a stranger on the street, they think you’re either a nutcase or a hooker.
“How’s the quest coming along?” I ask Elorie.
The quest is shorthand for Elorie’s newfound mission—locate an eligible billionaire and get him to marry her. Elorie defines “eligible” as currently available, reasonably young, and passably good-looking.
She launched the project three months ago on her twenty-sixth birthday, and she’s been working hard on it ever since. Not very successfully, judging by the sound of it. But what’s three months when looking for a soul mate who meets such high standards and such specific… specifications?
“I’ve made good progress,” Elorie says.
I bug out my eyes. “I want a name!”
“Not so fast, ma cocotte. My progress is theoretical at this point.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you oh me.” Elorie wags her index finger from side to side. “Would you launch a business without conducting a market study first?”
“I guess not.” I narrow my eyes. “Do you approach all your dreams as a business?”
She shrugs. “Not all—only the ones worth pursuing. Anyway, as the saying goes, if you practice without theory, you shall fall into the ditch.”
“There’s no such saying.”
“You sure?” She puts her chin up. “Well, there should be. Anyway, I stand on much firmer ground today than three months ago all because I’ve done enough research to write a thesis on the topic.”
“Maybe you should write one,” I mutter.
Elorie is the most entertaining person I’ve ever met and I love her, but her pragmatism does rattle me sometimes. Then again, I’m well aware I’m a country-fried prawn who still hasn’t wrapped her head around big-city attitudes.
“Ha-ha, very funny!” Elorie pauses before adding, “Anyway, I’ve now read all the tutorials and how-to articles I could get my hands on, and I’ve analyzed several real-life case studies.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Me, too,” she says with a wink. “I’ve never taken anything so seriously in my whole life.”
“Mesdames, messieurs,” the bus driver says into the speaker. “This bus will not continue beyond Opéra. You can wait for the next one or take an alternate route.”
People gripe and boo and begin to move toward the doors.
I spread my arms in apology.
Elorie rolls her eyes.
We get off and continue our journey using the most reliable means of transportation in Paris—our feet. The air is cold and humid, which is no surprise in February, but at least it isn’t raining.
I look up at the leaden sky and tone down my gratitude—it isn’t raining yet.
“Feel like sharing your theoretical findings?” I ask, tucking my scarf inside my coat in an attempt to shield myself from the cutting wind.
Elorie considers my request. “OK. But only because you’re my friend and you always pay for the drinks.”
“Aww.” I place my hand on my heart. “You put ‘friend’ before ‘drinks,’ you wonderful person.”
“Listen up—because I won’t repeat this,” Elorie says, choosing to ignore my irony. “The single most important action you can take is to hang out where billionaires do.”
“In Swiss banks?”
“For example.” She nods, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you believe Kate would’ve snatched William if her clever mom hadn’t sent her to the University of St Andrews, where the cream of British nobility goes?”
“I must confess I haven’t given the matter much thought.”
“Then thank me for opening your eyes.”
“Thank you,” I say dutifully. “But we have a problem—I’m too old for college, and it isn’t my thing, anyway.”
“That’s OK,” she says. “It was just an example.”
“Phew.” I’m doing my best to keep my expression earnest. “What a load off!”
She glances at me sideways and shakes her head. “What I’m telling you isn’t funny, Diane. It’s precious. I’d be taking notes if I were you.”
“Sorry, sweetie. Go on.”
“I’ll give you a few pointers,” she says. “Go horseback riding, join a golf club, or book yourself into a high-end ski resort. If you’re targeting a specific man, go exactly where he goes.”
“Some people would call it stalking.”
“I call it lending fate a hand.”
“OK,” I say. “What about the rich perverts who frequent BDSM clubs? Should I get a membership for one? And what about the polygamists who make their wives wear burkas? Where do you draw the line?”
“Where he buys me Louboutin pumps, Prada sunglasses, and Chanel purses to wear with my burka.” She arches an eyebrow. “If I can travel the world in his private jet and have my own wing in his palace plus three or four maids at my beck and call, then sure, why not. Bring on the burka.”
I stop and put my hands on my hips.
Elorie stops, too.
“Aren’t you a little too cavalier about this?” My voice betrays my feelings—equal parts incredulity and concern. “Let me be more specific. We’re not talking a burkini here. We’re talking the works with gloves and an eye grid. And other wives.”
Elorie tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Ten maids, my own palace, and my own jet.”
I’m too dumbfounded to speak.
“What?” she says. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone has a price, and so do you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course, you do. You’re just too ashamed to admit it, which is kind of sad.”
Does she really think that?
“Or maybe you’re fooling yourself that your affections can’t be bought,” she says, her expression pensive. “Which is even sadder.”
“Please, believe me when I say I don’t care about money.” I stare her in the eye. “I don’t mind having some—just enough to get by—but I wouldn’t make the slightest sacrifice just so I can marry a r
ich man.”
Elorie rolls her eyes, clearly not buying it.
“If you want to know the truth,” I say, “I find rich men repulsive. They’re so full of themselves, so convinced of their superiority! They gross me out.”
“What, all of them?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Without exception. They mistake their dumb luck for divine providence and their lack of scruples for business acumen.”
Elorie narrows her eyes. “It sounds like you’re talking about one rich man in particular. And I think it’s Sebastian Darcy.”
The moment she mentions his name, I realize I’ve spent the past few weeks doing exactly what Elorie just advised me to do—researching a rich man. But there’s a difference. I haven’t been investigating him for a chance to marry him. I’ve been probing into his life in the hopes of finding a weapon to destroy him.
I didn’t find any.
And then, three days ago, he showed up at my workplace and handed me one.
Sure, what he’s offered is a stick rather than a hatchet. But it’s up to me to take that stick and sharpen it into a spear. Our ancestors killed mammoths with spears—I should be able to skewer a man.
“He’s superhot, by the way,” Elorie says. “I’d marry him even if he was a mere millionaire.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“Who isn’t?”
I start walking again. “So you meet the billionaire of your dreams, then what?”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “Then I make him fall madly in love with me.”
“Of course! How?”
“By being gorgeous, self-confident, and classy.”
I clear my throat audibly.
“What was that supposed to mean?” she asks, turning to me.
“We’re cashiers.” I give her a hard stare. “We may be called cute but gorgeous and classy are beyond our reach.”
I expect her to object that you can be classy on a budget, but instead she puts her arm around my shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze.
“Finally,” she says with an approving smile. “Diane Petit has demonstrated there’s a realist hiding in there, underneath her principles and other bullshit.”
Her words sting a little.
“My dear,” Elorie says as we turn onto rue Cadet. “I’ll reward your bout of honesty by giving you the single most precious piece of advice anyone has ever given you. Or ever will.”
I halt again and fold my hands across my chest. “I’m all ears.”
“I’m sharing this,” Elorie says, “because we’re besties and because I want you to owe me one.”
I shake my head. “You can’t link those two reasons with an and. They’re mutually exclusive. It’s either because we’re besties or because you want me to owe you one.”
She sucks on her teeth for a brief moment. “I want you to owe me one.”
“OK, what’s your precious advice?”
“It’s a shortcut that very few women are aware of.”
“Yeees?”
“You need to develop a real interest and a certain level of competence in what the billionaires you’re targeting are passionate about.”
I pull a face. “Things like football?”
“If that’s what floats his boat.”
“I see.”
“It can be all sorts of things.” Elorie begins to count on her fingers. “Sports cars. War movies. Guns. High tech gadgets. Video games.”
“I think they’re a waste of time,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what you say.” She moves on to her right hand. “Mixed martial arts. Wine. Politics. Porn. Art photography.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
She giggles. “That last one was a mole to check if you were paying attention. Nobody—except you, that is—cares about art photography.”
“I know men who do.”
“Are they filthy rich?”
I shake my head.
“Ha! Thought so.”
We reach La Bohème, and I stop in front of the entrance, pulling Elorie by her sleeve to stop her from walking on.
“OK,” I say. “Let’s finish this conversation before we go in. Let’s say you’ve become a wine connoisseur or a sports car buff. How does that guarantee your billionaire will fall to your feet like an electrocuted wasp?”
“It’s science, dum-dum.” She cocks her head. “Say your man loves Star Wars and football. You give him a well-timed Yoda quote, and his mind goes, ‘Ooh, she’s special.’ Then you give him an analysis of the latest Paris Saint-Germain victory, and his body releases even more happiness hormones. And before he knows it, his brain learns to associate that euphoric state with you. This leads him to conclude you’re Mademoiselle Right, which, in turn, leads him to propose.”
“Neat,” I say.
And what about the billionaire who proposes not because he gives a shit if you’re Mademoiselle Right or Mademoiselle One Night, but because he wants to use you in some shady scheme?
I push open the door to the bistro and decide to keep that last observation to myself.
Chapter Four
“So what are we celebrating?” Elorie asks after we settle at the bar and Manon hands us two tall glasses of vin chaud.
The steaming mulled wine smells of cinnamon and orange. It makes my frozen insides relax with comfort and my brain thaw with a pleasant mist in a way that’s satisfying beyond words.
Who needs orgasms when you can just take a walk out in the cold and drink this ambrosia?
I grab the spoon in my glass and pull out the half slice of orange begging to be eaten. “Have you heard of Voilà Paris?”
“The gossip magazine?”
“They call themselves a women’s magazine, but yes, gossip is their main stock in trade.” I bite into my orange slice. “They bought some of my pics last month, and now they’re hiring me on as a freelance photojournalist.”
Elorie frowns. “You’re going to be a paparazzo.”
I shake my head, unable to speak because of the wine in my mouth.
“They publish articles, too, not just celebrity gossip,” Manon says.
I swallow the wine. “The deal is if I produce fun pictures with original captions, they’ll let me put them together into a story.”
“Congratulations, Diane!” Manon high-fives me and jogs away to take care of other customers.
“Yeah, congrats,” Elorie says with a lot less enthusiasm. “Does this mean you’ll resign from the supermarket?”
“I can’t. Freelancing pays for movie tickets and drinks, but there’s also the little matter of rent.”
Elorie nods, perking up.
We hang out at La Bohème for another hour and then head home. Elorie catches an RER train to her parents’ suburban cottage, and I take the métro to Chloe’s apartment in the 14th. In fact, I should stop thinking of it as Chloe’s. Now that she’s moved in with Hugo and I’ve taken over the lease, the place is officially mine.
The next morning, I wake up with a headache that’s too strong for the two glasses of mulled wine I had last night. Then I remember I hardly slept, weighing the pros and cons with regards to Darcy’s offer just as I’d done the night before and the night before that.
I pop an aspirin and head to the shower.
Darcy’s proposition has been on my mind nonstop for three days now. No matter how I turn it, taking him up on his offer is a no-brainer. Basically, there are only two ways this can go. Option A, I play his game and pocket the funds for Dad. Option B, I pretend to play his game, but in reality, I seize the opportunity to poke around his house and dig up some dirt on him. Once I have the info and the evidence, I’ll get it published in Voilà Paris or leak it to a more serious periodical, depending on the nature of the scoop. This will, hopefully, do some serious damage to Darcy’s finances or, at least, tarnish his reputation.
Maybe both. And thus avenge Dad.
My brain prefers Option A, while my gut craves Option B. But here’s
the best part—I win, no matter how the dice roll, and Dad gets either money or satisfaction. Or both, if I can find dirt and be patient enough to hold onto it until after I am paid. That would make me a villain, and a nasty piece of work, but who says being ruthless is men’s prerogative?
Sebastian Darcy is a vulture. He deserves a taste of his own cruelty.
It’s in that crucial instant, right after I’ve shampooed my hair and just before I rinse it, that I decide I’ll marry him.
We meet in his office because Darcy’s schedule for today has only one thirty-minute slot that could be freed.
“I’m glad you were able to see that my offer represents a unique opportunity for you and your family,” he says, motioning me to the informal area of his ginormous office with comfy leather armchairs and a designer coffee table.
His arrogance is unbearable, but I hold my tongue. If I want my plan to succeed, I need him to trust me.
Pitbull enters with a tray loaded with drinks, pretty little sandwiches, and mouthwatering pastries. She gives me a perplexed look, which tells me she remembers me from my cancelled appointment back in October and wonders if she’s pegged me right.
“Could you maybe clue me in on the whys of your offer?” Rather than sitting down, I go to the floor-to-ceiling window and take in the breathtaking view. “It would help to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“I explained last time,” he says. “And I can assure you it’s not illegal or dangerous.”
I turn around and give him a stare. “You didn’t explain anything. You just said ‘I need you to be my pretend girlfriend for a couple of months and then my pretend wife for another month or so.’ ”
“And that’s as much as you need to know,” he says, his voice dry. “Take it or leave it.”
Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out on my own.
“Will you please sit down?” He points to the sofa. “I’d like you to look at the contract.”
Ah, so there’s a written contract. Well, what did I expect?
I amble over to one of the armchairs, plonk myself down, and pick up an éclair. “I’m not going to sign your contract right away.”
“I don’t expect you to.” He sits down opposite me. “You can study it tonight and call me tomorrow morning, but you can’t discuss it with anyone. That’s why you’ll need to sign this before you can see the contract.”