“I just feel weird about spending his money.”
“Too bad. He dragged you kicking and screaming into his life. He deserves to pay—you didn’t ask for any of it. Seriously, let’s chip in and buy Tara a ticket, and you both can come. She’s still unemployed. Come the fuck on, Marley.”
“Okay,” I say, getting excited at the prospect. “I’ll buy the tickets as soon as I disconnect. Do I fly into Paris or Saint-Tropez?”
“There’s no direct flight into Nice. You might as well stop in Paris. I’ll meet up with you there, and then we can go to my family’s chateau together.”
“Should I book it for the soonest possible?”
“Yessss. That’s what I’m saying.”
By the time our conversation is finished, I’m ready to pack. I call Tara immediately.
“Hey,” she answers the phone.
“Pack your bags, be-otch. We’re going to France.”
“What?”
“Cilla and I are going to chip in and buy you a ticket. You and I are meeting her in Paris, and then we’re all going to her family’s villa in Saint-Tropez.”
“Please don’t toy with my emotions. I’m fragile. Are you serious?”
“Totally. I’m going to book the tickets now. How soon can you leave?”
“Gee, let me check my calendar. Oh, that’s right. I have no life. Whenever.”
“Good. I’m booking the next possible flight out. Just start packing. I’ll text you the flight info as soon as I have it.”
After I disconnect, I remember that Fletcher told me to book the trip through Blair Halloway. And to inform the staff because the house is on different security protocols if neither of us is here.
I swipe to her name and make the call.
“Hello, Mrs. Creed. What may I do for you?”
“Uh… Mr. Creed told me if I wanted to travel that I should have you book the trip. If you have time?”
“Of course I do. Where, when, and with whom?”
“Paris. As soon as possible and with one other person.”
“And that person’s name?”
“Oh, sorry. Tara Clemmons.”
“C-L-E-M-M-O-N-S?”
“Correct.”
“As soon as possible meaning tonight or tomorrow?”
“Not tonight. But yes, tomorrow would be fine.”
“Will there be a connecting flight, or will you be staying in Paris?”
“My friend is meeting us there, and we’ll be traveling to Saint-Tropez.”
“You’ll have to let me know exactly when so I know for how long you’ll need your hotel room and of course, the date for the flight to the south.”
“Can I call you from Paris?”
“Yes, I’ll book you for two nights. You can always extend your stay if you need to. They always are able to accommodate the Creed family. You can let me know when you know.”
“Thank you, Blair. I appreciate this very much.”
“It’s my job, Mrs. Creed. I’ll text you the travel info to this telephone number.”
“Yes, that’s perfect.” I disconnect the phone and plop into a chair. I can’t believe how easy my life has become. I put my sneaker-clad foot on the coffee table and text Cilla.
Me: We’re coming! I’ll let you know when as soon as I know.
Cilla: I can’t wait to see you bitches. Watch out, France. The triple threat is on its way.
Me: Talk soon.
Cilla: :)
The car takes us to the airport where we are directed to the first-class lounge. I’m shocked that Blair booked us into first class—I never asked her to do that.
Tara’s mouth gapes open.
I point to the floor. “Pick up your jaw, Tar. And close your mouth—it’s not a good look for you.”
“I can’t help it. Have we died and gone to heaven? We’re booked into first class?”
“Apparently, but I never requested it.”
“That’s what happens when you’re married to a bazillionaire. I’m just glad to bask in your reflected glory. I wonder what hotel she booked for us.”
I pull out my phone. “George V. She said we might find it a bit stuffy, but it’s the best hotel in Paris.”
“Ah, two glorious days of luxury. I’m going to make the most of it. It’s probably the first and last time I’ll get to experience it.”
A concierge of some sort approaches us, informing us of the services available including showers, ironing service, massage, champagne, and special request dining orders. I smile and say thank you.
I poke Tara with my elbow. “I have a feeling the luxury won’t end in Paris. Cilla’s family has a chateau in Saint-Tropez. It’s probably stunning.”
“Oh God, I can’t wait. I’m so excited I might pee my pants.”
“Please don’t.”
Ah, I never want to fly coach ever again. First class is amazing. I flew business class once with the man who tried his best to ruin my life, but I was so miserable at that time that I barely noticed anything pleasant. Rico is the one story from my past that I’ve kept secret from everyone except Tara. I was so unhappy then that just thinking about it now, years later, makes me jittery and want to cry.
We check into our hotel, and Tara heads into the bathroom to soak in the tub. I call Cilla.
“We’re here.”
“Where are you staying?”
“George V.”
“Oh of course. Nothing but the best for Madame Creed. What’s your room number? I’m coming up.”
Twenty minutes later, I open the door to a beaming Priscilla. Tara is sitting behind me, pink from her bath and sipping champagne from the mini bar.
“Bitches,” Cilla practically screams and holds out her arms. I hug her and Tara jumps up to do the same.
“Oh my God, we’re going to have so much fun. Guess where we’re going?”
“Aren’t we going to your family’s villa?”
“Nope.” She grins. “We’re going to Italy. To Lake Como to be exact.”
“Why?”
Tara holds up her glass. “Want some champagne?”
“Of course,” Cilla says and sashays past me. “We’ve been invited to the villa of an Italian count. Well, he would be a count if they still had such things in Italy. But I met him last night, and he invited the three of us. Said he’s having a large house party, and it’s going to be fabulous.” She sings the last word.
“You just met him last night? He could be a crazed killer.”
“Not likely,” Cilla replies as she tips her glass to her lips. “He was introduced to me by someone I know very well. He vouched for him. Amadeo is his name.”
“So we’re going to be staying at his villa?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t know if I should. I’m supposed to keep up appearances.”
“Oh, pish-posh. There’s nothing inappropriate about attending a party. Maybe the Clooneys will be there. They spend most of the summer in Lake Como, so I’ve been told.
Tara bobs her head. “We’re going.”
25
Fletcher Creed
London, day six. My trip is tedious but necessary. In addition to meetings and a conference, I have two foreign investors that I’m persuading to sell me their shares. I hate being nice to people I don’t know. Why did I ever take the firm public? It wasn’t worth the money I made.
When I’m not engaged with work matters, I spend every waking moment thinking of my wife and how I can keep her as such. It’s time I admit—at least to myself—how infatuated I’ve become with Marley. When I reluctantly mentioned the six-month out to her, she didn’t seem so eager about taking it. Could it possibly be that she’s starting to feel the same way about me, or is that just wishful thinking?
It’s dinnertime and I’m meeting an old friend, an ex-pat in London. What I really want to do is fly home and see Marley. Sleep in my own bed. Better yet, sleep in hers.
All right, this is stupid. I’ve just decided that when I get ho
me, I’ll make her truly mine. I’m a grown man—too old to play these kinds of games. I’ve never been shy around women. Why start now? If she’s interested then we’ll go from there. If not, then so be it.
The restaurant is about six blocks from my hotel so I decide to walk. I’m about halfway there when I hear a text come through on my phone. I slip it out of my pocket.
Blair Halloway. She’s informing me that she just made travel plans for my wife. Chicago to Paris. She decided to meet her friend. Good for her.
I have another few days here and then a quick trip to Zurich. Then I can head home. Or… maybe instead I’ll meet up with Marley and take her somewhere. We never did get a real honeymoon. Maybe this can be one.
Real in all ways.
I’m thinking about how real it can get when my phone rings. Hammer. I take the call. “What’s going on?”
“Holland. I just read that he and his associates took over Webb Media.”
“You’re kidding me? Our main competitor?” I rake my hand through my hair. “What’s his long game, I wonder? If he wanted to take control of mainstream media outlets, he’d need to go after the big guys, not us or Webb.”
“I don’t know. I just spoke with a friend who works at Webb, and he claims Brad Nolan thinks it’s personal. Apparently, Rico Holland used to work with Nolan at his last company. Their business relationship had soured.”
“Why go after us if that’s the case?”
“That I don’t know, but I’m trying to find out. Any luck in London?”
“Yes, they’ll sell though it will cost me. But we need to keep him from buying more.”
“Yes, we do. Got any fresh ideas?”
“Not at the moment. Look, I’m meeting a friend for dinner. I have to go.”
“All right. We’ll talk soon.”
I’m briskly walking to the restaurant when I remember Marley and that I was supposed to call her. Will she be antagonistic toward me again?
She picks up on the second ring. “Fletcher. Where are you?”
“Still in London. Blair told me you’re in France.”
“Actually, we’re headed to Italy. Lake Como, to be precise.”
“Why?”
“Cilla was invited to a house party and brought us along. How long will you be in London?”
“A few more days and then a quick trip to Zurich. I was wondering if you’d like to meet up with me and have a real honeymoon while we’re both over here?”
There’s a long pause, dead space. Did the call drop?
Then I hear a sound on the other end. She’s still there. Is she shocked that I used the word real? Does she understand what I’m getting at?
“That sounds nice. When and where?”
“Not sure yet because I have another meeting in Zurich. I’ll know better early next week. In the meantime, keep in touch.”
“Yes, I will. I’ll talk to you soon.”
This coming weekend an old prep school friend is taking me out on his yacht. The weather is supposed to be excellent, and I love sailing. I need the relaxation after the tension of doing business every damn day.
My business is taking longer than I anticipated. At Swiss Media Group, the man I needed to meet with was visiting Australia and wouldn’t be back for a few days. That meant I had to stay in Zurich until Tuesday at the earliest. I wonder if I could entice Marley to come meet me here. Originally, I thought Paris would be the best city—not only for love but also because I thought she’d be in France. I never knew about Italy.
I’m scrolling through my emails when I see one marked urgent by my publicist. I click on it and there’s a note:
Sorry, but you need to see these photos. Please speak to your wife about the optics.
Fuck, what am I about to see? I warily open the jpegs and there she is—my gorgeous wife surrounded by a knot of people, mostly men, with a handsome Italian’s arm slung across her shoulders. Another one of just the two of them—her and the handsome Italian with the messy hair. Still another where she’s in a skimpy swimsuit, holding a glass of wine, and he’s right up next to her, and they’re both laughing. They definitely look like a couple.
What was she thinking, for God’s sake?
What time is it now? Ten after six—a.m. She’ll never be up at this hour. Instead, I send her a text.
Fletcher: Call me as soon as you get this message. Very important!
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. Did she take a lover? I told her she could as long as she was discreet, but in recent weeks I started to believe she wouldn’t. Maybe I took too long to make my move? If so, that would be keeping in line with my suddenly shitty life.
I’m not certain I can wait for a decent hour to speak with her. If she doesn’t call me back within the hour, I’m going to have to call her. And call Cilla and Tara too until I get one of them on the phone.
Someone to yell at.
Someone to pay for my injured feelings.
When did this happen? And more importantly… why?
What is it about Marley Jacobs that she managed to not only snag my attention but also ensnare my heart? I’ve never felt this committed to any other woman—or any other person outside of my family.
Is it her beauty?
Maybe, but there are a lot of beautiful women in the world. Marley, however, is exceptionally gorgeous, but still… it’s not the most unique attribute in my world.
Her intellect? There’s no denying that she’s smart. Capable. Thinks on her feet. I do work with brilliant women, though. I’ve never fallen for a single one of them.
Personality? She’s overflowing with it. I don’t think anyone has made me laugh as much as she has and without even trying too hard either. She’s witty and quick. But, yes, I know lots of people, men and women both, who are enormous fun to be around.
Is it the combination of all three? Could be, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I think it’s something else, something either hard or maybe impossible to define.
The way her elegant fingers with clear short nails because she doesn’t have patience for manicures hook her silky hair behind her ears when she’s unsure of herself. The little laugh she gives right before she’s about to lose her temper. The easy grace and elegance she employs in every movement of her body, no matter how slight.
Or is it the soft light that glows in her bluest of eyes when I pay her a compliment, as if her eyes are smiling even when her lips are not? The way she claps her hands together lightly when something delights her, and she giggles like a little girl. The way her lips shine in the sunlight and make me want to suck them into my mouth to taste the sweetness I’m certain is there. The kindness that she shows not only her friends but also strangers who need a helping hand—regardless of their species. She told me she and Tara once saved a calf from slaughter and that she hasn’t been able to enjoy a hamburger ever since.
Marley is special.
Whatever it is about her, it has spoken to me, and I plan to act on it. I need to do it soon before I lose the chance forever.
I just hope it’s not already too late.
26
Marley Jacobs
Yesterday, we arrived in Lake Como and to the most astonishingly beautiful villa I’ve ever seen or could imagine. Tara began to swoon immediately.
“Oh my God, look at this house,” she exclaimed when the car swung into the long drive. I was looking.
The villa where we’re staying is stunning, like ripped-from-the-pages-of-Architectural Digest stunning. But I’m disappointed nonetheless. It’s new. “I was hoping for something medieval.”
“Oh, they have them here,” Cilla reassured me. “It’s just that most Italians prefer modern. I guess it’s because they’re surrounded by the past every day, so it’s not anything unusual or special to them. But Amadeo tells me the most impressive feature of the house is in the rear, facing the lake.
The driver that Amadeo sent to the airport for us promised to take in our bags, so we approached t
he front door where an elegant woman in her fifties awaited us. “Welcome to Villa Umberto. My name is Adela. Would you like me to show you to your rooms first, or would you prefer to join the others on the patio?”
Cilla slipped her sunglasses down her nose to peek out at us. “Patio?”
We both nodded our heads like puppets. “Thank you, Adela. We’ll go to our rooms later. For now, we’ll join the others outside.
“Very well, follow me.”
Adela led us to the most breathtaking “patio” I’ve ever seen. The whole of it was as long as a city block but on different levels with steps going to each and part of it was walled. It was entirely tiled with a creamy limestone or travertine. There was an infinity pool at the edge of the property off the marble that looked like it dropped straight down off the mountain. Seemingly floating inside the pool was a cabana with beautiful chaises. Just beyond were the cerulean blue waters of Lake Como, so blue it looked fake. The mountains encircled the lake in the far distance.
A good-looking Italian man spotted Cilla and approached us with a big smile. “Signorinas, welcome.”
“Amadeo,” Cilla said, kissing him on both cheeks, “this place is magnificent. Thank you for having us.”
“It is beautiful, is it not? The house was built on the site of an old medieval watchtower. The ruins are still there. It is nearly 3000 feet above the lake, and we have four and a half acres here. But the best part,” he said with a big grin, “is no nearby neighbors. We can make as much noise or do whatever we like.”
I could swear he gave Cilla a dirty little leer when he said that. I sincerely hope we haven’t walked into a sex party getting started. I can’t seem to forget that party when that gross man asked Fletcher if he was coming to the private party, wink-wink. Yuck.
There was no sex party but lots of really, really good-looking men were everywhere. Tara kept pinching herself and was well on her way to being tanked. Cilla was flirting wildly with Amadeo and his friend Cristiano. I was enjoying my glass of sparkling wine and looking out over the pool. I definitely wanted to swim in it before we left. I’d been approached by no less than five men already, but I smiled and wriggled my fingers with my wedding ring. There was a photographer here, and I didn’t dare let myself get photographed with a man.
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 17