by Alix Nichols
It’s just an impartial observation, that’s all.
The plan is to split up for a while. While I check out the new exhibit at the photography museum, Elorie will explore the best vintage clothes shop in the capital just around the corner on rue de Rivoli.
An hour later, I leave the museum and head to the “falafel street”—rue des Rosiers. When I arrive, Elorie is already standing in the long line in front of L’As du Fallafel.
She holds up a big plastic bag filled with clothes. “Your new neighborhood rocks.”
“I know!” I grin. “Where else in Paris can you have so much fun on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Unfortunately, being so cool has a flip side.” She sighs and points at all the people ahead of us in line. “I hope you aren’t too hungry.”
“Fear not, my friend.” I pull the coucougnettes bag from my purse and wave it in front of her nose. “We have balls.”
Fifteen minutes later, the line has barely moved.
“You know,” Elorie says, helping herself to a pink bonbon, “sometimes I hate this country.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s all about égalité, but when you scratch below the surface, there’s no real equality. What we have is a sky-high fence between the rich and the poor.”
“I agree,” I say. “But I would argue it isn’t as tall as it seems.”
Elorie shakes her head. “Your Cinderella story, ma cocotte, is so improbable it’s suspicious. A man like Sebastian Darcy falling in love with a cashier? Marrying her? You have to admit it sounds fishy.”
Of course it does.
Because it is.
“Hey, what about your ‘marry-a-billionaire’ plan?” I ask. “If you don’t believe in Cinderella stories, aren’t you wasting your time plotting to snatch a prince?”
“Maybe I am.” Elorie bites her nails, her expression morose. “I haven’t had much success, even with all the opportunities you’re throwing my way.”
I give her hand a squeeze.
Suddenly, she perks up. “I know what I have to do! I need to adjust my strategy and focus on the nouveau-riche billionaires. The new money, not the old.”
“Athletes? Start-up wonder kids?”
“Yes, but also mafia bosses.” She winks. “They’ll be less picky.”
What can I say to that?
If anything, my fake Cinderella story only proves she’s right.
Best to change the topic. “Remember I told you about Belle Auxbois and how she didn’t want to credit Dad for his work?”
She nods.
“You won’t believe it, but she changed her mind.”
Elorie holds her thumbs up while chewing another coucougnette.
“Dad sent me a link to the talk show that aired on TF1 last Saturday.”
Elorie widens her eyes. “She went on TV with it?”
“Yup.” I beam. “Prime time. The show host asked her about the perfume, which is selling really well, and she said she hadn’t done it alone. She admitted she’d had precious help from Charles Petit, one of the country’s best parfumiers.”
“She said that?”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t wipe the grin off my face. “Isn’t it fantabulous? I have no idea what triggered her sudden confession, though. Maybe she just woke up one morning and realized that acknowledging Dad’s work was the right thing to do.”
At last, we enter the eatery. Just as I’m about to order a falafel plate with a side of grilled eggplant, Elorie claps her hand to her forehead. “I know why she caved in.”
I stare at her expectantly.
“It’s your husband.”
“What?”
“When I stayed over at the castle, I overheard him talking on the phone with someone. He sounded stern, even a little scary.”
“What did he say?”
“He mentioned the perfume, some other stuff I didn’t understand, and said things like ‘I have proof’ and ‘it’s in your best interest to announce it yourself.’ ”
“Anything else?”
Elorie furrows her brow, trying to recall. “Oh yeah, he also said ‘I’m giving you a month, and then I’m suing the pants off you.’ ”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I didn’t make the connection.” She gives me an apologetic look. “It’s only now that everything clicked into place.”
I can’t think of much else for the rest of our girls’ day about town.
We say good-bye at République, and I take the métro to my apartment in the 14th, which Sebastian has been paying for since I chucked the supermarket job.
My head throbs as I struggle to adjust to Elorie’s revelation about Sebastian.
And to how I can possibly reconcile it with what I intend to do.
Chapter 25
Diane
Two hours later, after I get to my apartment and frame the rest of my rooftop prints for Jeanne’s gallery, my thoughts are still in a jumble of epic proportions.
So, Sebastian worked behind the scenes to help Dad, and hid it from me. Clearly, he didn’t do it to improve my opinion of him. Does this mean he’s sorry for what he’s done to Dad? Is this his way of making amends?
Am I prepared to forgive him?
After all, he can truly be held responsible only for Dad’s bankruptcy. My parents’ divorce and Dad’s stroke were the consequences of that but they weren’t, strictly speaking, Sebastian’s fault.
There’s another question that’s been growing in the back of my mind for weeks now. It started as a tiny seed that I could ignore, but it’s exploded inside my head, deafening me.
Could our fake relationship ever turn into something real?
I lean my forehead against the window and stare outside.
Don’t be daft, woman.
Sebastian and me, it’ll never work. We’re like fire and ice, matter and antimatter. We’re wired for mutual destruction. Whatever it is that’s sprouted between us, it’s doomed.
I read Libération, vote for socialists, and believe in strong government. He gripes about France’s “archaic” labor laws that “overprotect” employees and discourage entrepreneurial initiative. Even though in public he supports the Greens, I’m sure it’s only because his PR people told him it’s good for the company’s image. Deep inside, he’s as conservative as it gets.
He’s a billionaire, for Christ’s sake.
And he reads Le Figaro.
I hate that kind of people. They have no civic sense, no notion of solidarity. Their only concern is how to make more money and pay less in taxes. And while these glorified crooks succeed in dissimulating their income in Swiss banks and offshore companies, people like Dad—hardworking, honest people—go belly up.
I rack my brain for additional arguments.
What I’m trying to do here is to wind myself up into a righteous anger against Sebastian. Only a couple of months ago, I had no difficulty doing it.
It used to come naturally.
But now, all my valiant attempts hit a brick wall and fly into pieces. That wall is the belief—a conviction, really—that Sebastian is nothing like the rotten, self-absorbed golden boy that I’ve been painting him to be. His arrogance is superficial. It’s just a mask he wears to hide his insecurities from the world. And to project an image of someone who “knows what he’s doing.”
Underneath the veneer, Sebastian Darcy is an honorable man in every single way that matters.
I take my head in my hands, wishing I was on a deserted island so I could bawl my confusion to the four winds.
My door buzzer sounds.
It’s Sebastian.
I let him in, wondering what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ’til I get to the town house later tonight.
He steps in, a huge cardboard box in his hands.
“What is this?” I ask as he sets it on my desk.
“A top-notch professional-quality printer,” he says. “So you can make your own prints. And a
landscape camera.”
I sit down, flabbergasted.
He opens the box and unpacks the printer first. Unable to resist, I jump up and take a closer look. He’s right—it’s top-notch equipment. To think of all the stuff I could do with it…
“I hope this is what you were talking about.” He hands me a camera.
Not just any camera—a Seitz 6x17 Panoramic.
I’ve read articles about it. I’ve dreamed about it. This baby takes the world’s largest digital photos. The quality is so good I can make a wall-sized print of the Chateau d’Arcy and still be able to see the little spider swinging under one of the third-floor windows.
It’s the best of the best of the best.
I push it back toward him. “This thing costs a small fortune. More than what I make in a year.”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“I can’t accept it.”
“And I can’t have you walking on roofs so that you can take enough shots with your portrait camera to assemble them into a landscape.”
“Why…” I look away, trying to form my question. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Do you want the conveniently honest answer or the brutally honest one?”
“Give me both.”
He places the camera on the table, takes my chin between his index and thumb, and turns my face toward him.
I stare into his somber eyes.
“The conveniently honest answer is that I’m nice to you because I like your photos and want to help.”
“And the brutally honest one?”
“I’m being nice because I want to continue seeing you after our contract expires and you leave me.”
“You want a real relationship?”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly what I’d call it.” He hesitates. “Diane, I don’t want to mislead you or give you false hopes. You’re not the kind of woman I’d ever pick as a real wife.”
I square my shoulders, trying not to show how much his words hurt me.
“You despise what I stand for,” he says. “You have no interest in my world, in being my partner in every aspect of life.” He pauses before adding, “My mother had the same distaste for the things that mattered to Papa… And look where it got them.”
He lets go of my chin.
We’re both silent for a long moment, gazing out the window, at our shoes, at the equipment on the table—everywhere except each other.
I’m the first to break the silence. “Thank you for your honesty.”
His gaze burns into my eyes as he waits for me to continue.
“I think it would be best if we stopped seeing each other after the contract expires,” I say.
His face hardens. “If that’s what you want.”
I nod.
Dammit, this conversation is hard.
“Tell me something,” I say to get us out of the minefield. “Why are you so sure your nemesis will use the same method on you as he did on your father? Maybe this time he’ll do something different, something more drastic.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… poison you?”
He laughs. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not his MO. You see, the guy—or the gal—hates me, but he won’t take unnecessary risks. He’s super careful.”
“If you say so.”
“From what I’ve observed, he seeks to inflict pain—not to kill. What he wants is to punch me where it hurts most. If I wither and die as a consequence, he probably won’t complain. But his goal isn’t my quick death. I’m sure of it.”
Punch me where it hurts most.
Isn’t that what I’ll do to him if I make those letters public?
He doesn’t need his nemesis to give him pain and suffering—he has me.
“Ready to go home?” he asks after our conversation returns to the equipment I’ve agreed to keep.
“You go ahead,” I say. “I still have some stuff to do.”
“Need help?”
I shake my head. “Need privacy.”
He nods and walks out.
I place his mother’s letters into the kitchen sink and put a match to them. As they burn to ashes, I tell myself that now nobody—not Sebastian’s nemesis, not even me in a moment of anger—will be able to punch him where it hurts most.
Chapter 26
Diane
We’re in the home stretch.
If Sebastian’s nemesis doesn’t make his move really soon, my fake husband of one month and I will go on a break, separate and divorce, pretexting irreconcilable differences.
Sebastian is getting a little nervous about the success of his plan.
I would be, too, in his place.
All his efforts of the past six months, the elaborate deception of family and friends, the marriage to a woman he’d never consider wife material, the luxury wedding, extravagant parties, and lavish receptions—it’s all been for naught. To say nothing of the money he’s still to fork over when my payday arrives.
If nothing out of the ordinary happens this week, I’ll pocket my fee and leave next week. Sebastian will go back to his normal life, none the wiser. And his enemy will thank his lucky stars for having stayed under the radar.
No wonder my still-husband is cramming as many opportunities for his enemy as he can into this last week. The first one is underway right now, and it’s a happy event, regardless of our hidden agenda.
Jeanne’s hubby, Mat, was elected Member of the European Parliament, as the Top-of-the-List for the Greens.
Sebastian had backed his party’s campaign, so he’s doubly pleased.
To celebrate Mat’s achievement, we’re hosting a big reception at Raphael and Sebastian’s gentlemen’s club. Mat wanted to do it at La Bohème, but the bistro was too small for the occasion. Everyone who’s anyone in Paris and from Mat’s home base in Normandy is here, schmoozing, drinking, and stuffing themselves with caviar canapés.
Sebastian steers the event with his usual efficiency, making sure Mat meets all the movers and shakers and opinion leaders.
I play the perfect hostess—at least, my idea of the perfect hostess. Dressed in a shimmery gown that feels and looks as if it was poured on me, I welcome and make small talk with as many guests as I can manage without appearing rushed.
As I do my rounds, I notice Sebastian chatting with a creature who should totally represent France at the next Miss Universe. They smile at each other, the distance between them considerably smaller than what’s expected of two people holding a polite conversation. She plays with her earlobe as she speaks. Sebastian beckons to a server and picks up two champagne flutes.
A needle of jealousy pricks me somewhere in the upper left quadrant of my chest, but I will myself to ignore it and carry on.
One of the uniformed waitresses carrying a tray with food and drinks keeps glancing at Raphael. The depth of her gaze is intriguing. Every time she steals a glance at him, something flashes in her pretty eyes—something bigger than just OMG-what-a-studmuffin. Her furtive looks have an undeniable gravitas that goes beyond flirtation. It suggests a history. And a complicated one, at that.
When I spot Manon, I rush to her side for a chat that I’ll actually enjoy.
“Where’s Amar, by the way?” I ask after we’ve covered her recent raise and the encouraging sales of my new prints at La Bohème. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
She looks down, visibly distressed.
“What’s wrong? Is he OK?”
“I don’t know.”
I give her a quizzical look.
“He’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone,” she says. “It’s been three days now. He hasn’t showed up for work, and he won’t return my calls.”
“Are you going to report his disappearance to the police?”
She shakes her head. “I managed to get hold of his mom. She says Amar left the country.”
“Why?�
��
“I couldn’t get anything else out of her.” There’s a tremor in her voice. “I’m at my wit’s end.”
I give her a hug. “He’ll come back. He loves you.”
“I’m not… I’m not so sure anymore.”
Someone taps my shoulder. “Here she is, the beautiful hostess of this great celebration!”
I turn around—it’s Sebastian’s pal, Laurent.
“Thank you for the ‘beautiful,’ ” I say as we cheek kiss. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Absolutely.” He tilts his head toward Manon. “Will you introduce me to your equally beautiful friend?”
I do and leave them to it. God knows, Manon could do with a distraction right now.
Besides, I really need to pee.
Just as I’m opening the door to the ladies’ room, Raphael and the glancing waitress come out of the gents’ toilet. He’s tucking his shirt into his pants. She’s smoothing her uniform. Both are rumpled and flushed, leaving no doubt about what they were doing in the men’s bathroom.
Or about the nature of their “history.”
When I return to the front room, there are daggers flying around. Not material ones, of course, but the looks Genevieve is giving the waitress. They’re so sharp it’s a miracle her victim isn’t screaming in pain and collapsing to the floor.
I smirk.
Raphael may believe that Genevieve is only a friend, but the truth is she may as well be wearing a T-shirt that reads, Hands off the middle Darcy brother—HE’S MINE.
Men can be so selectively blind!
Sebastian comes over to me. “Did you see the woman I’ve been talking to for the past thirty minutes?”
“I did.”
“We’ve already bumped into each other at the Chanel luncheon I attended for work last week.” His eyes are bright with excitement.
“Do you think…” I search his face. “Do you think she’s it?”