by Alix Nichols
“Besides,” I say, “your conversation was interesting from a scientific perspective.”
“How so?”
“It proved my theory that blue bloods produce just as much dirty laundry as everyone else.”
“We certainly do.” His smile becomes genuine. “Is that a good thing?”
I shrug. “It makes you my equal in dirty laundry, at least.”
“I still have twenty minutes,” he says taking hold of my hand. “How about we finish what we started?”
I frown.
“Minus the spanking,” he adds quickly.
“How about we finish it after you’re back?” My eyes dart to the door. “And preferably, someplace where we won’t get interrupted.”
He nods.
We kiss good-bye, and a few minutes later I’m back in my office to finish up the day’s work.
Delphine gives me a meaningful look as she applies her lipstick before heading out. “He is from the office.”
“Who? I was just—”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” she says. “But when I figure out who he—or she—is, you’ll have to be more forthcoming, ma cocotte, like I was with you about Alberto.”
“Or else?” I ask, trying to sound playful.
“Or else I might not be able to keep the scoop to myself, regardless of his—or her—marital status.” She gives me a consider-yourself-warned look and sashays out the door.
Threatening me is becoming à la mode these days.
Somehow, I manage to focus on my work and finish it a little after nine.
As I step out of the building, the air is so pleasant it’s hard to believe I’m in Paris. With the rush hour over, the smell of gas and diesel is replaced by the springy scents of flowers and buds. The temperature is as perfect as it gets in this country—somewhere between mild and warm—with winter’s chill gone without a trace and summer’s sticky heat still far away.
According to the weather forecast, it’ll be like this all week and through the weekend, which I’d been hoping to spend with Raphael.
What a shame he chose to spend it with someone else! Probably Genevieve, whoever she is.
As I walk toward the métro station, jealousy and bile team up in my head to ruin the beautiful evening. For the umpteenth time, I promise to try harder to end my affair with Raphael.
And to never, ever have sex in his office again.
The first couple of months, we religiously kept our trysts out of the DCA premises. Raphael seemed as keen on it as I was. The downside was that we’d go days without seeing each other, even when he was in Paris. Raphael d’Arcy is an important man. His calendar has weeks where every single evening is taken up by a social event he can’t bow out of.
I suspect some of those social evenings spill over into his nights.
But I’d rather not ask.
We broke our no-sex-at-work rule for the first time about a month ago after ten days apart. Considering that Raphael was in town only for a day, we “visited” in his office under the protection of his loyal gatekeeper, Anne-Marie.
Then we relapsed after he returned from his business trip the following week before leaving again later that day.
And then we slipped anew this afternoon.
Each of those “quickies” left my body sated—and my soul a little dirtier than before.
Because despite his unwavering interest in my person, I am not Raphael’s girlfriend.
I’m his sex mate.
We are two single people having a secret affair. Our relationship doesn’t move forward. I wouldn’t even call it a relationship. It’s a one-night stand on a loop. It’s as if we were reenacting a porn spoof of Groundhog Day.
It’s called Groundhog Lay.
Raphael seems happy with his part in it.
I’m not.
But then I’m not the one in the director’s chair.
Chapter 13
As I enter my apartment, I’m struck by how clean and tidy it is. My hands itch to grab my phone and immortalize this rare condition. When Màma and Eva are gone and my place returns to its usual “creative mess,” I’ll look at those pictures and the urge to clean will consume me.
Or not.
But it won’t hurt to try.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” Eva calls from the kitchen.
“What is she cooking?” I ask Màma, who’s fluffing the cushions on the couch.
“Lasagna.”
I close my eyes and smile beatifically. “Yum.”
“She thought you’d be pleased.”
Màma unfolds the ironing board and dumps a pile of colorful clothes onto a chair next to it. Looks like she did my laundry while I was at work.
Again.
She leaves me no choice but to carry out my threat to lock up my dirty laundry inside a suitcase before her visits.
“How are you, Mia?” she asks.
“Great.”
She picks up a white blouse and lays it on the board. “Can you be more specific?”
“Sure.” I start unfolding my fingers. “The thesis is on track, the job doesn’t suck too much, and summer is coming. As I said, everything’s great.”
She shakes her head. “Why is it that when I ask Eva the same question, she always has a lot more to say?”
“She’s chatty.” I shrug. “It’s her nature.”
“And your nature is to be secretive, isn’t it?”
“That’s ridiculous.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m just… introverted, that’s all.”
She arranges the blouse over a hanger. “Herzele, do you think you could make an effort to tell me more?”
Herzele. My little heart. I love it when she calls me that.
“Like what?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Are you dating someone?”
As in fornicating?
I give her a wide-eyed stare. “Seriously, Màma?”
“You know what I mean.” She tilts her head to the side in admonishment. “Is there a young man you like who likes you back?”
I shake my head.
“I wonder if it’s my fault,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
Màma draws a heavy breath and picks up the next item from the pile. “Eva has a crush on a man who’s great but inaccessible,” she says. “You seem to stay away from all men as if they were dangerous beasts. Is it because of how strict Pàpa and I have been with you? And because of how I always insisted on no intimate relations before marriage?”
Oh God.
She sighs again and places my panties on the board.
“Not the underwear!” I snatch them from her. “Please, it isn’t meant to be ironed.”
She gives me a forbearing look. “Of course it is.”
I moan and pretend to pull my hair out.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Màma says, staring into my eyes.
“OK, I’ll answer it.” I hold her gaze. “Don’t worry, Ma, your high standards and your sermons about chastity are not responsible for my single status.”
“It’s perfectly OK to date a man, you know,” she says. “Pàpa and I should’ve stressed that point more. As long as you can abstain—and I’m sure strong-willed women like you and Eva can—you should date. I encourage you to date.”
I show Màma my palms. “Need to wash these before dinner.”
As I walk… er, run to the bathroom, a thought strikes me. The affair with Raphael aside, I haven’t actually dated anyone since college. More specifically, since the calamity.
Just a coincidence, no doubt.
“How’s Pàpa?” I ask my mother when we sit down to dinner.
I’m determined to steer the conversation away from Eva’s and my private lives and to keep it there.
“His usual self,” Màma says. “Volunteering as much as he can, gardening a lot, and trying out recipes from around the world. Right now we’re eating our way through Cambodian cuisine.”
Eva serves the lasag
na.
I almost drool looking at the dish.
“Is he still involved in that refugee support project?” Eva asks.
“The one with the educational NGO?” Màma’s eyes the lasagna on her plate. “Where they teach refugee women basic French and help them find jobs?”
“Yes, that one.” Eva sits down and nods in a please-eat gesture.
Màma digs in. “Actually, I’m involved in that project, too. You know how we’re both keen on helping women in need.”
You certainly are.
As long as those women have good morals.
I focus on my lasagna, which is as delicious as everything Eva cooks, and let my sister and mother do the talking. At some point, I tune out, my mind wandering to the topic that’s become a bit of an obsession for me recently. Raphael’s other women.
He’s never mentioned anyone, and I’ve never actually seen him with anyone. But every time I pick up Voici or another gossip magazine, there’s a picture of him chatting with this model or that heiress at some posh event or other. Does he do more than chat when off camera? The man has a reputation, after all, and he seems eager to uphold it.
Besides, he’s always made it clear he’s not a “relationship” type of guy.
I asked him once if he remembered all the names and faces of the women he’d slept with.
He shook his head.
I looked askance. “What about those you saw more than once?”
He stroked his chin, thinking.
“Or do we all look the same?” I asked. “A blurred image with boobs and girlie bits?”
“That’s mean.” He tut-tutted.
I shrugged.
“To answer your question, yes I do.” He arched an eyebrow. “Regardless of what you think of me, I love women. I believe they’re the most amazing of God’s creations, vastly superior to men in every way.”
“Maybe that’s your problem,” I said. “You love women too much. And… in the plural.”
He gave me a strange look, but didn’t say anything.
“Your gal pals,” I plowed on, unable to drop the subject. “Are they usually OK with your sleeping around?”
“The few times I stuck around long enough to ask, the answer was yes.”
“Thank God for condoms,” I said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“What about your lady friends having a lover on the side? Are you OK with that?”
He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Good question.”
“So?”
“Well, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t enjoy the same freedom I do. It’s only fair.”
I winced at his branding promiscuity as freedom. Then again, what right does a gang bang girl have to be prudish?
“That said, I doubt my partners have a need for a supplementary lover while I’m with them.” Raphael gave me a smug little smile.
I rolled my eyes.
“It’s just an observation,” he said. “But we could do a random test. You, for instance—do you have a lover on the side?”
“No.”
“Do you feel you need one?”
I shook my head.
“See?” He grinned. “I’m enough.”
I don’t remember what I said to that. What I do remember is that I was too chicken to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since January.
Do you have a supplementary lover, Raphael?
Or am I enough?
Chapter 14
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Raphael’s professionally landscaped rooftop terrace. Even in the dark, the effect is breathtaking, with tiny lights spattered over the plants, twinkling softly. I can hear the steady drone and the rut-rut-rut of assorted vehicles, the wail of a police car in the distance, and the laughter of diners enjoying a late meal on the sidewalk terrace beneath us.
Here on the Boulevard Saint Germain, we’re smack in the throbbing heart of Paris, just a stone’s throw from the Notre-Dame Cathedral. But we’re also above the city inside a giant fish tank loft surrounded by a breezy oasis of green.
Raphael is making some fancy cocktails behind the slick granite bar of his open-plan kitchen.
“You sure you’re not hungry?” he asks.
“Absolutely sure.”
He must find that hard to believe because I’m usually famished at the end of a workday. But tonight, after my first double shift, I’m exhausted beyond hunger.
I left DCA at six, causing raised eyebrows in my office, and headed to Raphael’s gentlemen’s club where I managed to survive my first night as a front-of-the-house waitress.
“Survive” is a bit of an exaggeration, because—objectively speaking—the work itself wasn’t hard, and the staff were friendly. Including the manager, who’d been kindly requested to hire me.
The real reason I’m feeling so drained is because I received my third Australian letter this morning. It was a little wordier than the first two.
I’ll BE IN FRANCE ALL JULY. GET READY.
For what?
That question has been on my mind all day. Is my mystery pen pal going to blackmail me, or is he going to post his proof all over the Internet and watch my life fall to pieces?
I let out a heavy sigh.
It was a mistake to come over to Raphael’s tonight. Instead of getting into his car, I should’ve headed straight home and avoided a potentially unpleasant situation.
Because I won’t be of any use to Raphael tonight. For the first time since January, I’m feeling too down to want sex with him. And I’m about to tell him as much.
Hearing his step behind me, I turn around. Raphael comes nearer, a tray with two tall glasses in one hand and a small object in the other. He places the tray on a side table next to the window and hands me the mysterious object.
It’s a palm-sized orange box with Hermès written on it in block letters.
“For you,” he says. “I hope you like it, but if you don’t, it’s totally fine.”
“Perfume?”
He nods.
The cursive line above Hermès reads 24 Faubourg.
I have no idea what 24 Faubourg smells like, but I’d wager it’s expensive.
I narrow my eyes. “Is this your way of saying you hate the fragrance I wear?”
He chuckles. “Quite the contrary. I love your fragrance. But since you won’t tell me what it is, I tried to find something that was close.”
The reason I won’t tell Raphael—or anyone—the name of my perfume is that it’s as far from Hermès, Baccarat, and the like as any scented liquid sold in a pretty little bottle can be.
I buy it at at my local supermarket.
Sue me.
It’s cheap, fresh and flowery, and that’s good enough for me. I’ve been wearing it for a couple of years now. And I must admit I’m tickled pink that my upper-crust lover likes it, too.
I push the box back.
“Oh, come on, Mia!” He looks flustered. “You never accept anything from me.”
“Not true,” I say. “I let you pay for all the drinks, meals, and getaways. I dread to imagine how much I’d owe you by now if I wasn’t accepting that you foot those bills.”
“You should see it as a form of patronage,” he says. “I do it for science.”
I give him a yeah right look.
“I mean it. The world needs your book, Mia. It needs to learn the truth about medieval harlots.”
The corners of my mouth turn up despite my best efforts to remain serious.
“They’ve been hiding it from us too long,” Raphael adds, encouraged by my smile.
“Who?”
“You know—they.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
I nod.
He stage-whispers, “The government. CIA. Wikipedia.”
My sense of the ridiculous gets the better of me and I giggle.
“Finally,” Raphael says. “It’s becoming harder and harder to make
you laugh. I must be losing my touch.”
And I must be turning into a bore…
He thrusts the perfume back into my hand. “Will you at least open it and tell me if you like the scent?”
“If I open it, you won’t be able to ask for a refund.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Do I strike you as someone who’d bother asking for a refund?”
“Well, maybe not a refund, but you could give it to someone else.”
He tut-tuts.
“Who’s Genevieve?” I blurt out.
Raphael blinks, surprised by my question.
“Your brother asked you about her when I was hiding in the closet,” I explain.
“I see.”
“So?”
“I’ll tell you if you open the perfume and tell me in all honesty if you like it.”
I glare at him and remove the plastic wrapper from the box. Opening the beautiful bottle, I spray a bit of its contents onto my wrist. Then I lift my wrist to my nose and sniff.
Mmm.
“You like it!” Raphael sounds triumphant. “Don’t even try to deny it—I can see it on your face.”
“I love it,” I admit.
He gives me a smile that’s so adorably proud I can’t help smiling back.
After a few moments of grinning at each other like idiots, I set the perfume on the side table and fold my arms across my chest. “So who’s Genevieve?”
“My oldest friend.”
“With benefits?”
“No, it isn’t like that between us. Just friendship.”
“Do you fancy her?”
“No.”
“Does she fancy you?”
“As I said, it isn’t like that. I don’t think I’m her type, anyway.” He gives me a small shrug. “What’s relevant here is that she’s an heiress to one of France’s richest families, so my money isn’t what attracts her to me.”
I smirk. “Because it’s your money that draws women to you.”
“That and the looks.” He gives me a Mr. Bean-like eyebrow wiggle that cracks me up. “Certainly not my good husband potential.”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot,” I say. “You’ll never marry.”
“What’s wrong with that?” He counts on his fingers. “The world is overpopulated, babies are a pain, and the future of the d’Arcy line is secured now that Seb found his match. Why on earth would I want to get yoked?”