by Gary Dickson
It was late when they returned to the apartment, and when Desirée came to bed, Scott pretended to be asleep. He loved teasing her, particularly in their lovemaking. He knew from their dancing and the ride back in the limousine, where they had been enthusiastically entwined, that she had certain sexual expectations for the night. Quiet, she seemed to be listening to his breathing—was Scott indeed asleep? It took all his will power to remain still. Desirée sighed, turned off her light, and moved around a little, attempting to find a comfortable position, adjusting the pillow over and again. Inwardly, he laughed; she was obviously trying to wake him. Finally, Desirée gave up and turned her back. Underneath the sheet, his arm crept across the bed and encircled her waist. Gently but powerfully, he pulled her on top of him. Delighted, she laughed and wriggled against him.
“Oh, ho, my little pretender,” she cooed. “That was mean to make me think you weren’t interested.”
“Want me to stop?”
She didn’t answer.
“DARLING, LET’S GO BUY A NEW TUXEDO.”
These were not the first words Scott had expected to hear that morning. He cast a sleepy eye in Desirée’s direction and asked, “You don’t like mine?”
“No, I like yours, but you really need two. One to wear, and the other at the cleaners,” she said.
That very morning, they went to Lanvin. Located in the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Paris’ most fashionable shopping street, the couture shop was a bastion of style, particularly for men and women of refined and conservative taste, its fabrics, sewing, and styles quintessential French.
Under normal circumstances, Desirée explained, Scott should have a bespoke tuxedo—handmade, tailored exactly to his specifications. But they would see what was available.
Desirée instructed the clerk, precisely defining the style of tuxedo Scott required. Several beautiful suits were brought out, all the finest wool gabardine or crepe, with silk satin lapels, their cuts designed to render a man’s silhouette slim and svelte. Measuring the young American, the clerk recommended a size 52 to accommodate Scott’s height and breadth of shoulders and chest. Selecting a suit, he stepped into the curtained fitting room and slipped it on. Even off the rack, the tuxedo fit him perfectly. The differences between this and the well-worn garment currently at the cleaners was the difference between, well, tourist and first class. Standing a bit taller, Scott walked to the mirror. The clerk immediately made a few adjustments, marking the hem, while Desirée watched, an approving smile playing about her face.
“Very nice,” she said. “This one will be fine. Can you deliver it this afternoon?”
Desirée disappeared for a few hours after lunch, going to the coiffeur and having her makeup perfected for the ballet ball. Scott took a walk, enjoying time in the city he’d grown to love. Funnily enough, he found himself at the George V; had it only been six months ago when he’d first arrived in Europe, already besotted with Desirée? Inwardly, he chuckled—he’d been right to wonder if she were nearby then; her Avenue Fochs apartment was only a few blocks away. How far he had come from those first days in Paris.
Back at the apartment, Scott dragged out his books. With Desirée occupied elsewhere, it was a good time to play catch-up with his source document assignments. With a grimace, he contemplated his choices; should he begin with NATO’s establishment at the end of WWII, the disastrous failure of diplomacy leading up to WWI, or the Third Reich’s non-aggression treaty with the Soviet Union? Scott groaned. They all seemed a little dry. To think: he had been excited about history and blow-by-blow analysis on the origin and mechanics of these treaties and agreements. Oh, how his enthusiasm had waned.
THAT EVENING, SCOTT DRESSED IN HIS NEW TUXEDO. HE MADE quite a handsome figure as he entered the salon for a drink. Desirée was still getting ready; he’d left, knowing she needed those moments alone while slipping into her dress, selecting jewelry, and checking (and rechecking) her appearance before making a grand entrance. As he sipped his scotch, he admitted that he liked it this way. Seeing her again for the first time was always a pleasure. She always surprised.
Desirée came through the salon’s large double doors on a cloud of white silk and taffeta. Scott drank in the sight of her. There was the dress—sleeveless; a sheath for the skirt; its bodice gathered to a high collar, accentuating the length and grace of her neck—and matching silk stole, trimmed in white fox with a revealing slit from clasp to cleavage. Desirée’s hair was pulled to a new golden height; her accessories (custom evening heels in white silk, emerald and diamond earrings, a matched bracelet of alternating rows of green and ice stones) perfection. Scott felt all breath leave his body. His heart pounded in his chest like a sledgehammer, and any words would be inadequate. He tried anyway, telling Desirée how beautiful she was and asking her to turn several times so he could appreciate all sides. She seemed to enjoy his attention to the smallest detail of her appearance.
Gustav guided the Mercedes to the drop-off point in front of the Paris opera, or more precisely, Le Palais Garnier. The Beaux Arts masterpiece was ablaze with lights; the confluence of limousines, gathering throng of ladies in their finery, escorts turned-out in black tie, and uniformed valets assisting the arriving patrons created a scene of pandemonium.
As Desirée was assisted from the car, Scott heard the screams: “It’s the Countess de Rovere. Over here, the Countess de Rovere just arrived.” Gawkers and autograph seekers along with a sizable contingent of paparazzi pressed toward the car. There was pushing and shoving, but Gustav broke through the sea of people, Scott and Desirée were propelled up some thirty steps by their tireless pursuers. Once in the grand hall, they took refuge from the flashbulbs and reporters’ shouted questions.
Scott was flustered—it was the first time he’d experienced that kind of unwelcome attention—but Desirée smiled, unruffled. As if nothing had transpired, she immediately engaged her friends and acquaintances, introducing Scott and making idle conversation in a most agreeable manner.
As she chatted, Scott admired the interior of the building. Dramatically, the grand entrance and vestibule were constructed like a theater; the milling patrons becoming the performers. Cascading giant staircases, Italian pink marble, frescoes, a huge chandelier, red carpeting, gilded columns and other accoutrements set the scene.
Paris was Desirée’s milieu. Here, she was even more in demand than in the small societies of Geneva and Gstaad. Here, there were more people to know—and the Countess de Rovere knew them all. Scott was overwhelmed; he couldn’t possibly keep up with the steady flow of introductions and endless inquiries. He silently thanked Desirée for the gradual introduction she’d provided him, realizing how intentional she’d been in her selection of their first social events. Taking a deep breath, Scott reminded himself that he was practiced at this situation and got a grip.
From time to time, Scott would catch Desirée’s eye, and they would exchange a knowing glance. Ah—he was pleasing her. Nothing gave him more satisfaction than knowing she wanted him. Among Paris’ most celebrated citizens, however, Scott couldn’t help feeling out of place, even with Desirée’s encouragement. Beyond his good looks and conversational wit, and her happiness in the bedroom, what was the attraction? What did Desirée see in him? Dare he ask?
As Scott and Desirée made their way toward their seats, the president of the opera came over to make his obligatory call on Desirée before the start of the performance. He oozed all the charm and magnanimity one would expect from someone in his position.
“My dear countess, you are simply dazzling.” It was as though Scott were invisible. “I must apologize for those disagreeable people when you arrived.”
Desirée laughed lightly. “Cher, it was fun. Now I know how Mozart must have felt when he arrived at the Staatsoper in Vienna.”
Soon the lights dimmed twice, signaling that the first act of Le Nozze de Figaro was to begin. An usher in period costume escorted Desirée and Scott to a box overlooking the stage on the mezzanine level
. As they were seated, Scott noticed Desirée nodding her head to various persons in the orchestra below.
As crafty Figaro sang, the audience’s attention was impressive. These were serious opera buffs. Many of them, including Desirée, understood the lyrics, not just the music and story. After the performance, this group would discuss the merits of each singer in great detail—notes hit and missed, tempo (troppo veloce, troppo lento), and comparisons to previous performers—at a reception at the American Embassy for the patron’s committee. As he absorbed the soaring music and timeless story, it occurred to Scott that he’d underestimated Desirée’s “not doing anything.” He had a lot to learn—and not just about opera.
BY MID-MORNING THE NEXT DAY, DESIRÉE WAS OFF TO SEE her lawyers and accountants. Scott called his friends, Andre and Leon, to arrange lunch at their usual spot on the Champs-Élysées. He’d done so over Desirée’s cautions; she’d recognized Andre’s name as a major writer for Le Figaro and expressed her distrust of newspaper people. They were, she noted, notoriously indiscreet. Given how the tabloids—and sometimes, the legitimate press—constantly reviewed their romance, her warning wasn’t necessary. Scott understood. Her separation had received a lot of scrutiny, but after a time, and following the annulment, the coverage had faded away. Scott’s appearance on her arm had reignited and fanned the flame of curiosity and sensationalism regarding tales of the Countess de Rovere. Still, Andre and Leon were friends, so he headed off to lunch.
At one o’clock, when Scott walked into Époque, Andre and Leon were there, sitting almost in the same positions as they had back in September. There were embraces and some hearty backslapping and the friendly banter of seeing someone after a lengthy time apart. To commemorate their reunion, Andre insisted on ordering a bottle of champagne. What else?
“My dear Scott, we’ve been wondering about you. When you didn’t come back to Paris, we thought about you at your school in Geneva. And then I was reading my own paper one Monday morning after the New Year, when I saw a photo with the caption, ‘Who is the young man with the Countess de Rovere?’” Andre threw his hands up in that typical French expression of disbelief. “Can you imagine my reaction? I said to myself, I know that young man.”
“I know it was probably a shock,” Scott said, blushing.
“No. Shock? No—I felt responsible. Moi. If you want to improve your French, I said, get a French lover. But a countess,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment. “I didn’t say she had to be a countess.”
Andre and Leon leaned toward Scott; he could tell they were eager to hear the whole story (how they met, their status—the inside scoop, in newspaper terms), but he couldn’t do that to Desirée, no matter how friendly and playful his friends were in asking. He couldn’t be the source of any information regarding the countess’s private life. The known basics would have to suffice.
“The Countess de Rovere and I were introduced by a mutual friend,” he told them. “She is charming and has been helpful in introducing me to people in Geneva. She’s a dear friend.”
Andre and Leon exchanged exasperated glances. “Of course, Scott. I think—and I’m sure Leon would agree,” at this, Leon nodded vigorously, anticipating where Andre was leading the conversation—“that there is more to this ‘friendship’ than you are telling. Naturally, it is your business, and we must respect that.” He paused, rearranging the food on his plate slightly before fixing Scott with a pointed look. “But we are curious. And, it appears, we are not alone. Leon and I brought you today’s newspapers. Photos of you and the countess dominate the society pages and speculation about your attendance at the opera last night is the topic.”
Scott glanced at the proffered papers. He and Desirée had given them a look that morning, and the crush of the crowd and flash of cameras had all come back to him. He pushed them back toward Andre and replied wearily, “I know—they follow us everywhere we go. Frankly, I can’t understand the attraction. Why don’t they fixate on Brigitte Bardot and Gunther Sachs, or Liz and Richard?”
“They’re news all right,” Leon said, “but your story has overtones of The Prince and the Showgirl.” He quickly corrected: “Roles reversed, that is.”
Scott cringed. “I’m not sure I like the analogy,” he replied gruffly. Leon’s comment stung. Though, he thought wryly, there were worse things than being cast as the Marilyn Monroe equivalent in an intriguing romance with European royalty.
Andre patted him on the hand and shot Leon a critical glance. Clearly the plan was not to antagonize Scott. “The paparazzi are not interested in pleasing you,” Andre explained. “It’s the romance—they’re only interested in whether they can tantalize their readers with a fantasy.” Leon added, “Just enjoy the attention while you can.”
Easy for you to say, Scott thought bitterly. It wasn’t fun being the brunt of jokes and innuendo, feeling as though you don’t belong. Being viewed as nothing more than a handsome bangle for a wealthy woman. Everyone seemed to want a piece of him, the fantasy of his life, but no one wanted to know him. Scott’s connection to Desirée—her lifestyle and social status—could possibly change many of Scott’s existing relationships, most importantly the one with his parents. Some of these people would never adjust to this rarefied world and his role within its orbit; he had some lingering doubts himself. Could he eventually acclimate? And even then, would this social set allow for his friends and family? Desirée was his ticket in, but Scott feared it was a ticket that could be punched but once.
In parting, Andre and Leon pretended all was well, but no one was fooled by the platitudes exchanged among the three. Scott’s reticence to reveal any real details regarding Desirée had changed the friendship; the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed last September was gone, along with the society pages Scott had tossed in the waste bin.
Scott left in a state of gloom. He’d be reluctant to call them again, even if his relationship with Desirée didn’t work out—no, he thought with a start, particularly if it didn’t work out. For the first time, Scott felt like a roulette player who had placed all his chips, his life’s savings, on one number. The realization was like a punch in the gut.
He took a long walk, attempting to clear his head and banish his bleak mood. Down the Avenue Montaigne, up the rue George V, and then retracing his steps on the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe and Avenue Foch. By the time he reached the apartment, Desirée had returned from her meeting and was on the phone in the bedroom. He went to the salon to wait. She found him shortly; one look at his face and she frowned, concern crossing her lovely face.
“You don’t look very happy, my darling. How was lunch?” she asked.
“It was fine. We had a good time.”
“Scott, you are not a very good fibber,” she sighed. “Something happened with your friends. Now, either you told them all about us and you have a bad conscience, or you told them so little that they were hurt and angry. Which is it?”
Was he that transparent? Desirée’s intuition continued to amaze Scott. “You know me so well,” he said, pulling her onto his lap. “I didn’t tell them anything. They were more interested in how we’re tracked by photographers than in anything about life. They’d even brought all the newspapers showing us at the opera last night.” He breathed in the scent of her hair and hid his face.
“You must learn to enjoy it or ignore it,” she said gently.
He sighed. “That’s the same thing they said.”
“They may be better friends than you think.” Pausing, she looked at him carefully. “My darling, life is about choices. You must learn that the choices you make will not always result in your happiness or the happiness of others. But you must always be true to yourself. Never betray your principles,” she said.
“You’re right,” he replied. “You’re always right.” Scott felt like a child. In some ways, it was very difficult being with someone so wise. All his life, people had told Scott how smart he was. He’d aced exams left and right, never making many mistakes: �
��Lucky Scott.” And he was lucky—lucky to be in love with someone so astute and so practical but who still lived life with passion. Oh, he could learn a lot from her. Hell, he already had. Now he just had to wait and see where the little pea in this game of roulette would come to rest.
FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, DESIRÉE FLITTED FROM ONE PARIsian fashion house to the next—Dior, Lanvin, Balenciaga, and Givenchy. Her choices had already been set aside; now came the final fittings, followed by matching all the accessories (shoes, handbags, and hats). Scott accompanied her on the first day, and he marveled at the stage production involved in every session. Each alteration was pinned in position to ensure the fit would be correct, the seamstresses precise and gentle in their movements. Turning Desirée this way and that before the three-way mirror, applying a fold here, a chalk mark and pin there, admiring her, reassuring her. They were a ballet of women in gray and white uniforms and Desirée, their prima ballerina, her perfect fit a fait accompli.
SCOTT TOOK A TAXI TO THE SORBONNE. DESIRÉE HAD DECIDED to visit Celine, and Scott had always wanted to see the university’s beautiful library, home of one of the world’s most monumental collection of books. Scott’s motives, however, were not purely scholarly. He entered the grand hall and sought out the reference books for something particular: a volume that could detail qualifications needed for couples who wished to marry in the Catholic Church—couples in which one is not Catholic. Before their relationship progressed further, he wanted to understand where he stood in respect to Desirée and her church. And her family: while Desirée might not be overly devout, her mother surely was. If they were ever to marry, Madame de Bellecourt’s interests must be served.
Wandering through the labyrinth of bookcases, Scott turned down one of the narrow aisles. Suddenly, a large man wearing dark glasses and a neck scarf that partially covered his face blocked his way.