by Zondervan
“Blake!” I cry out. “Are you okay?”
“Erin?” he says sleepily.
“Yes. I’m in Paris.”
“In Paris?”
“Yes. Remember?”
“Where in Paris?”
I can’t help smiling. It’s so like Blake to ask something like this. “Right next to the Eiffel Tower.”
“Is it really big?”
“Yes. But enough about me. How are you?”
“I’m actually feeling pretty groovy. Or maybe it’s these drugs. Man, did I have some hallucinations last night. You didn’t pop in to visit me here, did you?”
I laugh. “Maybe in your dreams.”
“Uh-huh…maybe so.”
“But, really, how are you doing? It sounded pretty serious when I talked to your mom yesterday.”
“Was that yesterday?”
“Yeah. You were in surgery just as we were leaving for Paris.”
“Oh, right.”
“But you’re okay?”
“Okey dokey.”
“You sound pretty sleepy,” I tell him. “Maybe I should let you get some rest.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda drugged up right now.”
“Just call me back when you’re more together, okay? Outgoing calls are pretty expensive here in France.”
“You’re in France?”
I have to laugh. “Yes, I’m in France. Paris, France.”
“By the Eiffel Tower,” he says slowly.
“Yes, Blake. By the Eiffel Tower.”
“Blow me a kiss.”
I giggle then blow a kiss. “There,” I tell him. “Did you get that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I really should go. Call me later, okay?”
“Uh-huh…and you know, Erin…I love you.”
“Oh…” I consider my response. The poor guy has just been through an ordeal, he’s drugged up and has probably been in a lot of pain. What can it hurt? He probably won’t even remember it. “I love you too, Blake. Now get some rest. Au revoir, cheri.” I hang up.
Okay, I feel a bit uncomfortable telling him that I love him. It’s not like it’s untrue. I love him like I love my sister or Mollie. Or maybe it’s even something more. But I don’t need to think about that right now. I check messages and see that Mollie texted me, promising to visit Blake and to give me an update later today. Then it’s time to get back into the car.
“Are you girls too sleepy to enjoy going out for dinner tonight?” Fran asks as the driver navigates through the heavy traffic.
“I’m starting to feel kind of spacey,” I admit. “Like maybe I should get some rest.” I tell them about my crazy conversation with Blake. “At least he’s alive,” I say finally. “But he sounded pretty weird…kind of like how I’m feeling now. Kind of like I’m sleepwalking.”
“Me too,” Paige says. “As much as I’d love to see the nightlife of the city, I think I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Fran looks relieved. “Great. Then we’ll just order room service tonight and we’ll all be fresh for tomorrow’s show.”
“What’s on the docket for tomorrow?” I ask sleepily.
“We were going to do Vogue first thing, but they’ve rescheduled us for Friday. Now the first thing we have is Hermès at eleven. Let’s meet in the lobby at nine thirty to go over the plan.”
“Hermès!” Paige sighs happily. “I want to be in top form tomorrow.”
“Hoping they’ll make a special Paige bag?” I tease.
“They usually use the last name,” she says in all seriousness. “So it would be the Forrester bag. And that way you could pretend it’s for you as well, little sister.”
Fran laughs. “Don’t hold your breath on that one, Paige.”
Just as we arrive at the hotel, Paige’s phone rings and I can tell it’s Mom. As Fran and I unload the car, Paige gives Mom a quick update then hands her phone over to me so I can say hello and assure her that all is well here in Paris. Then all three of us haul Paige’s shopping bags and the wardrobe items that Fran brought to the salon up the elevator and to our rooms.
By the time I close and lock my door, I am so tired I can’t even see clearly enough to read the menu—and, oh yeah, it’s in French. I honestly don’t think I can stay awake long enough to wait for room service anyway. I just take a shower, then fall into bed, exhausted.
It’s dark when I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing, and it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am as I roll over to grab my phone and, without bothering to check the caller ID, I answer. The clock by the bed says 5:33. “Hello?” I mumble into the phone.
“Erin?”
“Blake?”
“That didn’t sound like you. Are you okay?”
“It’s me.” I sit up in bed. “Just sleepy.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Uh…yeah. It’s like five-something in the morning here.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about that. It’s about eight thirty here.”
“At night?” I’m still trying to get my bearings.
“Yeah. Maybe I should call back later.”
“No, no,” I tell him as I get out of bed and turn on the light. “I’m awake now.”
“Thanks to me.” He sounds glum.
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Now, tell me, how are you doing? How did the surgery go? Are you still in the hospital? Still drugged up? I want the full update.”
“I’m actually feeling okay. And, no, I’m not drugged up. The surgery went really well, considering.”
“Considering?”
“You know, that my appendix had ruptured. I guess that can get pretty nasty. But the doctor said the prognosis is really good. No infection. No complications. And the best news is that I get to go home tomorrow.”
“Wow, that is great. I was really worried, Blake. Fran told me about someone who died from a ruptured appendix and I was starting to freak. So I just really started praying for you.” I tell him about the cathedral yesterday and how it was a cool place to pray.
“Thanks. I think I could feel those prayers.”
“Did Mollie come see you?” I realize that I forgot to check for messages before I crashed last night.
“She did. She told me about Tony and her breaking up. Poor Moll.”
“Yeah. She was pretty bummed.”
“Benjamin even came by.”
“That was nice.”
“Yeah…except one of the nurses started acting all starstruck and kept making excuses to come into my room just to gape at him.”
I laugh. “I suppose she’s giving you special treatment now.”
“I guess.”
“Is she pretty?” I ask in a teasing tone.
“Not as pretty as you.”
I reach up and touch my recently cropped hair. “You might be surprised if you saw me now.”
“Huh?”
“I got my hair chopped off.”
“Chopped off?” He sounds worried.
“Paige and I both got makeovers yesterday. Her hair is cut like Grace Kelly’s, kind of like in the To Catch a Thief film. Mine is like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Funny, huh?”
“I’ll bet you girls look great.”
I tell him about the photo shoot and how I was kind of forced into it. “But it turned out to be fun. I just hope it doesn’t become a regular thing.”
“I can’t wait to see that episode.”
We talk awhile longer and then Blake informs me that he’s getting his evening check-up and meds and that he’d better go. We say good-bye and after I hang up I’m wide awake and know it’ll be useless to go back to bed now. I open the drapes and look out on the predawn avenue below. All is quiet and peaceful and the street lights are still on. There’s a small terrace outside the windows with a pair of wrought iron chairs, so I wrap a blanket around me like a shawl, grab my little travel-size Bible, and go outside to sit and read…and to contemplate and pray.
The sun begins to come up and I look out
over the buildings, watching as the sunlight begins to wash them with golden color. Slowly, like a waking giant, the city comes to life. People and cars begin moving down below and I can smell bread baking somewhere, and suddenly my stomach is rumbling and all I can think of is FOOD. And since this is Paris, I know that there is food—glorious food—to be found.
Chapter 8
“I hope no one is offended by my outfit,” Paige says as we’re riding over to Hermès Paris. It’s just Paige and me in the back of the town car because Fran decided to leave early in order to have an impromptu meeting with the crew.
“You look great,” I assure her. “Why would anyone be offended?”
“Because I’m wearing Chanel.” She whispers the designer name as if this is scandalous as she smoothes the front of her tailored pink jacket. The buttons, collar, and cuffs are trimmed in chocolate brown suede and the overall look is very Grace Kelly-like. It goes well with Paige’s new hairstyle.
“Really, Paige,” I tell her. “You look fantastic. I even saw heads turn when you walked through the hotel lobby. And this is Paris.”
“Well, I wanted to wear Hermès today, but this jacket goes so perfectly with my Kelly bag. Besides, the only Hermès pieces I own, well, besides this bag and these delicious boots”—she extends a brown leather-clad leg—“don’t feel very spring-like to me.”
“Well, you look fabulous,” I tell her. “I’m really liking your hair. I’m sure the Hermès people will be suitably impressed.” I laugh. “And if they don’t like your outfit, I’m sure they’ll be happy to share some of their own designs with you.”
She smiles and nods. “Exactly what I’m hoping.”
As it turns out, I think not only are they suitably impressed with Paige, but actually quite taken with her. In fact, our main guide, Gabin, a young designer who’s also part of the Hermès family, appears to be totally smitten with my sister. Although his English is rather stilted, he does his best to keep the communication between them going as he leads us through their design studios and show rooms.
Fortunately I’m back to playing camera girl today so I’m free to simply shoot and observe—no pressure to perform. As usual, I’m slightly awed by my sister’s wit and charm—not to mention her French, which seems to be improving. Even though our show is in English, she manages to keep things rolling by using her French in those moments when the language barrier threatens to slow the momentum. All in all it seems to be working.
At the end of the tour and while the film crew is packing it up and getting ready to head off to our next location, we’re presented with parting gifts, including scarves and several new items of clothing, which Paige promises to wear for our show. Then to my surprise, Gabin leads me to the handbag showroom and tells me to pick out my very own Kelly bag. After carefully looking them all over, I decide on basic black. Boring perhaps, but I like it.
“Choice excellent!” he tells me, and I feel pleased by his praise.
“My sister is conservative about fashion,” Paige explains to him as she holds up her own Kelly bag. “She would never carry a pink bag. Trop rose. Trop tape-à-l’oeil.” She and Gabin laugh and I can tell that whatever she said was probably not complimentary to me. I try not to overreact. So I’m not Paige. Who cares?
“Ah, yes, but classique ees good for Erin.” He nods to me. “She ees like French women…a sense of style that ees timeless, no?”
Paige nods. “Oui. Erin resists change.”
Okay, I’m not sure where she’s going exactly, but I’ll pretend that it’s a compliment.
“Such pretty sisters you are.” He folds his arms in front of him, almost as if to hint that the interview is winding down. And, really, it’s time to go.
“Merci beaucoup, Gabin.” I smile as I hold my Kelly bag and move toward the door.
“Mon pleasure.”
Paige thanks him again and then, almost as if she wants to prolong our visit, she goes into a spiel about how our producer will send Hermès a DVD of the final show as well as information about when it will air and who to contact for purposes of advertising.
He thanks her again, saying something I don’t quite understand, which Paige quietly translates for me. “He says you and I are the best form of advertisement they could hope for.”
“Maybe they’d like us to advertise their Birkin bag too,” I say teasingly to Paige since I have a feeling that’s why she’s stalling. She probably hopes that she’ll score another bag. But I think it’s time to go.
Out of the blue, Gabin puts his hand on my arm. “You like zee Birkin bag, Erin?” he asks quietly with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh…uh, oui, of course.” Not wanting to insult him or the handbag in question, I feign much enthusiasm. “Oui. C’est très chic.”
“Un moment, s’il vous plait.” He hurries off.
“What’s going on?” I ask Paige.
She looks slightly stunned. “I’m not sure, I think he might be getting you a Birkin bag.”
“Me?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
But when Gabin returns he holds out what appears to be a Birkin bag and, like the Kelly bag I selected, it’s also black. “Would you like…uh, how do you say, faire du commerce? You exchange the Kelly bag for these one?” He holds the larger bag toward me with an enticing grin.
I’m uncertain. “You want to trade bags with me?” Now I don’t know a lot about these Birkin bags, but I know there’s a waiting list and that they do not come cheap. I vaguely wonder if this might be a second or factory flawed, although I doubt that Hermès’ high standards would allow such a thing.
“Oui!” He dangles the bag in front of me as if it’s bait. “You like?”
I actually do prefer the oversized Birkin bag to the Kelly. I think it’s more my style and it will obviously hold more stuff. “Oui!” I eagerly give him the Kelly bag and he places the precious Birkin in my hands then laughs as if this is a great little joke between the two of us. All the while I can feel Paige watching me and as I thank Gabin in French, I wonder how she will take this.
He winks at me. “Vous êtes les intelligent.”
Now, I’m not quite sure what that meant, although I think he’s saying I am smart, which is very sweet. I thank him again and Paige politely but tersely announces it’s time to go. Holding my new bag, I follow Paige down a hall and we spot Fran in the lobby finishing up with one of the execs. She waves to us as if she’d like to say something, but, ignoring Fran, Paige walks right past her and quickly exits the building.
“What’s wrong with her?” Fran asks me as we leave the building together.
I hold up the Birkin bag as an explanation.
“No way.” Fran eyes the bag. “Gabin gave you girls Birkin bags? Do you know how much those bags are worth? There’s a waiting list and—”
“He didn’t give Paige one,” I say quietly as I spy Paige sitting in the back of our car with her head turned away.
“What?” Fran looks skeptical.
“I’m the only one who scored a Birkin bag.”
“Uh-oh…” Fran peers over at the car. “Is Paige absolutely livid?”
I take in a deep breath. “I’m not sure, but it’s a distinct possibility. Do you think I should give her my bag?”
“No way.” Fran shakes her head. “Gabin gave it to you, Erin. It’s yours. Keep it. And be sure to use it on the show a time or two for the sake of Hermès.”
“What about Paige?”
“Tell her to put on her big girl pants and get over herself.” Fran walks toward the car. “If the shoe was on the other foot, you wouldn’t complain.”
“But I’m not Paige,” I say as she reaches for the car door.
“Let it go, Erin.”
We get in the car and Paige sits very quietly. Fran breaks the silence by asking if we have a preference for lunch and Paige says she doesn’t care.
“How about you, Erin?” Fran persists. “We have about an hour or so before we need to return to the hotel fo
r a wardrobe change. What do you feel like eating?”
“It’s not possible to get bad food in Paris, is it?” I ask in an overly bright tone. “Anywhere you pick is probably great.”
Fran tells the driver where to take us and we just sit there silently in the backseat. Paige is looking out the window on her side. Fran sits in the middle checking phone messages. I am looking out the window on my side and wondering what to do. Part of me feels guilty and I’m seriously considering simply giving Paige the silly Birkin bag. But another part of me feels irritated. Fran is right. If the tables were turned, Paige wouldn’t dream of handing over the bag to me. And that just makes this whole thing feel unfair.
Suddenly I’m reminded of other times when, as little girls, I would get something nice for my birthday or Christmas or whatever, something that Paige really liked and wanted. As a result, she sometimes made such a fuss that I would hand my prize over to her just to make peace. My payment for my generosity was that Paige would act like my “friend” for a few hours or maybe even a whole day. Then she quickly returned to being my bossy big sister again. Often I would regret giving in to her.
So as an act of stubborn defiance or French liberation, I take the petite key that’s looped over a handle and unlock the tiny padlock on the front of the bag. It’s so well made that it resembles fine jewelry. I remove the contents of my backpack (the very pack that Paige often complains about) and carefully load these items into the lovely Birkin bag, which is large enough to hold everything! I can’t help admiring the perfect workmanship, the leather lining, the pockets, the hardware, and just everything about it. It even smells good.
“Okay, girls,” Fran announces as we get out of the car. “Café de Flore is one of my favorite restaurants in Saint-Germain and I don’t want you two having a catfight once we’re seated. I’ll go see if I can get us a table, and you settle your differences before you join me.” She walks off.
“What is she talking about?” Paige asks innocently.
“I’m not sure,” I say lightly. “I’m feeling perfectly fine.”