Rendezvous

by Zondervan

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come a—”

  “Not on your life! But don’t stay out too late. We had to squeeze an extra designer into tomorrow’s schedule. It’s going to be a full day.”

  I promise to be ready for it, then hang up my phone and head for the elevator. I’m not sure whether to consider this a date or a business dinner—most likely the latter. Whatever the case, at least I’ll have time to explain about my request for a Birkin bag now. Hopefully he’ll understand. I’m about to go into my room when I wonder if Paige might like to come along. I tap quietly on her door and she answers in her bathrobe. I quickly explain my unexpected dinner plans.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. I was just about to call him about the bag and he called me.”

  “He called you?” She pulls me into her room. “Why did he call you?”

  “Apparently to invite me to dinner.”

  She chuckles. “You know, I could tell he was into you. The whole time I was—”

  “No way,” I interrupt. “I thought he was into you. He seemed so interested and—”

  “I caught him sneaking glances at you, Erin. You were oblivious because you were so busy filming. Now that I think about it, it all makes sense. He gave you that bag because he likes you.”

  I sink down to her bed. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “Well, maybe I should’ve said no to dinner. I mean, if he likes me and he gives me an expensive gift then takes me to dinner and—”

  “I didn’t mean to make it sound like that, Erin. Gabin seemed like a sweet guy. You should go out with him.”

  “But I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.” I look up at her. “Do you want to come with us?”

  She laughs. “No way. I am not going to be a fifth wheel.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a third wheel?”

  “Whatever. I’m not going.” She holds up her hands. “Look at me. The only place I’m going tonight is bed.” She goes over to her closet, which is actually about three times bigger than mine, and begins digging. “We need to dress you up, Erin. Something fun and French.”

  “But I—”

  “No buts.”

  So I give in to my personal stylist yet again, thinking at least she’s not mad at me anymore. I didn’t even have to give her my Birkin bag. As she helps me with wardrobe, makeup, and hair, I tell her about talking to Blake and how he’s going to get together with Benjamin and how he’ll try to encourage him and keep us updated.

  “Dear old Blake,” she says as she holds up some dangly earrings, then shakes her head.

  “I just hope dear old Blake won’t be upset to find out I’m dining with a Frenchman tonight.”

  “You don’t have to tell him, Erin.” She holds up some smaller pearl stud earrings and nods her approval. “Here. Wear these.”

  Finally, a few minutes before seven, I’m ready. “Thanks, Paige. I’m sure Gabin will appreciate it too.”

  She smiles. “And hopefully he won’t mind that you’re canceling that order. You can always tell him that I’ll get back to him on it after I have time to think about it.”

  “What color bag would you want if you ordered one?” I venture. Okay, I know it would be crass to try to get Gabin to take my bag back in exchange for another. I mean, I’ve already used it.

  “A soft dove gray might be nice,” she says. “Or a light taupe. Something neutral but classic is always a good choice.”

  I nod. “I can imagine that. So you wouldn’t go with pink then?”

  “Hey, what can I say?” She makes a goofy smile as she picks up her pink Kelly bag. “I happen to like pink. I’m just a pink sort of girl. For me pink is a neutral. A pale pink Birkin would be heavenly.”

  I hold up my big black bag. “Vive la difference!” As I’m leaving I can’t help seeing what looks like a small trace of envy—or maybe it’s longing—in Paige’s eyes. I go down to the lobby and think how strange it is that I’m the one dressed to the nines, carrying the prize purse, and meeting the Parisian designer for dinner tonight. I’d call Mollie and tell her all about it, only I’m sure it would make her feel envious too.

  Even Blake wouldn’t be too thrilled to hear about this. Finally, with a few minutes to spare, I call Mom. She’s excited to hear the story, and although she gives me motherly advice about my date, she ends by telling me to “Just have fun!” And that, I decide, is exactly what I plan to do.

  Chapter 10

  Thanks to our language differences, my dinner date with Gabin starts out a little awkwardly. But as he drives us through the city in a very cool red Peugeot convertible, it seems like we both decide to relax and feel free to make mistakes. It’s a good opportunity for him to practice his English and I practice my French—although it turns into something that sounds more like French-glish. Somehow we manage to understand each other.

  After he orders our dinners, which I beg him to do for me, I tell him about film school and about how my father had been a news anchor and how my mom’s a news producer. I even tell him about Blake and I actually use the B word (boyfriend), which I know is an exaggeration, but it’s my way of letting Gabin know I’m not available. Not that he’s asking for my hand in marriage or anything. I guess I’m just old-fashioned about things like this.

  Gabin, who I learn is twenty-four (a bit older than I thought), tells me about design school, and his family (including numerous step-siblings, step-moms, and step-dads) and how they are connected with the Hermès business. Finally, as we’re having a dessert of mille-feuilles, which are what we’d call Napoleons, he tells me about how he got his heart broken by a woman named Bernice about a year ago. He even confesses that I’m the first girl he’s gone out with since Bernice. I’m not sure whether to feel honored or nervous. I hope I haven’t sent any wrong signals—like accepting expensive gifts, although designers are always generous with Paige and me, since it’s a form of advertising. Besides, I think I have an innate sense about Gabin. I can tell he’s a sincere and decent young man.

  And despite our language barrier, I have a feeling that he and I could become good friends, especially if we lived in the same part of the world. After we finish our meal, he asks what I’d like to do and I admit that I’d like to do all the silly tourist things—like driving down the Champs-Elysées, admiring the fountains and lights, or even walking along the River Seine.

  “Like they do in the movies,” I tell him. “Is that silly?”

  He grins. “Not silly. Ravissant!”

  So that’s what we do. And he’s right. The reflection of the lights on the rain-dampened avenue, and the illuminated fountains, even the cars moving slowly about the Champs-Élysées with only their parking lights on…it’s such a lovely scene—it is ravissant, or charming. And although I hate to end this magical evening, I know that Paige and I have a full day tomorrow. I thank Gabin and tell him that I should call it a night.

  “Perhaps another time,” he says as he drives me to the hotel, “we can do more tourist sightseeing.”

  I tell him in French I’d like that. Then, when we’re just minutes from the hotel, I suddenly remember about Paige’s Birkin bag. I attempt to graciously ask if I can cancel that order. He laughs and says “no problem,” and I sigh in relief.

  “She did not want a Birkin bag?” he asks as he parks in front of the hotel.

  I shake my head and pat my own bag. “Non. She wanted a Birkin bag. It’s just that I didn’t realize they were so expensive. I had no idea.”

  He smiles. “But they are nice, no?”

  “Très agréable. And someday Paige will order one for herself.”

  “I wonder…what color your soeur would like?”

  I laugh. “Rose.”

  Now he laughs. “Ah, yes. Rose. But of course.”

  We get out of the car and once again I thank him for a lovely evening. He takes my hand in his, looking directly into my eyes. “May I call on you again, Erin?”

  I feel unsure; does �
�call on me” signify a date? Because I did want to go sightseeing again. But a date…well, I don’t know. To confuse me even more, I think about Blake. Yet at the same time I wonder why shouldn’t I see Gabin again? Despite using the B word, it’s not like I’m in an exclusive relationship with anyone. Not Blake or Lionel. What could it hurt? Gabin is a sweet guy. And so I agree, trying to explain in my broken French-glish that I’m not looking for a serious relationship of any kind. I also remind him of my age—although I don’t really feel that much younger than him. Fortunately, he seems fine with my conditions. He simply kisses my hand and says, “Bonsoir!”

  As I go into the hotel, I understand how a young woman could get the impression that Paris is a romantic place. Not that I’m falling in love with Gabin—I certainly am not. But I could be falling in love with Paris!

  The next day is scheduled tight and, as Fran likes to say, we hit the streets running. It’s Christian Dior at ten. Pierre Cardin studio at one. And finally, one of Paige’s favorites, Christian Louboutin at three. What makes my sister so enamored with Louboutin’s red-soled, very high-heeled shoes is a mystery to me. She is totally jazzed about this particular visit. And naturally, she’s dressed to the nines in a fitted cream-colored linen jacket and a beige skirt (Chanel, I think), and she’s wearing her favorite Christian Louboutin pumps, which are kind of beige-ish pink.

  “Clichy,” the woman who’s handling the interview says as she points to Paige’s shoes. “Nude.”

  Paige nods. “Yes. I love them.” They chat back and forth—part French and part English and, as usual, we make our way through the various design rooms and offices until we come to the showroom, where my sister’s eyes grow wide and she is momentarily speechless. Now, while this is our usual scenario for filming these shows—finishing off with the showroom—she’s acting like this is the first time she’s ever seen one.

  “Oh-my-gosh!” She gasps as she walks around taking in all the various high-heeled shoes. “I feel as if I’ve died and gone to shoe heaven. These are so beautiful! How does Christian Louboutin do it?”

  I keep my camera on Paige, hoping to catch her drooling over the pair of hot pink open-toed pumps that seems to have caught her eye at the moment. But she simply sighs and slowly moves from one pair of shoes to the next, making clever commentary for the sake of the cameras. I get closeups of the shoes. Some have animal prints, others are rhine-stone encrusted, some have buckles, some have bows. There are reptile skins and shiny patent leather and velvet and just about anything a person could imagine—and more.

  Finally Paige is back where she started, staring at the hot pink pumps. “I am going to have to buy those,” she tells our guide. “You must have a boutique in Paris—”

  “Nonsense,” says a male voice, and suddenly a middle-aged guy enters the room. From the way Paige reacts, for a moment I think he’s royalty. She quickly regains her demeanor. “Oh, Mr. Louboutin,” she says happily. “You are so kind to join us. I didn’t expect—”

  “My pleasure.” He steps forward, takes her hand, and smiles for the cameras. “My congratulations on your TV show. I hope to see it someday.”

  She thanks him in French and then tells him that he is her favorite shoe designer. She gracefully holds out her foot, pointing her toe.

  “Ah, Clichy.” He nods. “A good choice.” He steps back and studies her as if trying to think of something. “You know, Paige, you resemble someone…I cannot think…”

  She makes a smile that I’m sure is meant to be an imitation of Grace Kelly, and he snaps his fingers like he gets it. “A young Grace Kelly. Magnifique! You are just the sort of woman I design for.”

  She thanks him again.

  “And you know,” he says, “Princess Grace’s daughter Caroline likes my shoes also.”

  “I know.” Paige nods. “You have many famous admirers, including Sarah Jessica Parker, Nicole Kidman, Cameron Diaz…just to name a few.”

  He waves his hand in a modest gesture. “Beautiful women…ah, they love beautiful shoes, no?”

  As Paige heartily agrees to this, I wish I could ask this guy if he’s got any concerns about beautiful women destroying their feet, injuring their backs, or even breaking an ankle in his pretty high-heeled footware. I’ve worn them a time or two and it’s not something I particularly enjoy. I’m also curious if he’s ever been sued, although I doubt that’s likely.

  “Now is it true,” Paige asks him, “that you once went to a museum and saw a sign that said women in high-heeled shoes were not allowed on the wood floors?”

  He chuckles. “You have heard that old story?”

  “I heard that you wanted to break the rules,” she says in a coquettish tone.

  He laughs. “Life is no fun if you do not break some rules, no?”

  She laughs too. “I totally agree.” They chat a bit more, then he looks at his watch.

  “I wish I could visit with you more,” he tells her, “but I have an appointment.” He turns to our guide. “Please, see that Paige finds the shoes she desires.” He looks back at Paige and smiles warmly. “Ah, yes, you have the beauty that inspires good design.”

  As he leaves, I wonder if my sister is about to swoon. Instead, she turns to the camera and delivers her final line. “And Christian Louboutin has the kind of design that inspires beauty. So, don’t forget that fashion matters and always remember to put your best foot forward.” She points her toe for the last shot. “And today it’s my very best foot—Christian Louboutin!”

  As Fran calls cut, I think that today’s interview might even make up for the disappointing Hermès visit. As the crew wraps it up, Paige controls herself by only picking out three pairs of shoes, because I can tell she really wants more. These are promised to be delivered to our hotel in the proper size before the weekend. No one asks me if I want to choose a pair, which is fine with me, because I’m not really that interested. Today was Paige’s day. And that’s a relief.

  The next morning, we all sleep in. I can’t speak for Fran or Paige, but I need it. The plan for the day is to meet up with the camera crew and Taylor and Eliza around noon at a Right Bank café that is well known for its fine patisseries—including filled croissants. After that, according to Paige, I’m about to be treated to the best shopping in Paris. I’ll admit to skepticism. I’d much rather spend my time in the quaint shops near our hotel in Saint-Germaine, but I know Paige can’t wait to hit the French designer boutiques. Naturally, Paige looks like she should be on the cover of Couture and I know she hopes the paparazzi will be around to notice. So far they haven’t been a problem. And while I’m relieved, I know that Paige is not. In fact, she’s worried.

  Since I don’t get to be Camera Girl today, Fran insisted that I dress for the part of sister shopper. I’m stuck in a pair of less-than-comfortable but gorgeous Prada faux-leopard-skin pumps. I am allowed to wear “nice” jeans as long as I top them with a Chanel jacket the color of butterscotch. And, of course, I’m carrying my Birkin bag, where I’ve discreetly tucked in a pair of flip-flops (foot relief) and my camera…just in case. Paige and I are mic’d and prepped and ready to play our roles. Well, I’m ready to playact—Paige will simply be herself.

  As our car snakes its way down a busy avenue, lined with glistening, ritzy-looking store fronts, I notice a number of well-dressed shoppers parading along. They are obviously wealthy and, like Paige, designer-driven. I can feel the resistance coming on. This is so not me. Yet at the same time I know our show is about fashion and viewers expect this. I need to get over it.

  And yet I believe there’s more than one kind of fashion. Already I’ve seen a lot of creativity, variety, and consideration for the planet (as well as the pocketbook) over in the Left Bank boutiques. I take in a deep breath and remind myself that I’m not the one calling the shots here. And, as the car stops at a corner, I prepare myself to simply bite the bullet and get on with the show. Today it will be Parisian haute couture.

  The camera crew is already set up on the edge of the sid
ewalk by the café and, naturally, this is attracting a bit of attention, but not nearly as much as it would in, say, LA. Fran joins them while Paige and I, acting perfectly natural (like Fran has directed), make our way to where Taylor and Eliza (also mic’d for sound) are already seated at an outdoor table. Air kisses and greetings are exchanged, and, thanks to a ready waiter, coffee and pastries are ordered.

  “You girls look gorgeous,” Eliza tells us. I can tell she’s got one eye on the camera and I suspect this will get cut if she doesn’t act more natural. “I love your new hairstyles. Very Parisian.”

  Paige thanks her and talks a bit about how we had our makeovers and then a photo shoot by the Eiffel Tower.

  “What fun,” Taylor says. “Like a scene out of Funny Face.”

  Paige laughs. “Exactly!” She points at me. “Don’t you think Erin looks like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina?”

  Taylor studies me then nods. “She actually does.”

  Then I tell them about Grace Kelly and they agree that Paige resembles her. They talk a bit about the upcoming Dylan Marceau fashion show and how, although Dylan has French ancestry, he is virtually unknown over here.

  “It will be his Paris debut,” Eliza says with what seems vested interest, like she is somehow personally responsible for his show. While I know her parents are influential and live in France, it’s hard to imagine they were the ones who arranged all this. “He’s so nervous. We’re hoping that he’s not disappointed.”

  “And you know how Parisians can be,” Taylor says.

  “Zay are, after all,” Paige puts on a thick French accent, “zee fashion experts. It ees possible zay will look down zer noses at zer American offspring.”

  Taylor laughs. “Out, eez possible.”

  “But you will be covering Dylan’s show, right?” Eliza asks eagerly.

  “Absolutely,” Paige assures her. “I adore Dylan’s designs.”

  “They’re da bomb,” I say without thinking. Then feeling silly, like I really don’t fit in here, I reach in my bag for my phone, pretending to check messages, although I know there are none since it’s the middle of the night in LA. After a few minutes, the waiter arrives with our coffees and pastries, carefully arranging them on the small table, almost as if he too knows he’s being filmed.