The Book of Betrayal

by Melissa McShane

  “Um…me?” I looked around as if some other Ms. Davies were lurking behind me.

  “Mr. Campbell’s compliments.”

  “Um…” The other car honked again, long and loud. I scurried to get into the car. The driver closed the door and got back in behind the wheel. “Excuse me, where are we going?”

  The driver handed me an unsealed envelope and put the car in gear. I removed a square of notepaper from the envelope and, squinting in the dim light, held it up to my eyes. I’ll join you later, it read in Malcolm’s elegant handwriting I envied. You have some shopping to do.

  I dropped the note into my lap. Shopping?

  The interior of the Town Car was the most luxurious thing I’d ever seen—smooth black leather seats, plenty of leg room, a host of buttons I was sure were after market. I pushed one at random and a sheet of glass began rising up between me and the driver. I squeaked and stabbed it again so the glass would retract. “Sorry!”

  “Not to worry, miss,” the driver said. “The car is at your disposal for the evening.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Mr. Campbell instructed me not to tell you, miss. He wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Huh.” I started texting Malcolm, then deleted it before sending. If he wanted it to be a surprise, I could humor him. Besides, I was starting to feel excited. It was all so mysterious—the car that might as well be a limousine, the attentive driver, and shopping, whatever that meant.

  The driver took us out to the freeway and then downtown, and my respect for his skills grew as he navigated the one-way warren without so much as a hint from his GPS. We passed any number of stores, and I sat forward, wondering which one was our destination. But the place where he finally stopped was off the beaten path, with no windows advertising wares, just a door up a couple of steps and beside it a plaque bearing the single name BENVOLIO.

  Once again the driver came to a stop in the middle of the street and had my door open before I could react and open it myself. I accepted his hand, though I didn’t need any help getting out of the car, and stood uncertain on the sidewalk. A couple of men, their heads bent against the rising wind, passed us with no more than a single incurious look.

  “Ring the bell,” the driver said. “I will return for you in one hour.” He bowed and got back in the car, and drove away. I felt abandoned.

  There was a simple brass button next to the Benvolio door. I pressed it, and waited, once more huddling into my jacket. The wind felt like it came straight from the mouth of the devil, deep within Hell—the one image I remembered from studying Dante’s Inferno. It was an image I had trouble shaking.

  The door opened. “Ms. Davies, welcome to Benvolio,” said a tall, angular woman with a pleasant smile. “May I take your coat?”

  With the door safely shut on the oncoming storm, I shed my jacket and handed it to her. The store, if that’s what it was, was little more than a large room with a sofa and chair upholstered in champagne-colored velveteen. The plush maroon carpet had a pile deep enough for me to make footprints in; the woman carrying my coat away left the tiny prints of her stiletto heels that faded almost immediately. The walls were all curtained in rose damask that coordinated with the furniture and carpet and gave the room a hush I felt inclined to match. The scent of roses, faint but distinct, filled the air, and soft lighting made the whole thing look exactly like a lady’s boudoir in an upscale home decorating magazine.

  “Please sit,” a second woman said, coming from behind one of the curtains and startling me. She was round and plump and had a beautiful smile. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. My excitement was tangled with confusion, and I wanted—needed—to keep my head clear. “Um…why am I—”

  “I’m Elle, and this is Veronica,” the second woman said. “Let us show you some of the possibilities.”

  “Oh! What…possibilities?”

  Elle clapped, a couple of sharp sounds, and one set of curtains drew back, revealing another room, less well-lit than this one. “It’s really too bad it’s so cold tonight,” she said, “because with your figure, a short skirt really is attractive.” A young woman came forward to stand, no, pose in front of me. She wore a long, full-skirted gown in old gold, with beads all over the skirt, utterly beautiful. She turned, making the skirt flare out. I gaped.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. Then the penny dropped. “I’m shopping for a dress?”

  “Mr. Campbell instructed us to help you choose something to wear,” Veronica said. “I don’t know if that’s the right color for you…” She clapped again, and another young woman came forward, wearing a white dress with a black lace overlay that made the whole thing look like patterns of shadow over snow.

  “Oh, I like that one,” I said. Veronica gestured, and the young woman went to stand to one side of the room. Another young woman, this one in pale pink with a plunging neckline, came to stand in front of me. I shook my head. Too daring for me.

  More models—at some point the same models started reappearing—trotted out dress after dress for my approval. I nodded or shook my head, and a few more women joined the black and white girl off to the side. It felt just like that scene in How to Marry a Millionaire, where Cameron Mitchell has Lauren Bacall and the other models show off a bunch of clothes for his make-believe aunt—and as I thought that, I laughed and had to wave off Veronica’s query about what was so funny. Of course Malcolm would recreate that moment for me. Shopping, indeed.

  Then I let out an astonished breath. The new dress had a knee-length skirt and a bodice that crossed in front. It hugged the model’s hips and showed off just the right curves of her breasts. It was also red, cranberries-in-winter red, heart-of-a-rose red. “That one,” I said. “I don’t care if it’s cold.”

  Elle looked at me appraisingly. “I think you’re right,” she said. “Veronica?”

  “This way, Ms. Davies,” Veronica said.

  I needed a new bra because the one I was wearing peeked out of the cleavage of the perfect dress, and then I needed a slip because my panty line showed, but in only a few minutes I was tucked into the dress, and it fit like it was made for me. I could get used to this kind of shopping. Viv and Judy would be in heaven. I slipped my feet into the simple black heels they provided and turned in front of the trifold mirror, admiring myself. “How much?” I said. It had to be hideously expensive, but I was feeling flush with cash and willing to spend some on the perfect dress.

  “Mr. Campbell has instructed us to send the bill to him,” Elle said.

  My cheeks warmed. This was an expensive gift, and maybe…but how rude of me to reject something he’d gone to so much trouble over, something he’d known would make me happy. “Oh,” I said. “That’s…very nice of him.”

  Elle and Veronica exchanged meaningful glances. “Normally Mr. Campbell comes here with his mother,” Veronica said. “I think he was glad to make use of our services for someone…else.”

  “Oh.” And that cleared up another question, which was how does Malcolm even know about this place? and the fear that I wasn’t the only girl he’d treated to the full experience. I turned around again. I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Elle and Veronica found me a wrap so I wouldn’t freeze, a black satin drape that only partially concealed the perfect dress, and checked outside to see if my driver had returned. He hadn’t, so we stood inside and chatted. I learned that Elle and Veronica were in fact Mrs. Campbell’s preferred couturiers, and that Malcolm came in with his mother sometimes. “She insists on discussing business as if we’re not here,” Veronica said with a grimace. “I think it makes Mr. Campbell uncomfortable.”

  “Which is probably why she does it,” Elle said. “She’s…not the nicest lady.”

  “But we like Mr. Campbell very much. You’re a lucky girl,” Veronica said, winking at me.

  “I know,” I said. “I feel lucky.”

  “And the car accident…is it true he ne
arly died?”

  “Yes, I—he was hurt badly.”

  “He seems to have recovered quickly.”

  “He heals fast,” I said. “Is that the car?” It was. I hurried into the back seat, grateful not to have to deflect that line of conversation.

  The driver handed me another envelope and showed me how to turn on the rear lights (more after-market stuff, and how handy!) to read it. The crowning touch, was all Malcolm had written, and I smiled and shook my head ruefully. He’d pulled all this together in half a day?

  The next stop was a salon whose posted hours were nine to six, but lights burned beyond its window, and a young man with long curly hair opened the door for me. “Sam,” he said, shaking my hand. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, but I think, with that dress, curls around your face and over your shoulders will be better.”

  Twenty minutes later I had to agree with him. He’d put something in my hair that made it shine, then used a flat iron to make long curls he brushed out so they twisted gently around my face. “I wish I knew how to do that,” I sighed.

  “Come back some time, and I’ll teach you.” Sam gave me a hand out of the chair and walked around me, examining the effect. “Very nice. You’re going to turn heads tonight.”

  There’s only one head I care about turning. “Thanks, Sam.”

  “My pleasure. I’ve cut Malcolm’s hair for five years and he’s my favorite customer. Nice to finally meet the woman he’s been talking about the last three months.”

  The Town Car was waiting by the curb. “Another note?” I said.

  The driver handed it over. Hope you’re hungry. After all that work, I was extremely hungry. I hoped whatever meal Malcolm had in mind would be filling, and not one of those stereotypical fancy meals with two julienne carrots and a couple of peas on a big white plate. Thinking that brought the nervousness back. How fancy would it have to be to justify this dress? Why was Malcolm going to so much trouble?

  I hadn’t been paying attention to our route, so when the car came to a stop, I wasn’t sure where we were. The restaurant, La Grenouille, had a low canopy over the door and white Christmas lights outlining its eaves. The driver pulled up to the door and came around to let me out. This time, I did need help getting out of the car without my skirt hiking up. Suddenly the custom of the man opening the door for the woman made sense.

  “Have a good evening, Ms. Davies, it was a pleasure,” the driver said, and just as I realized I’d never asked his name, he got in behind the wheel and pulled away. I stood shivering for just a moment, watching him go, then came to my senses and hurried inside, hoping my curls weren’t too disordered.

  A short foyer like an airlock kept the warm air in and the cold air out, and I quickly passed through the brass-bound doors with their dozen square glass panes into the actual restaurant. Warm air scented with garlic and rich buttery goodness met me the instant I passed the inner door, and I stood and breathed it happily in. Oh, this would be far better than a couple of artistically arranged vegetables.

  “Your party, miss?” said the woman at the maître-d’s desk.

  “Um…Campbell. Malcolm Campbell.”

  The woman gave me a longer, appraising look. “This way, Ms. Davies,” she said, gesturing to me to follow.

  The restaurant was filled with the murmur of people eating and talking quietly. To my relief, most of them were dressed as well as I was, not that I would have minded looking like this at McDonald’s. Much. The small round tables seemed perfectly suited to two or four diners, with their little candles flickering across their faces. I couldn’t tell whether or not I was turning heads. Certainly no one dropped their fork in astonishment at my beauty. That would have been embarrassing. The dark carpet, not as plush as at Benvolio, still felt like I was leaving footprints in wet sand.

  Then I saw Malcolm. He was breathtakingly handsome in dinner jacket and satin tie, almost like his regular suits but somehow more…formal, was really the only word. He saw me, and his eyes went wide. Then a slow smile spread across his face, and he rose and came toward me. It was so much the reaction I’d hoped for that I blushed and reached to take his hand.

  “Beautiful,” he said, lightly kissing my cheek. “Did you like Elle and Veronica?”

  “They were so nice. It felt just like How to Marry a Millionaire.”

  He pulled my chair out for me to sit. “I’m so glad you understood the reference. I was afraid you’d think I was reenacting Vertigo instead.”

  I laughed. “You know, you’d make a terrible Jimmy Stewart.”

  “And you’re far superior to Kim Novak.” He leaned back for the waiter to fill our wine glasses with something pale and rosy. “You look extraordinary.”

  “So do you. I’ve never been here before.”

  “It was a recommendation by your mother.”

  My eyebrows went up. “When did you talk about this with my mother?”

  “Sunday after dinner. She says she doesn’t cook haute cuisine herself, but this is her favorite place.”

  “I didn’t even know she liked haute cuisine.”

  Another waiter handed me a menu. “Uh-oh. You know it’s expensive when they don’t print the prices.” I read over the offerings, grateful they’d printed English translations next to the French words. I caught the eye of an older woman sitting at the next table, smiled and nodded at her and was smiled at in return. She made me think of what Michelle Obama would probably look like in twenty years.

  “I hope you’re not worrying about the cost,” Malcolm said.

  “Not at all, so long as you’re paying.”

  That made him laugh. “It doesn’t matter to you at all that I’m rich, does it?” he said.

  “I hardly ever think about it.” Though I was now, a little.

  “That’s so refreshing, after Andria—if I dare bring up another woman’s name on a date with you. She was constantly maneuvering me into positions where I’d have to buy something for her.”

  “That sounds awful. I’d have dumped her, too.”

  “Well, that, and there was this other woman I wanted to date who happens to look spectacular in red—Helena, I can’t stop staring at you. That dress is incredible.”

  “I know, isn’t it perfect? I love it. Thank you.”

  He smiled with satisfaction. “And there it is again. No fuss, no exclaiming over the price—”

  “They wouldn’t tell me how expensive it was.”

  “And even that doesn’t matter to you. I’ve never felt less like a walking wallet than when I’m with you.”

  I blushed again. “That’s a lovely compliment.”

  “It is. We should probably order. Have you had haute cuisine before? I’d be happy to make suggestions.”

  I lowered my menu. “Only once or twice, and never anywhere like this. Would you pick something for me? Dad says to listen to the advice of the expert. But can we get snails? I’ve always wanted to try snails.”

  He laughed. “My adventurous gastronome. Of course. You’ll like them.” He addressed the waiter in fluent French, of which I caught only “escargots.” The waiter nodded and walked away. I gaped at Malcolm.

  “You speak French? Like a native?”

  “My mother is French-Canadian, and I grew up speaking both French and English. So Québécois French, but still.”

  “‘C.K. Dexter Haven, you have unsuspected depth!’”

  “We still have so many things to learn about each other. And a long time in which to learn them.”

  I raised my glass to him. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The snails were delicious, slightly chewy and drenched in butter and garlic. I had no idea what whatever Malcolm ordered for me was called, but it turned out to be lamb brochettes with vegetables served with a citrus sauce I adored. “You have to try this,” I said, offering him a bite.

  “Mmm. Oh, I chose well for you. But—and this is also something you should know about me—I generally choose steak for myself if it’s at all a go
od cut of meat.”

  “My father loves steak, too. He learned to cook it last summer.”

  “Wise man.”

  I caught the older woman looking at us again and nudging her companion, who looked more like Sidney Poitier than President Obama, to my relief. What was so interesting about us? Aside from how attractive we both were. Well, maybe that was enough.

  “Ready for dessert?” Malcolm said, wiping his lips with his napkin.

  “Something you should know about me is I am always ready for dessert.”

  We settled on profiteroles and waited for them to be brought to our table. Malcolm took my hand, smiling. “I hope it’s been a memorable evening.”

  “Very. I’m never going to forget this night.”

  “Then I’ve succeeded.” He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. “I want everything to be perfect.”

  I smiled back at him. It was perfect—

  Oh.

  The dress, the hair, the car, the fancy restaurant. All perfect.

  He was going to propose.

  All the blood drained from my face, and I quickly picked up my glass and sipped the pinot noir that had come with my lamb. He couldn’t—but why else would he—this was far too elaborate even to celebrate our new freedom, wasn’t it? I couldn’t. I loved him, but I just wasn’t ready. And yet, how could I say no? How could we come back from that? I had to be wrong. Malcolm would never do this to me, laying on the luxury in preparation for the big question. And yet… My innocent happiness dissolved like chalk in rain.

  I picked at my profiterole until Malcolm laughed and teased me with “Too much even for the Davies iron-clad digestive system?”

  “I’m fuller than I thought.”

  “Understandable. Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes,” I said with relief. At least he wasn’t going to do it here in the restaurant with Michelle Obama and Sidney Poitier watching.

  “Then…there’s just one more thing,” Malcolm said, and reached inside his dinner jacket. The blood drained from my face again. No. Not now.