by Tyler Flynn
Hart’s affinity for Paris made it hard not to be romantic about the city. He had traveled to Europe in his freshman year of college, a lifetime ago, but the trip had left an indelible impact on his then-impressionable self. Paris had represented all the world could offer a young man: ambition, culture, and, of course, probably what he remembered the most, the beautiful Parisian women. The city gave him a glimpse of life in the way only a city like her could.
Hart turned from the window and his memories to his ornate hotel room. The room was modest in size, but small rooms were common in Parisian hotels, as he’d learned many years ago. The city was meant to be enjoyed, explored, and lived in, and a hotel room was simply for sleeping, with or without someone—but, as Paris would like it, preferably with.
At the hotel, he’d taken a shower, trimmed his stubble, and dunked his head in cold water to ensure he was fully awake after his flight. It was 6 a.m. in New York and he hadn’t slept much on the plane. The jet lag had not hit him yet, but it would in time.
Hart had a meeting with Renard scheduled for 1 p.m. at a restaurant near his hotel. He’d been sent an calendar invitation from a Miss Nouvelle when he landed, with a note telling him the walk would be ten minutes. It was perfect because it gave him just enough time to freshen up and think of what questions to ask Renard so that he sounded prepared.
Hart sipped coffee—the first thing he’d asked for when checking in at the hotel was a pot of coffee—and selected his blue suit and his white dress shirt. They had been freshly steamed, thanks to a scorching hot shower that filled the bathroom, where he’d hung it to smooth it out. It was a trick he’d picked up from his father, who had been an avid traveler.
Hart gave himself a final once-over in the mirror to ensure he was looking respectable. He left through the Hotel Regina’s front lobby, its charm created by the thick claret carpet, gold fixtures, dim lighting, and bellmen, who were eager to offer a friendly hello or a curt goodbye.
He made the three-block trip to the square expanse of Palais-Royal in five minutes. A chunky black gate with golden arrows on top guarded the entrance, which led to a wide courtyard, its crimson trees being photographed by a handful of people enjoying the afternoon weather. The courtyard was framed by a covered walkway, flanked by shops housing artists, salons, and antique stores until the north end of the courtyard, where Le Grand Véfour stood. Hart’s footsteps clicked off the cobblestone as he approached the restaurant. The front doors had a red carpet rolled out to the valet, with two men in black suits guarding the entrance. Hart smirked. The restaurant would be elegant, pretentious yet somehow remarkably charming, and without question the food would be delicious. Golden letters spelled out its name, contrasting with the glossy black exterior, while sheer white curtains were hung inside the windows, offering discretion to its guests at the cost of the magnificent view.
Hart stopped walking, took a deep breath, buttoned his suit jacket, and made his way inside.
The Peugeot Sprinter van crossed Rue de Longchamp and sped towards La Défense. The van passed the retreating workforce of the Sixteenth Arrondissement on the sunny Friday afternoon. While most people, especially in the wealthy neighborhood of Neuilly, were heading home, or to a weekend getaway at their country estate, or even to an afternoon rendezvous with someone other than their spouse, Claude Renard was heading to the office. He wasn’t too troubled by his afternoon schedule, and his mode of transportation for his twenty-minute commute didn’t bother him at all. The Peugeot van was outfitted with a table in the back, where four black leather bucket seats sat facing one another. There was a minifridge stocked with demi-bottles of champagne, red wine, and Perrier.
Renard watched the sidewalks for a moment, casting casual glances at the Parisian women, effortlessly fashionable in bright fall colors and confident strides. The men, wearing dark suits, brightly polished shoes, and drab ties, made their way home from their offices on the Champs-Élysées. He didn’t envy them; their weekends started early, but their lives could not be as remarkable as his.
He grabbed his cell off the table, dialed the number saved into the encrypted phone—one could never be too careful—and listened to the international ringtone. On the third beep, his call was answered.
“Hello?” a coarse and groggy voice answered. “Who is this?”
Renard could hear the person sit up in bed, the covers ruffling.
“James, this is Claude. Did I catch you on your way into the office?”
He knew that James Hutchens would be sleeping; after all, it was 6 a.m. on a Friday in New York City.
“Yes, just about to head out the door.” Hutchens cleared his throat as Renard heard a table lamp click on.
“Wonderful. I am calling to thank you for sending your man here. I trust he is as I requested.”
A pause. “Yes. Paul is easy to deal with, as you requested. Make him feel important, and he’ll do whatever you ask. He’ll be eager to please because he knows how important this trip is to his career.”
Renard grinned. “This is beautiful. I hope that my short-notice request was not an inconvenience to your company, but I wanted to have someone in town for potential meetings today.”
“Glad to help, and please give Paul anything you feel comfortable sharing with us and he’ll look over it to see what we can do for you. Grow this partnership, eh?”
He could hear the desperation in the man’s voice, but it was to be expected. The American would want more opportunity, more access, and more money.
“Of course! Bien sûr, I will certainly give Paul plenty of information. Trust me when I say he will be of great use to me.”
5
Paris
Hart was greeted by a toothy smile and a stiffened back from the maître d’.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Avez-vous une réservation?”
“Oui, avec Monsieur Renard.” Hart craned his neck to peek into the dining room.
The maître d’ stood tall, wearing a black suit and subtle gray tie, which made him appear younger than his white hair would lead one to believe. His face was wrinkled, but when he smiled it became smooth, as if the stress of years of smiling for countless patrons was erased. With a slight bow of the head, he turned and held his hand out: Please follow me. Hart fell in line behind his elegant and practiced gait.
Le Grand Véfour was a decadent restaurant, filled with aristocratic blood on a Friday afternoon. The dining room was covered in Victorian-era crimson wallpaper and many mirrors with thick gold frames so the patrons could indulge themselves in their own reflections during their meal. The lunch crowd were busy having discreet meetings of the necessary variety—hushed dealings between old men in fine dark suits, a few younger women with their lovers—and in the back corner, sitting alone at a small table, a beautiful woman peered out the tall windows towards the Palais-Royal.
The restaurant was animated as sparse fits of laughter and the soft clink of fine china filled the space. Hart navigated the treacherous seas of the dining-room floor, following the brisk pace of his leader, whose chin was held high in an assured manner.
Hart was so consumed by the people dining, crafting short storylines about their lives, that he did not realize he was being led to the corner booth, where a lone woman sat on the plush red leather.
“Monsieur, bon appétit.” The maître d’ turned on his heel and dutifully returned to his post.
“Excusez-moi.” Hart tried to grab the attention of the fast-retreating maître d’, but to no avail. Hart, defeated for the moment, managed to mumble out, “You must have the wrong table,” as he turned back to the woman sitting alone. She stood and held out her hand.
“Monsieur Hart, my name is Clara Nouvelle. I work for Monsieur Renard.”
Hart lost himself in her sea-green eyes and slowly took her hand, managing a confused smile. Her hair, a dark-espresso color, was pulled back and pinned up in a tight bun. She had high cheekbones and dark-red lip gloss; her eyes were unassuming, but she looked him over quickly. She w
ore a long-sleeve, ivory silk blouse modestly cut, revealing a small pearl necklace that matched her knee-length black wool skirt, with a subtle cream polka-dot pattern. She was shorter than him, but not by much, thanks to her glossy black heels.
“I’m Paul Hart. Pleasure to meet you.”
She smiled at him. “Enchanté.”
Her hand was soft, but she gripped his firmly. He leaned in and offered the traditional French double-cheeked greeting. Her perfume was strong. As his face brushed her cheek, he tried to place the smell—floral, citrusy, with a hint of jasmine. She motioned for him to take a seat as they settled in the booth. He took notice that she was petite, with a supple curve of her hips highlighted by her high-cut skirt.
This was a business lunch, Hart reminded himself, but he was glad he wore his best suit. She was stunning. He stole another look as she placed the white linen napkin in her lap.
There was a certain confidence that many Parisienne women had—the perfect posture, chin up, eyes engaged but uninterested—and Hart could tell she had it since birth. Her hands were folded on the white tablecloth, but he shouldn’t be fooled: she was coiled and ready to strike.
“So, how was your flight?” Her English was smooth, with only a hint of an accent.
“Great. Thank you for asking.”
“You’re not too—what is the expression?—jet-lagged?” Her voice danced over the phrase, unsure of its correctness.
Hart smiled at her. “No, unless I look it.”
“You don’t.” She smirked as if she liked what she saw. “I hope you don’t mind, but I am starving. Could we order right away?”
Before he had time to answer, a waiter appeared at their table. “Oui, mademoiselle?”
Hart took notice that the waiter had referred to her as mademoiselle; as he understood it, it meant she was not married. At the very least, she didn’t wear a ring.
She ordered a carafe of water, along with a glass of Burgundy from Nuit-Saint-Georges, duck-liver terrine, and roasted monkfish, forgoing dessert. Hart, who scanned the menu with urgency, followed her lead but ordered a glass of Château la Clotte, from Saint-Émilion, along with the same first two courses, but also ordered cheese for dessert, with a request of extra bread. He wasn’t sure how the lunch was going to go, or why he was meeting her in the absence of Renard, but he did know two things: first, dessert in France was always a good decision, and second, it would inevitably prolong their lunch—another good decision, he assured himself.
The intoxicating aroma of seared foie gras and beef wafted through the dining room. However, Hart felt an uncertainty hanging over the table like the morning fog on the Seine. Forgoing the urge to make small talk and perhaps flirt—Must be professional, Paul—he opted to dive straight into business.
“I’m sorry, but I thought I was meeting with Mr. Renard. My understanding was this lunch was to discuss his business.”
Clara smiled. “I’m sorry that I’m not good enough company for you.” Her eyes flickered like a bonfire, warm, mesmerizing, and potentially dangerous. Before Hart could explain himself, she continued. “Yes, you were correct in assuming this meeting was to discuss Mr. Renard and his business. However, you misunderstood who you would be meeting and speaking with. As my email invitation showed, it is just the two of us for lunch. I am Mr. Renard’s director of affairs, which is an elegant way of saying his gatekeeper. I let in who I see fit, and when.”
She was composed, not offended by his question, but showed a hint of amusement as she watched him work out the logic. There was silence for a moment, and Hart turned to survey the room, ignoring his urge to complain about the sleight of hand. She is the gatekeeper, he thought. I will have to impress her.
“So, Clara,” Hart began, “how long have you worked for Mr. Renard?”
“Well, it has been several years of working for his company, but only the past year working directly with him. I happened to be an administrative assistant for one of his directors in the Bourse office, just off the Paris stock exchange. The Euronext. I’m sure you’re familiar. It’s located in La Defense.”
Hart gave a curt nod. He had no idea where it was but wasn’t going to give her the upper hand in geography. Clara seemed to be satisfied.
“You’ve been to Paris before?”
“Once. In college.”
“Same as you remember?” Her voice rose a little with curiosity.
“Better than I remember. But forgive me, I want to hear how you came to work for Mr. Renard—if you don’t mind, that is?”
Clara couldn’t conceal her pride. Hart could see her eyes twinkling.
“Well, our office is located in the new Arc de Triomphe, near the exchange, as I mentioned, because of the commodities trading that goes on at the Euronext, like wheat, grain, corn, everything that is crucial to our businesses. It is quite simple, but the foundation that the French economy is built upon is the agricultural sector.”
Clara paused a moment as the waiter returned with the glasses of generous pours of wine. He set them down and without any hesitation raced back to the kitchen. She took her stemmed wineglass and gave her full attention to the Burgundy. She tilted and rolled the wineglass so that it coated the sides, studying the color, and set the glass down on the table and gave it a spin, making small circles against the white tablecloth.
“Alors, the man I worked for, the director of governmental affairs and initiatives, a Monsieur Bichot, worked directly under Monsieur Renard. They would meet regularly in person at least once a week. Well, I was in my position for almost a year, never doing much more than compiling reports, organizing schedules, and covering for my boss’ adventures, which meant mainly keeping secrets from his wife.” She stopped to make sure she still had his attention.
Hart recognized this, and in fact he hadn’t touched his glass of Saint-Émilion but sat attentively until Clara went to take her first sip.
She raised her glass. “To our health.”
“To unexpected meetings.” They delicately clinked glasses.
Hart hoped he had impressed her by his selection and pronunciation of the French wine he’d chosen. He assumed that many business lunches would have consisted of a scotch or perhaps a gin and tonic for lunch to look strong, not a glass of wine with food to enhance the experience. Maybe some would have ordered a Cabernet, because when in doubt it was the one to choose. But Hart wanted to prove his worldliness, as if one could do such a thing with a wine order, but maybe—just maybe—he was in the one country where one could.
Hart watched her as she closed her eyes after her sip. He imagined the taste of the red wine—berries, plum, and a hint of vanilla—and watched her allow it to linger for a moment longer than necessary before she swallowed.
Hart was lost in his imagination, staring at her until she caught him. Oh yes, this is a business lunch, he chided himself. Try and listen, damnit. He grabbed his glass to not be caught gawking and sipped his wine.
“How’s the wine?” she inquired.
“Delicious. One of several things the French do better than anyone,” he added with a wry smile.
“Oh? You know these things through observation or experience?”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t want us to get sidetracked. Please continue with your story where we left off. I’m intrigued.”
Clara shifted in her chair. “So, I’d been working for Bichot for a year, but the perk of my position was that every important document for Bichot, and eventually Renard, came across my desk first. I had to always summarize them for my boss, who was too busy to read every one. This allowed me to gain an insight into the direction the company was heading. What products would be focused on, what partnerships were on the horizon, and perhaps most importantly in the French agricultural economy, what direction the government was leaning in. Because after all, Monsieur Hart, the French government will do everything in her power to protect and promote her products and farmers.”
Clara’s story was interrupted as several white-coated waiters
hurriedly brought the first course over to their table. The duck terrine was set upon toasted crostini, with a cherry reduction sauce, its sweet aroma wafting into Hart’s face. He leaned closer to the plate and looked up at Clara. She met his look with a delighted and a conspiratorial raise of her eyebrows. Frenchwomen and their cuisine—truly a love affair as old as time.
The duck was savory and had a hint of smokiness, which was complemented by a healthy sip of his Merlot. He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the taste. To his horror, he involuntarily made a sigh of pleasure, and he opened his eyes to find Clara giggling.
“Where was I?” Clara said as she delicately dabbed her white napkin to her lips. “Oh, yes. Well, my career was going fine until about a year ago. Mr. Renard had an important meeting with my boss and government officials. The meeting was to be about the prospect of new subsidies that would be lucrative for the business—farmers basically getting money they either spent on our equipment or lost. I remember this day quite well because of the weather that morning.”
Clara held Hart’s eyes as she told her story, occasionally glancing at a passing waiter dashing to a nearby table. “It was early spring, and, as Paris is in the spring, there are dreary days. It’s a French London,” she said with a laugh. “However, this day was the first gorgeous day since the colder winter months, with the sun warm and bright. Everyone was out on the streets enjoying the weather. I remember this because I was to go out and buy croissants and pain au chocolat for the meeting. I had gone out to find a boulangerie, but I was happy to be outside on the beautiful day.”