Wish You Were Eyre

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “Go! Have fun! Enjoy Paris!”

  “Well,” she says reluctantly, “if you’re sure . . .”

  I am, and after she leaves I take a long bubble bath, then put on my pajamas and call room service. No escargots for me tonight—I’m craving for comfort food, so I order a cheeseburger and fries. I watch a little TV, or try to, but it’s all in French of course, then work on my blog post, which includes some hilarious Fashion Faux Pas that I’ve been saving up. I do a whole riff on shoes that I call “Putting Your Worst Foot Forward.” It includes stuff like pictures of men in sandals with socks (“Fashionista Jane recoils in horror from such terrifying combinations”), American tourists in enormous white sneakers (“one is loathe to make sport of one’s countrymen, but reader, Fashionista Jane cannot fathom appearing in public wearing milk cartons”), and a scattering of joggers I spotted in the Tuileries wearing those weird running shoes that look like toe socks (“since when did placing rubber gloves on one’s toes become acceptable?”). I also include a picture of a mime inside a red circle with a slash, just for fun.

  The phone rings as I’m finishing up. Gigi most likely, checking in on me. I reach for the receiver. “Hello?”

  “I’m here!” says a familiar voice. A male voice with an English accent.

  It’s Simon!

  “You’re here?” I echo back foolishly.

  “Yes I am,” he says.

  We’re both quiet for a minute, and then we both start laughing at the same time.

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow!” I tell him.

  “Me too—what time can you be ready? I have plans for us.”

  This sounds promising. “As early as you want—where are you staying?”

  “We’re with friends a little outside the city,” he tells me. “It’s about a half hour train ride to where you are.”

  “Maybe after breakfast, then?”

  “Perfect. How about I pick you up at nine?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  We say good-bye and I hang up and dance around the room. I’m seeing Simon tomorrow! I rummage through my clothes, wondering what I should wear. He said he had plans for us, but he didn’t say what they were.

  I’m too excited to sleep, so I watch a movie on my laptop. Gigi comes in halfway through, and smiles when she sees me.

  “Looks like you’re feeling better,” she says.

  I nod. “Simon called—he and his family are here!”

  She laughs. “That will cure everything, won’t it?”

  I nod again. “Did you have fun?”

  “It was glorious. There’s nothing like springtime in Paris at night, floating down the river beneath the Pont Neuf and all the other bridges . . .” Her voice trails off and she sighs. “I’m so sorry you missed it.”

  “Me too. But I just needed a little downtime, you know? And a hot bath.”

  “I understand completely. A bath sounds good—I think I’ll take one myself.”

  I’m awake at the crack of dawn the next morning and have changed at least half a dozen times before breakfast. I finally settle on jeans, the flowered chiffon shirt I wore to the Chanel fashion show, and some purple suede loafers I bought at Aubergine. I grab a matching purple cardigan just in case. It’s supposed to be sunny again, but cooler. I stuff down a room service croissant and hot chocolate—not Angelina’s, but not bad—brush my teeth, and am about to head out when I pause by the door.

  “What are you doing today, Gigi? I totally forgot to ask.”

  She smiles at me. “I have appointments at several fashion houses,” she says, “and then perhaps a stroll in the Rodin sculpture garden. Monsieur de Roches has offered to be my escort.”

  “That’s nice. Say hi for me, okay?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you back here tonight.”

  “Five o’clock at the latest, I promise.” The Flash farewell party is the biggest party of the week, and we’ll need plenty of time to get ready. I wave good-bye and close the door behind me, then jog to the elevator.

  I spot Simon before he sees me; I’d know those blond curls anywhere. He’s pacing the lobby with his hands behind his back. “Hey, stranger,” I say, sneaking up behind him.

  He whirls around. “Megan!”

  We hug each other. It feels a little awkward, but nice. Really nice. We stand there for a minute, grinning. Then we both burst out laughing, just like last night on the phone, and the ice is broken.

  “Come on,” says Simon, reaching for my hand. “Let’s go see Paris.”

  When he hears that I haven’t made it to any art museums yet, he insists that we make the Musée de l’Orangérie our first stop.

  “It’s right across the street from your hotel!” he protests. “I can’t believe your grandmother hasn’t taken you here yet!”

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “We had other things on our minds.”

  He shakes his head in mock horror. “Let me guess—clothes, right?”

  “Not just clothes—fashion.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “A big difference. Fashion is as much art as, as—oh wow.”

  I fall silent as we step into an enormous oval gallery, flooded with light from a skylight above. Its curved walls are painted with broad murals that I recognize instantly: Claude Monet’s Water Lilies.

  Tears spring to my eyes. So much beauty!

  “What were you saying about art?” asks Simon, grinning at me again.

  We circle the room, then sit down to just look for a while. “The colors!” I tell him. “I want to swim in those blues and purples. And how did he do that? Up close they’re just splotches of paint; stand back and they’re beautiful flowers floating in a pond.”

  “Sometime you’ll have to go to his garden at Giverny,” Simon tells me. “It’s magical.”

  “All of Paris is magical.”

  He nods. “I think so too.”

  The Louvre is next. Simon takes me straight up to the second floor to see Mona Lisa, and we hunt down the Venus de Milo sculpture, too. I’ve never gotten what Cassidy Sloane calls “mall overload”—I love shopping too much—but I think I finally know what she means by it, because after an hour or so of looking at paintings and sculptures I definitely have a case of museum-overload.

  “Seen enough?” asks Simon, and I nod.

  Outside, we find a bench in the garden where we sit and talk for a while. He tells me about school, and Yorkshire, and his family, and I tell him about my mother running for mayor.

  “When’s the election?”

  “Ten days from now,” I tell him. “I think she has a really good chance of winning.”

  “I’d vote for her.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. “I’ll tell her that.”

  I show him the latest pictures of Coco my kitten—diplomatically leaving out the part about her devotion to Sophie—and tell him all about my week here in Paris so far, and the flap over Fashionista Jane.

  “I love your blog,” he says.

  “You’ve been reading it?”

  “Of course. I had to make sure you weren’t trash talking my brother again, after all.”

  I give him a sheepish smile. Last year, when the Berkeleys lived in Concord, I posted a couple of Fashion Faux Pas featuring Tristan that caused a rift between us for a while. Thinking about that reminds me of Stinkerbelle, who ratted me out, and thinking about her reminds me of Sophie Fairfax again. I shift uncomfortably. I want to apologize to Simon for doubting him the way I did. But I don’t really want Sophie butting in on this perfect day, so I decide to leave it be.

  “So what’s next?” I ask instead.

  “I promised you ice cream, right?” He looks at his watch. “Is it too early in the day for ice cream?”

  “On what planet is it ever too early in the day for ice cream?”

  “You have a point. Onward!”

  We walk hand in hand along the banks of the Seine again, drawing closer to a beautiful stone bridge with mul
tiple arches.

  “I suppose you know the Pont Neuf is the most famous bridge in Paris,” Simon says as we start across. “It’s the oldest in the city, and leads to the Ile de la Cité, the heart of medieval Paris—and Notre Dame.”

  “The cathedral?”

  He nods. “Can’t leave Paris without visiting Notre Dame. Which just happens to be in the neighborhood of our ice cream shop.”

  We walk the length of the island, turning down a side street to find the glacier—ice cream parlor—from the brochure Simon sent me. Simon is right; the ice cream is delicious. Especially the strawberry, which it turns out is hisfavorite flavor, too.

  “So what do you think, Berthillon or Kimball Farm?” he asks.

  I take another bite, considering the question. “I’d say it’s a tie.”

  “I can live with that.”

  We spend a long time at Notre Dame. If you look in the dictionary under “cathedral,” Notre Dame is what you should see. It’s huge, for one thing, like a castle or a landlocked battleship or something. On the outside, it has these cool things that Simon tells me are called flying buttresses, a support network of stone arches that give the exterior a sort of lacy look. There are statues everywhere, and gargoyles—great gargoyles! I use my new zoom lens to get some close-ups, thinking Fashionista Jane might be able to work them into her final blog post.

  If I thought the cathedral’s outside was amazing, though, the inside takes my breath away. It’s as beautiful as Monet’s Water Lilies, in a completely different way. The ceilings soar practically to the sky, and the stained glass windows glow like jewels as the sun pours through them.

  “It took over two hundred years to build this church,” Simon tells me as we wander around. “The architectural style is called Gothic. You can tell by the pointed arches inside and the flying buttresses outside.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  He smiles at me. “My father’s a history professor, remember? He’s been lecturing Tristan and me about all this stuff since we were little kids.”

  I take more pictures, and after we’ve wandered around awhile longer we start to get hungry for lunch. We go outside and find a crêpes vendor, then take our picnic across the other stretch of the Pont Neuf to the Left Bank. There are parks along the river’s edge here, too, and we scout out an empty bench and sit down to eat.

  “This has been a really fun day,” I tell him. “Thank you for showing me around.”

  “My pleasure,” he replies politely.

  No kiss? I think, trying not to look too disappointed as he drops me off at the hotel later. I’ve been hoping for one all day, and I can’t help feeling deflated, even though holding hands is really nice. Maybe there will still be time for a little romance tonight. I kind of doubt it, though. We’re going to be in a crowded restaurant with a zillion photographers and eyes everywhere.

  “We’re meeting here in the lobby at seven thirty, right?” he says.

  I nod. “Look for Monsieur de Roches. you can’t miss him, he’s the one who looks like Santa, only thinner. Oh, and wear whatever you want, but I’m going to dress a little fancy.”

  “I fancy you,” he says softly.

  Then why don’t you kiss me? I want to holler. But I don’t. I just smile and wave good-bye and head for the elevator.

  There’s no sign of Gigi yet, so I hop in the shower and give myself a pep talk. This has been another amazing day, and there’s lots to look forward to at the party tonight. It’s at some restaurant in the Eiffel Tower, for one thing, and for another, I’m going to get a chance to wear the dress I made for myself. I figure a little free publicity never hurts, and you never know, maybe some designer will see it and find out that I made it and my career will be launched. Well, launched in a way that doesn’t include baby clothes or blog rants.

  I dry my hair and put on my makeup, then cross to the closet and pull out my dress. As I put it on and look in the mirror, I wonder if maybe I should try and spice up the whole classic elegance thing. The whipped cream color is fine, and it sets off my dark hair and eyes, but it feels like something’s missing. Should I go a little edgier and pull a Bix? Put a blue streak in my hair? Add a cowboy hat?

  I don’t want to look like a little kid playing dress-up, though; I want to be taken seriously. On the other hand, I don’t want to look like I’m playing it safe and end up being boring, either.

  What is that quote Gigi read to me earlier this week? “In order to be irreplaceable one must always be different.” Thank you, Coco Chanel. There’s nothing wrong with classic elegance, but there’s nothing wrong with putting my own stamp on it either. I march over to the closet and slip off the heels I’d been planning to wear, and instead pull the pair of pink high-tops that I bought as a joke present for Cassidy out of my suitcase.

  They’re not just regular high-tops, though. They’re super-cute wedge heels.

  I put them on, and look in the mirror and laugh. So does Mirror Megan, who appears to like being four inches taller because she gives me two thumbs up.

  “Who says fashion needs to take itself so seriously?” I ask aloud.

  “Who indeed?” asks Gigi.

  I whirl around. She must have returned while I was in the shower. She points to the shoes. “Now those,” she says, “are pure Megan Rose. Très chic, and très delightful. But something is missing.”

  I look at her, worried. Did I miscalculate? Is the look too different? She gives me a mischievous smile and holds out one of her hands. The diamond earrings are resting on her palm.

  I gasp. I didn’t even know she’d brought them with her to Paris. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I put them on, then help her with the zipper on her dress. It’s a turquoise sheath with a wide, stand-up boat neck that looks a lot like some of the dresses we saw earlier this week but which she tells me she bought thirty years ago on another trip to Paris.

  “In fashion, everything old is new again,” she tells me. “Things always come back into style.”

  Downstairs, Simon and Sophie’s grandfather are talking in the lobby. They both rise to their feet as we enter, looking at us in open admiration. Monsieur de Roches is wearing a suit; Simon’s got a navy blazer on over a white dress shirt and charcoal-gray slacks.

  “We four are the belles of the ball,” says Gigi, sailing out to the Rolls on Monsieur de Roches’ arm. He deposits her up front, leaving Simon to climb in back with me.

  “Sweet ride, huh?” I ask him.

  “Sweet ride for a sweet girl,” he says, taking my hand again.

  I could sit here like this forever, I think, wishing it were farther to the Eiffel Tower. But it’s not, and a few minutes later we’re climbing out of the car again. The restaurant is already crowded, but Wolfgang must have been watching for us because he swoops down the minute we enter.

  “Don’t you look FABULOUS!” he says, twirling me around. “Love the dress, love the earrings, and the shoes—the shoes are STUNNING. Don’t you just ADORE them, everyone?”

  There’s a smattering of applause, and I can feel my face redden, especially when I spot the smirks from the people who’ve been snubbing me all week. For a moment I feel like Jane Eyre when Blanche Ingram makes fun of her at the house party at Thornfield, but then I remember my backbone, and what Coco Chanel said about being different, and I decide right then and there, so be it. If I can’t be myself, Megan Rose Wong, in this business, then this business doesn’t deserve me.

  Lifting my chin, I march into the room. Maybe it’s my newfound confidence, or maybe it’s Simon, who’s looking particularly handsome tonight, but pretty soon we’re surrounded by a crush of well-wishers. In fact, it gets annoying after a while. Everybody wants to talk about Fashionista Jane—or suck up to Fashionista Jane, probably hoping I’ll blog about them—and I’d rather just be with Simon.

  Finally, dinner is served, and we go to find our table. Simon and I are together, of course, along with Gigi and Monsieur de Roches and Wol
fgang and a handful of the designers whose shows I wasn’t able to visit.

  “I wanted to ensure that everyone gets a little face time with Fashionista Jane,” says Wolfgang. “Since it wasn’t possible for her to be everywhere at once this week.”

  “Where did you get that divine dress, darling?” asks a tiny man with enormous ears and wire-rimmed glasses. “Such lovely lines.”

  Omigosh, it’s actually happening! Across the table, Gigi smiles at me encouragingly. Taking a deep breath to quell the butterflies, I reply, “Um, I designed it myself.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, and he passes me his card. “Let’s talk soon.”

  I collect them from everyone else at the table, too. Simon nudges my knee with his under the table.

  “May I take Megan for a walk?” he asks Gigi a while later, as dessert is served and the waiter comes around with coffee. “I promise to return her to the hotel safely.”

  My grandmother hesitates.

  “It’s Paris—it’s springtime—they’re young,” says Sophie’s grandfather softly. “And it’s their last evening together.”

  “I suppose when you put it like that,” Gigi replies. She turns to Simon. “Of course you may borrow her. But please have her back by midnight—”

  “—or she’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

  Gigi laughs. “No—at least I hope not. We have a flight to catch early in the morning.”

  Simon takes my hand and pulls me out of my chair and we slip out of the restaurant and run for the elevator, laughing. The doors open and we step inside, and Simon punches the button for the top.

  “I’m not allowing you to go home without seeing the view from the Eiffel Tower,” he tells me.

  A short ride later we step out of the elevator. All of Paris lies glittering at our feet. We circle the observation deck silently, looking down at the city.