by Nikki Bella
Monica had never really forgiven me for that. Especially when my own revenge affair started later and it wasn’t her in my sheets.
“Well, thanks so much for those calendar reminders,” I said, my voice sarcastic. “I’ll make sure not to miss my very important, high-priority engagements.”
Gigi was on the swing set, a good twenty feet away. The moment she saw me, she leapt off and raced into my arms, wrapping herself around my leg. Her blue eyes seemed to swallow me, memorizing my face, my every line. I wondered if I looked different to her than I had before. I didn’t want that distance any longer. I didn’t want days to pass without her.
“Pumpkin, what if I told you we were going on a trip together?” I asked her as we walked away, hand in hand. I held onto her backpack with my other one, letting it swing near my feet. I felt the flash of the cameras from the far side of the playground, memorizing Gigi and I in these moments. I wondered which magazine they wrote for. It didn’t matter.
“Like when we went to that theme park?” she asked.
“Kind of like that, yeah,” I said. “Only a bit longer, and a ton more fun.”
My driver took us to the airport the following morning, early, just after seven. Gigi fell asleep against my shoulder. My eyes tried to capture the last of the city, unsure of when I’d arrive back. It looked tired, washed out in the summer. Exhausted from inhaling so much sun. I helped the driver move the bags from the back, piling them into a carrier at the front of the airport. Afterwards, I shook his hand with finality. “I’ll call when I’m back in the city,” I told him. He would remain on the payroll, and I’m sure he would appreciate the paid break.
Margot awaited us at the airport’s main entrance. A single suitcase was at her feet, small, just enough for a few changes of clothes. A backpack stretched over her shoulders. She smiled at me, making me feel like I was the only person in the world she’d ever put her trust in. I was absolutely ecstatic to see her.
When Gigi and I reached her, I wasn’t sure what to do. Kiss on the cheek? Hug? I reached forward and gripped her suitcase, without knowing what to do, and placed it on top of our luggage rack.
“Glad to see you made it. Michael arranged everything with your passport?”
“He sped up the process. It was incredible,” she said. Her voice was soft, demure. She slipped off her backpack and flung it on the luggage rack as well. “And this must be Gigi! I’ve heard so much about you.”
Margot knelt down and shook Gigi’s hand. Gigi giggled, looking at her with round, orb-like eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“This is Margot,” I said, taking over. “She’s going to be our new friend over in Paris. You like new friends, don’t you?”
“Of course!” Gigi said, her voice high-pitched. “This is going to be the best trip ever.” She linked her hands with Margot’s and led her inside, taking the familiar route toward the private landing strips. Our plane awaited us, already stocked with our favorite foods. Smoked salmon and vegetables and delicious breads and cheeses for me, along with bottles of wine, and for Gigi, macaroni and cheese, sparkling juices that made her feel “refined” and “fancy,” and several package snacks—disgusting things she adored.
Once inside the plane, Margot chose to sit next to Gigi, instead of me. She cradled Gigi as the plane swept up from the ground, thrusting into the wide, blue sky above. In the hours after, as I sipped my wine, read my books, brooded over what the next few weeks would hold, Margot threw herself into her position: reading to my daughter, giggling with her, telling her made-up stories based on Gigi’s requests. Already, I was falling in love with the way Margot took to my daughter.
Kelsey had certainly never been this way with our daughter. She’d been a cold, formidable figure, always instructing her maids or assistants to play with Gigi. The role of “mother” hadn’t suited her.
But with Margot, it was as if they’d known each other for ages. Our new world was opening up, deleting bad New York memories in its wake. For the first time in a long time, I had the sense that things would be okay.
Margot
I had never been in a plane before, let alone a private one. As I played with Gigi, giggling with her, falling into her story, I could feel Jack’s eyes, watching us. They were a piercing blue, much like Gigi’s, and they held a power over me. I knew if I spent too much time looking back, catching his gaze, I wouldn’t find a way to resist him. That would complicate everything. Sex always did.
The plane ride was six hours, a short jaunt across the ocean. I tried not to show my nerves, sensing that Gigi was none-too-pleased to be as far above the water as we were. I clung to her hand during a brief bout of turbulence, making soft jokes to her in her small, porcelain-like ear. When the clouds broke beneath us, she brought her head back to my shoulder, not wanting to see. I understood. It was too much new, at once.
When we arrived in Paris, I watched from the side as several hired workers slung our bags into a private, black car. A mustached Frenchman slipped into the driver’s seat. Leaning across the open window, he gestured for us to get into the back. We did. I watched as Jack took to the language quickly, assumedly instructing the driver where to go. The driver gave a curt nod and sped away from Charles de Gaulle airport. We were on our way.
I’d done a bit of reading about Paris in the very few days leading up to our arrival. Jack’s mother’s apartment was in the Marais, the old Jewish quarter, with skinny, alley-like streets, countless curiosities, and gorgeous bakeries. It was just a short walk to Notre Dame cathedral, and very brief rides to the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and many other, gorgeous sites that made my heart swell, just reading about them.
The car cut down a small street, skirting down the cobblestones before halting abruptly in front of our number. After Jack paid him handsomely, with colored money that seemed like the stuff of board games, we left the car, piling our things at the front door. Before I had a chance to ask, three movers arrived in a yellow truck, yanking our suitcases up the steps and into the bright Marais apartment. Windows lined the slanted ceiling, offering a view of the many rooftops of Paris. It was all grey slats, with spitting chimneys, with small terraces and hanging laundry, flapping in the breeze. It was gorgeous, in a weird sort of way.
Jack was watching me as I inhaled the view. He pointed toward the far corner, saying, “That’s your room, Margot. I’ve had it suited up for you. Queen-sized bed, new bedding, a dresser, everything you might need.” He gestured toward my suitcase. “And if you need some cash to pick out some more Parisian clothing, be my guest.”
I felt my insides quake. As the movers began to unpack our things, even hanging my clothes in the closet, I watched Gigi fall into a box of toys and begin to play alone. Her dolls danced along the edge of chairs, speaking in a kind of playful, fake French. She was an imaginative, very alive child. I couldn’t have had it any better.
That night, Jack took Gigi and I to dinner in the Marais. The place was closet-sized, with just enough space for three tables. The kitchen spit out stunning smells. We ate cheese, with Gigi even opting for a bit of Brie (which she tolerated). Jack ordered a bottle of wine, splitting it between the two of us. I felt like a far different woman than the one who’d been spit up from the bus from Detroit to New York, not even three weeks before.
After dinner, we wandered the streets of the Marais. The city came alive at night, but much differently than in New York. It was a cozy aliveness, with people speaking conspiratorially over dinner, sipping wine along the glittering river, and gazing up at the bright moon. The moon seemed to burn a hole into the sky above.
I was captivated, wanting to inhale all of it. I had to pinch myself several times, remembering that this would be my life, if I wanted it to be. I glanced several times at Jack, wondering what was on his mind. He was fleeing his ex-wife, stealing his child. And I was a party to it. But the way he held onto Gigi’s hand, guiding her across the cobblestones, made my heart swell. I couldn’t imagine this man wo
uld ever purposefully hurt anyone.
Least of all me.
Gigi yawned beneath us. We exchanged a humorous glance. Jack leaned down and picked Gigi up from the ground, leaning her against his shoulder. His muscles burst against his shirt. “All right, little girl. We’ll take you home,” he whispered.
Before we arrived home, Gigi was completely asleep in his arms. He guided her to the back bedroom, where I slipped off her dress and tucked her beneath the sheets. She muttered something—was it “merci?”—and then drifted back into the pillow, a stranger to the world. She was leaving Jack and I alone again. With a jolt, I felt panicked.
Moving back into the living room, I watched Jack pry open a wine bottle and pour two glasses. He gestured, giving me that wonderful, A-list celebrity smile. My stomach clenched.
“I poured you a glass,” he said. “Come sit with me on the terrace. Let’s toast our first night in Paris.”
Unable to refuse him, I followed onto the terrace and sat, my legs crossed at the ankles. We clinked our glasses together.
“I suppose this must be normal for you,” I said, sounding hesitant. “Just being able to change your surroundings whenever you want.”
“You think?” he asked, laughing. “I’m so curious to know what you think my life is like.”
“You’ve been all over the world. You could live in the nicest places, from Los Angeles to New York to Tokyo to…” I trailed off. “If you wanted, we could do the same thing tomorrow. End up in a different apartment, in a different part of the world.”
“Technically, of course I could,” he said, his eyes glittering. “But there’s something about being in this old apartment. My mother lived here during all of her twenties and thirties. I have memories here, as a kid, taking trips with her. She taught me to dance when I was eight years old. Ballroom. In that corner over there.” He pointed, trying to paint the picture.
Above him, the moonlight glittered down, making his dark hair glow.
I sipped the wine, trying to find focus and stop my nerves. I felt our days in Paris stretched out before us, making me anxious about how to fill them. “Do you know that I haven’t told my parents I left the country yet?” I asked him, tittering slightly.
“No?” he said. “I suppose there wasn’t much to say. It’s not as if you were asking permission.”
“No.”
Silence. He looked at me for a long time, almost as if he were trying to peer into my soul. Reaching across the table, he patted my hand. “Hey. It’s going to be all right.”
I shifted, trying to laugh. Everything felt heavy, making my heart hammer. “Has your ex-wife found out what you’re up to yet?” I asked.
He dropped eye contact. His eyes were brooding, lost. “She’ll figure it out in a few days, when I miss a meeting with our custody lawyer. Around then, she’ll flip her shit.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked him.
“Taking my child from an evil ex-wife isn’t my specialty,” he said, joking. “I’m not sure yet. I’m playing it by ear, I guess.”
There was another moment of silence between us. I stood up, reaching for the wine bottle, and poured us two more glasses. I could feel the heat of him, gravitating up and down my arm. My lips were just a few inches from him as I poured. They dripped with desire to touch his.
I hovered over him the next few minutes, waiting. We sipped our glasses, gazing at one another. It felt like we were the only two people on the planet, caught up in some kind of bizarre, twisting love story.
I couldn’t fall for him. It would make everything crumble apart.
“Anyway,” I whispered, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. “I think the jetlag is finally catching up to me. I should sleep.”
“Sleep well, Margot,” Jack said, his voice deep. The way he looked at me, I wanted to strip bare and splay myself over his lap. I wanted to kiss him with abandon. I wanted to fall into his arms.
But I didn’t.
I was far away from anything I knew, in Paris, France. As I slid beneath the sheets, I shivered with anticipation at what I would learn and see and do in the next few weeks—with Jack at my side. Not romantically. It would have to be enough, this way.
Jack
The first few days in Paris were an absolute daydream. We spent long afternoons walking: Margot, Gigi, and I, laughing in the sunlight, exploring the old palace gardens, skipping rocks in the large park to the west, and dining on extravagant meals. “You’re going to make me gain fifteen pounds, easy,” Margot joked, saying she was bursting at the seams. Gigi fell into Parisian life quickly, picking up a few neighborhood friends at the playground. Her French took off like a sprint; her accent was even better than mine after day five. If I forced myself to stay on the surface, not thinking too much about what I was actually doing, I could convince myself this was the happiest I’d ever been.
Of course, the emails started coming in from the custody lawyer the moment I didn’t arrive to the meeting. We were six hours ahead, eating dinner, and my phone buzzed. It was a message from another time. He informed Kelsey rather quickly, who then began to ring me as well. I turned off the phone, feeling the eagle eyes of Margot. She knew what was happening. She knew I needed to figure it out, alone.
But instead, I threw myself further into this life. I purchased a baby grand piano for Gigi and hired a piano instructor. I spent sunny afternoons watching her practice, her little fingers tracing across the keys. Margot would read beside me, or go for a walk through the city alone. We’d fallen into this sun-drenched routine, colored with twinkling keys and long looks into one another’s eyes.
After one particularly long walk, Margot appeared back in the apartment, her cheeks red-blotched. She was gasping, her chest rising and falling like a rabbit’s. When I asked her what was wrong, she shook her head, her forehead wrinkling tightly. “Not in front of Gigi,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, Gigi scampered off, taking refuge in her room, with her army of dolls. I sat at the edge of the couch, waiting. Margot slipped a newspaper from her satchel and draped it on the floor between us. There, I saw my own photograph. I was walking, hand in hand with Gigi, along the Seine River. Margot was behind us, adjusting her sunglasses. Beneath the photo in French was written: “MOVIE STAR KIDNAPS CHILD, BROUGHT TO PARIS. MOTHER IN TEARS.”
“Shit,” I whispered. “Kidnapped? What a fucking dramatic word to use. Who is she kidding?”
Margot sighed. “I knew I needed to tell you the minute I saw it. Real life caught up to us, it seems.”
“We had a pretty good run, there.”
We paused. The silence was heavy, filled with a strange mix of desire and heartache and fear. I flipped the newspaper, reading more. Kelsey was wrapping her movie early in Los Angeles and had a top-notch lawyer ready to take me down. She was quoted as calling me a “bastard,” saying that I didn’t have Gigi’s best interests at heart. “He parties, non-stop. I can only imagine what he’s doing in Paris. And who is that mystery woman?”
The newspaper went on to speculate about the “mystery woman,” Margot. It described her, in detail. (I was grateful she couldn’t read French, and she didn’t dare ask.) The writer called her young and sheepish, with large, animal eyes, and an “appropriate” body type for a celebrity of my caliber. They speculated that she might be some kind of babysitter for Gigi, allowing me to live a hedonistic lifestyle. But they also affirmed it was probable that I was sleeping with her.
Shit.
“I’m sure it’s all over the American papers, as well,” Margot said, her head looking heavy. “What are you going to do?”
I stood and paced the room. My head began a sudden hamerring. Pointing toward Gigi’s bedroom, I asked, “Do you think you could take her outside? She hasn’t had a chance to run around today. I don’t want to have to deal with the consequences later.”
Margot nodded. After a brief, fearful look, she went to Gigi’s bedroom and told her, “We’re heading to the park in five minute
s. Pack up, kiddo!”
Once the girls were gone, I poured myself a stiff whiskey. Sipping it evenly, I leaned against the doorframe of the terrace and rang up Marcus. He would be the consistent voice of reason in all of this. The man who’d never led me astray.
“Yo, man. I was actually expecting your call,” Marcus said, his voice booming. “I saw the papers. Everything all right out there?”
“Everything’s wonderful,” I said, answering honestly. “I can frankly say I’ve never been happier in my life.”
“So you’re getting with the babysitter?” Marcus laughed. I could almost picture him, seated on Wall Street with his feet up on the desk. A cigar in his mouth, for good measure.
“No. Nothing like that,” I said. I paused, wondering if it was possible to translate what “pleasure” meant, here. It meant long walks and simmering conversations and laughing with Gigi. It didn’t mean what it meant back home, in New York. “I just need to find a way to stay as long as I can. To get Kelsey off my back.”
“You wanted a beautiful life for yourself, and you built it,” Marcus affirmed. “But you see the pieces crumbling down.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I began, knowing I was flirting with disaster. “About marrying Mar—the babysitter.”
