by Avery Scott
“Car, monsieur?” the doorman offered as they walked through the front doors.
Hudson looked to his companion, who shook her head in the negative. “Let’s walk,” she begged, her face lighting up with excitement when he nodded his head in agreement. She really did have a pretty smile. They walked to the end of Avenue George Cinq and turned onto Boulevard Champs-Élysées, peering at the shop windows as they slowly made their way down the street.
“Ladurée!”
Hudson smiled at the way the woman beside him blurted out the name of the famous pastry shop as they strolled past the mint-green façade. This particular iteration of the chain wasn’t the original location, and it looked half-mobbed with foreign tourists, but he kept those observations to himself, unwilling to dim his assistant’s contagious enthusiasm.
Ladurée boasted a popular tearoom in addition to the boutique that hawked its famous macarons. A menu was posted outside, but they didn’t bother to glance at it before heading to the hostess stand to request a table.
“Bienvenue!” The woman offered a smile of welcome and then asked for their reservation. Happiness leaked from Gabrielle’s face like air from a pricked balloon.
Hudson stepped in front of the podium, slipping a 50 Euro note out of his pocket and into his fingertips. He flashed it tantalizingly at the hostess before treating her to an apologetic smile.
“We just flew in this morning,” he explained, hoping that the girl spoke English. “Our concierge at the George V, said that you hold a few tables for his guests.”
He couldn’t be certain if it was the money or the name dropping that did the trick, but the smile returned to the French woman’s face. “Bien sûr,” she replied, before translating: “Of course- this way please.” She discretely accepted the banknote and then led them to a prime table in front of the windows. “Enjoy your lunch.”
Ms. Levesque began to pore over the menu immediately Hudson noted while skimming over the page, looking for words that he recognized. “Clubs et Sandwichs” was easy enough to work out and he decided on the Club Ladurée.
“Having trouble making up your mind?” he asked, hoping that was the only reason his lunch date was staring so hard at the menu. As mixed-up as things had been for the last twenty-four hours, he was faintly afraid that she had tricked him and didn’t speak French after all. Wouldn’t his father get a kick out of that?
That concern was quickly put to rest, however, when the server appeared at their table.
The young man greeted them in proper French and appeared both surprised and delighted to receive an answer in his native tongue. Hudson’s date and the server engaged in an animated conversation, seeming to discuss every item on offer before she finally settled on a dish called something that Hudson couldn’t decipher at all.
After a light lunch, they walked into the shop next door. Hudson’s assistant lingered in front of the artfully arranged glass cases, describing the various pastries and assuring him that New York had nothing like them. He doubted that. As a native Manhattanite, he was tempted to defend his hometown’s honor. What was it his father always used to say? “If you can’t find it in New York City, it isn’t worth having”. In the end, he didn’t think it was worth sparking an argument. Gabrielle was enchanted by the confections. It was easier to agree.
Hudson bought a box of pastel-hued macarons to bring back to their room, and then he and his assistant spilled out onto the street, meandering down side roads and stopping from time to time for Ms. Levesque to snap pictures on her phone. She tried to play it cool, but the happiness on her face was obvious. He wasn’t certain how long they were gone, but his feet were aching by the time they made it back to the hotel.
Hudson stopped at the powder room just inside the door, intending to splash some water on his face, but a cry of surprise from the living room brought him running back to Gabrielle’s side.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded, but the answer was obvious. The concierge had fulfilled his request to supplement the young woman’s wardrobe. Bags and boxes from Parisian boutiques were stacked waist deep at the foot of Gabrielle’s roll-away bed.
“They must have made a mistake,” she said, her fingers extending covetously toward the ribbon-handle of a large shopping bag and then snapping them back as if she were afraid that the parcel would bite her. “I’ll call the front desk and let them know.”
“No,” Hudson stopped her by laying his hand on hers. “These things are for you.”
“What?”
“I told the concierge to find you something to wear.”
“Yes, but…! You said that I had under packed. I thought he was sending up a spare toothbrush…”
“I think I made it clear that you needed to be prepared for our meetings this week. I’m sure that when the staff unpacked your suitcases they had a better idea of the task at hand.”
“They unpacked my suitcase?” Gabrielle exclaimed, clearly horrified by the idea. She looked like she wanted to fling open the closet to see if it was true, but her eyes caught on a Fendi bag and she was distracted again. “Still…! I can’t accept all of these things! I appreciate it, but I could never-!” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks flushed.
“You could never…?” Hudson tilted his head to one side, encouraging her to finish the sentence.
Gabrielle’s cheeks flushed a very fetching shade of crimson. “I could never afford to repay you,” she said in a breathy whisper.
Hudson shook his head in disbelief. Was this the same woman who ran up a six-thousand-dollar bar tab on his Amex Black card and didn’t bat an eye? It didn’t seem possible. Then again, he had lost his temper a bit over that. Perhaps she needed reassurance?
“I don’t expect you to,” he said flatly. “Think of it as part of your job. I can’t have you running around here in…” He let his voice trail off and politely decided not to mention the black knit dress, which looked faded and worn thin in spots now that he could see it in the daylight.
Hudson sensed Gabrielle’s continued hesitation but eventually, her curiosity won out. She reached for a Chanel shopping bag first, her motions slow and tentative as she unwrapped the contents, but she couldn’t contain a long sigh of pleasure at the black crepe suit and funnel-neck silk shell contained inside.
She was more enthusiastic as she reached for the next package and unwrapped two day-dresses from Dior. Then she discovered a smart pantsuit from Celine and a pair of Roger Vivier sunglasses. She was reaching for the parcels from Louboutin when her gaze met Hudson’s and she froze. She looked as if she’d forgotten he was even in the room.
“I was just…”
“Don’t let me stop you. You look like a kid at Christmas.”
“I feel like a kid at Christmas…a princess at Christmas.” She lifted the lid off one of the shoe boxes, slipped a nude leather peep-toe pump out of its velveteen bag and rubbed its red sole gently against her cheek. “I really can’t accept all this.”
“I insist,” he said firmly and picked up one of the dresses. “Now, why don’t you try them on for me?”
Gabrielle froze. For a moment, Hudson wondered if he had pushed too far. He watched as she bit her lip, glancing between him and the mountain of shopping bags until she finally reached a decision.
“Okay,” she said at last. “You can tell me what works best for the meeting tomorrow.”
“Here,” Hudson said, handing her a bag from Nina Ricci. He had no idea what was inside, but she’d look great wearing the plastic sack itself, so he didn’t think it mattered too much.
Gabrielle disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later in an emerald green A-line dress with dolman sleeves.
Hudson shook his head left to right, vetoing the look. Her tiny body was lost in the voluminous fabric.
“Try this one.” He offered an option from Chanel. It was a lightly textured navy blue sheath. This time Ms. Levesque emerged to a sound of clear approval.
“Beautiful,” Hudson murmured, adm
iring the way that the slight stretch in the fabric molded around her curves. He rooted to the bottom of the bag and pulled out a long rope of pearls with a signature clasp and pair of oversized shades. “Magnifique,” he exclaimed when she completed the look.
The phone began to ring, but Gabrielle didn’t seem to notice. She was standing in front of the mirrored wall in the living room, admiring herself from every angle. Hudson waited for the third ring before clearing his throat.
“Are you going to get that?”
A fourth ring.
“What?” Gabrielle blinked and looked surprised.
“The phone,” Hudson said. “Are you going to answer it? You’re my assistant. Isn’t that one of the things I’m paying you for?”
The phone rang for a fifth time before Gabrielle suddenly snapped into action and made a dash to pick it up. “Oh yeah, that’s right!”
Ring number six.
“Hello? I mean, allo – er…bonjour? C’est-”
She frowned at the receiver before returning it to its cradle.
“They hung up.”
Hudson groaned as the phone in his pocket buzzed.
Just great, he thought, looking down at the display, his father.
“Hi, dad,” he said, not daring to let the phone ring more than once. He motioned for Gabrielle to leave the room and watched her totter out onto the balcony in her new stilettos. “What can I do for you?”
“Why aren’t you answering the damn phone?”
“Sorry. We just got back in the room.”
“Out sightseeing right before one of the biggest deals in our company’s history? Do I have to remind you of how important this is?”
“No, you do that every single day. We were just getting lunch,” Hudson answered, sullenly.
“Well, while you were out eating,” Walker Quinn said the word as if consuming anything beyond a sandwich at one’s desk was a pure indulgence, “The Fougeres called up the main office. They want to push tomorrow’s meeting up from three PM to lunch.”
“Lunch?” Hudson hoped that he’d heard wrong. He wanted a chance to pitch his numbers in a boardroom setting. He had more control of the conversation that way. In his experience, lunch meetings (particularly those with Europeans) had a way of wandering off target. There was also the logistical problem of snagging reservations at an appropriate restaurant with less than 24 hours’ notice.
“Lunch,” the elder Mr. Quinn replied firmly. “Your girl will need to make arrangements and call over to Marché d’Été to let them know. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, sir,” Hudson said. “Is there anything else?
“Don’t fuck this up.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Eight
Abby couldn’t imagine what changed during Hudson’s phone call. She only knew that she didn’t like it. In a heartbeat, her boss changed from the easygoing man that she shared lunch with back into the fire-breathing monster who had dragged her out of the house.
She hoped that they would still be able to go out to dinner, especially after she informed him that the concierge had arranged a private dining room for their lunchtime meeting, but the black cloud that settled over her new employer refused to lift. He commandeered the bedroom and spent the rest of the evening reviewing files on his computer and barking out orders to the New York office on his phone. As his assistant, she expected him to ask for help, but Hudson more or less ignored her.
Abby ignored the gnawing hunger in her stomach and seized the opportunity to look over her sister’s notes again. When another hour passed without any word from Hudson, she walked out onto the terrace, watching as darkness slowly spread across the city like spilled ink and was replaced with a galaxy of twinkling lights. It was past midnight when she finally returned inside, brushing her teeth in the powder room sink before crawling into her makeshift bed on an empty stomach and falling asleep.
She was awoken the next morning by a slamming door and a muttered curse.
“Oh, God. You’re still asleep?”
Abby blinked her bleary eyes, momentarily disoriented.
“Fucking typical Gabrielle. Fuck!”
The events of the day before returned in a rush. Abby sat bolt upright in bed, frowning at the sunlight streaming through the windows. Yes, she was still in Paris.
“What time is it?” she asked with a yawn. She hadn’t been asleep for long.
“Ten o’clock.”
Abby frowned. Ten o’clock in the morning? That was impossible, wasn’t it? A glance at a nearby clock confirmed that jet lag had picked the worst possible time to rear its head. She lunged off the rollaway bed and grabbed the tablet to consult the agenda.
“We still have two hours. It’s fine. We just have to go downstairs. Lunch is here at the hotel,” she said with relief.
“You haven’t even showered yet, and you need to be down there early to set up.”
“Set up what?”
The look on Hudson’s face transformed from dark to thunderous. “The laptop projector. The tables. You’ll want to set out the binders for the Fougeres and their team, make sure all the details are fine-tuned and that we are 100% ready to go.”
Abby forced a smile and bobbed her head, hoping to mask her growing sense of panic as Hudson listed all the supplies he clearly assumed that she had taken care of.
“Maybe I can go ahead and get started while you get dressed? Is everything downstairs already, or do you need someone to carry it to the restaurant?”
What would her sister do? Abby felt a knot in the pit of her stomach as she tried to remember anything from the notes to indicate that her twin had taken care of any of the details necessary for the meeting. She was coming up completely blank. The growing panic showed on her face, causing Hudson to lift a hand to his temple.
“Please tell me that everything is downstairs,” Hudson said in a quiet, dead-calm voice that was somehow more terrifying than any of his yelling.
“I…forgot?” Abby squeaked, instinctively drawing away.
Hudson shut his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. He opened his mouth and closed it several times wordlessly before he spoke.
“I am going to go down and see if the concierge can help me pull something together. Call Imogene and ask her to e-mail me the slides and get the binders sent over for printing.”
Abby swallowed. “Uhm…Imogene?”
“Do not fuck with me right now,” Hudson growled, betraying just how much self-restraint it was costing him to stay calm. “Let her know that the meeting is going to happen here at the hotel so that she can tell my father. Do not come downstairs until you pull yourself together.”
Abby had half a mind not to come downstairs at all, but she kept that comment to herself. She waited until Hudson had left the suite and closed the door behind her before grabbing her sister’s tablet and switching it on.
Luckily, there was a single listing for “Imogene” in the contacts. She was listed as “Senior Executive Assistant to Mr. Walker Quinn. Abby assumed this was the mysterious “New York Office” employee that had been on the phone with Hudson for most of the night before. Abby dialed the number and was promptly answered with a bleary, “Hello?” She realized, belatedly, that it was barely past four AM back in Manhattan.
Abby muttered an apology for the early hour, and then repeated Hudson’s instructions. The conversation was brief, but she was left with two clear impressions. First, Imogene was a consummate professional that was well equipped to pull everyone’s ass out of the fire. Second, the sense of admiration was not mutual.
“I wish you’d conferred with me about this last week, Ms. Levesque,” Imogene said after confirming that the slides had been e-mailed and assuring Abby that a rush print order would be submitted forthwith. “I appreciate that this is outside of the scope of your normal duties, but even someone in your position has to respect how critical this venture is to Quinn Holdings’ future success. Mr. Quinn will not be pleased by these…complications.�
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Something about the way Imogene referred to “the scope of your normal duties” made Abby uneasy, but she was too relieved that the situation was being managed to examine the sensation closely.
“Thank you, Imogene,” she said, hanging up the phone and dashing off to get ready.
There was only one bathroom in the suite, leaving Abby no choice but to use Hudson’s shower. Even though her surly roommate was long gone, it felt disturbingly intimate to share such a personal space. The air in the marble-tiled room was steamy and the mirror still held a hint of fog. The leather and tobacco scent of Hudson’s cologne hung in the air, and a damp towel was discarded on the floor. It was all too easy to imagine the Turkish terry cloth wrapped around his lean hips. It seemed as if he had just stepped away and might return at any instant. It was an oddly delicious thought.
Abby climbed into the shower and turned on the water, delighting in the feeling of the steamy droplets beating against her back. As appealing as the sensation was, she didn’t dare linger. She washed her hair, scrubbed her skin and then hurried out of the shower to finish the rest of her toilette.
The shopping bags from the day before were now stacked in the hallway closet. Abby rooted through them, selecting the Lanvin pantsuit, Prada pumps and a pair of gold chain earrings that she found wrapped in a separate package. The concierge had done an extremely thorough job. She assumed that he received a commission from the boutiques and was counting on Mr. Quinn not to sweat an extra zero on the total of room charges. There was makeup in addition to the clothes, along with hairspray, stockings, and a crystal bottle of perfume.
It was a challenge not to succumb to the temptation to play with all the new grown-up treats. Abby loved makeup, perhaps because it was so much like painting. It was one of the few things she splurged on occasionally if all her bills were paid and there was a bit of money left over. Even at the best of times, she had never had so many new cosmetics to experiment with at once. She spared a few minutes to pour through the bags, testing the lipsticks and powdered eyeshadows on the back of her hand. How had the concierge known what color foundation to buy? It was a perfect match, just like the rest of the offerings: understated, chic and obviously expensive. She picked up a sable makeup brush and went to work. Fifteen minutes later she was ready to go. The final step was a spritz of perfume that left a hint of tuberoses and Meyer lemon in her wake.
