“Xavier!” she cried, waving to him across the gallery. He didn’t seem to hear over the loud music and the din, so, without even a backward glance at Holly, Alexa began making her way toward him, her feet barely touching the cloudy floor.
Holly watched Alexa float off and rolled her eyes. Fend for yourself was right; she should have known that Alexa would ditch her the minute she spied Xavier. Toying with her chunky silver ring, Holly hovered alone in the middle of the chain-smoking, French-chattering mob, her stomach sinking lower by the second. Holly sucked at fending for herself, period, and the fact that she didn’t speak the language—or know a soul—didn’t make matters any easier. Despite her lingering unsettled feelings toward Pierre, Holly desperately wished that he—or Raphi—had been able to come along. But both St. Laurent siblings were tied up elsewhere for the night.
A waiter carrying a tray of the dark red martinis walked by and Holly—just to have something to do with her hands—grabbed a drink. But when she took a sip, the tangy-sour taste—pomegranates, she guessed—made her grimace. Ugh. Holly was wondering if she could discreetly find a place in which to pour out the icky concoction when, suddenly, her ears pricked up at the most beautiful sound she’d heard all evening: someone speaking English.
Holly spun around to find the source of this heavenly sound, and saw two young women positioned in front of one of the brightly colored paintings on the brick wall. “I don’t know,” one of them, who had straight brown hair and dainty tortoise-shell glasses, said to the other, who had curly red hair and wore slouchy rhinestone-studded boots over pencil-thin jeans. “It’s not what I expected.”
For the first time since entering the gallery, Holly took a good look at the artwork on the walls—Xavier’s artwork, she reminded herself. All the paintings, she quickly noticed, were of the same, astonishingly beautiful girl, a girl with long, flowing black hair and big dark eyes. In some paintings, the girl’s face was bisected into green rectangles, and in others, into purple squares. And Alexa says he’s a genius? Holly thought dubiously, raising her eyebrows at the purple painting nearest her. She didn’t remotely see the appeal, but then again, she wasn’t remotely an art expert.
“It’s juvenile,” the redhead pronounced, scribbling something on her notepad. “Simplistic.”
“And the geometric shapes are so last season,” the tortoise-shell girl added with a sigh.
As the two women turned around to face Holly, she saw that they each wore a laminated badge pinned to their respective blouses. Both badges bore the women’s names and the words THE NEW YORK TIMES. They’re art critics, Holly realized as she watched the women saunter over to the next painting, still scribbling on their pads. They’re reviewing Xavier’s show!
And, from what Holly could tell, the review would be far from glowing.
Eager to tell Alexa what she’d overheard, Holly glanced across the gallery. She saw Alexa approach Xavier and his entourage, wearing an expression that was very bright and eager—and very not Alexa. Immediately, Holly felt a distinct tug in her gut that told her, unquestionably, that she should join her friend. Holly knew Alexa would vastly prefer not to have her there, but she couldn’t shake off her nagging intuition. To steel herself, she took another sip of her drink—which made her grimace again—and began elbowing her way through the gallery.
Meanwhile, Alexa, her pulse tapping, was almost at Xavier’s side, and when she spoke his name for the third time, he finally glanced her way. For an instant, he looked startled; his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Then his face brightened and he held one arm out toward her in a “come-join-me” motion.
“Alexa!” he said warmly. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
Alexa bit her Bourjois-glossed bottom lip, wondering why Xavier wasn’t swooning over her surprise appearance. Her first impulse was to fly over and wrap him in a hug—God, she wanted to feel his body against hers again—but Xavier made no move to come forward and kiss her, so Alexa hung back, standing between Etienne and Ms. Scarlet.
“I—I read about it in Pariscope,” Alexa explained, flashing Xavier a sparkly smile.
The girl standing right next to Xavier, who had short dark hair and big dark eyes—and whom Alexa didn’t recognize from the night before—made a sound that was somewhere between a titter and a snort. “Pariscope? You’re kidding, right?” she asked, and her voice reminded Alexa of ice cubes clinking in a glass—light and melodic, but cold enough to sting.
Instantly, Alexa felt her cheeks color. Um, dork much? It wasn’t at all like her to be so unsubtle. Not allowing herself to get too flustered, Alexa coolly met the gaze of the snarky girl, who was sizing her up at the same time.
It was one of those classic pretty-girl showdowns—Which one of us is cuter?—that Alexa usually won without breaking a sweat. But now there was no denying that her competitor was absolutely breathtaking. She must have been about nineteen or twenty; tall and slender, she was also far curvier than Alexa would ever be. She had luminous alabaster skin that didn’t need a lick of makeup, enormous, onyx-colored eyes, and shimmering black hair that was cropped short and worn slicked back, almost like a boy’s. But there was nothing boyish about her tight black bustier, low-slung camouflage Capris, and four-inch metallic silver sandals. A silky, silver scarf knotted at her throat, a tiny diamond stud in her nose, and an antique-looking diamond ring on one finger were her only accessories. She was so French it made Alexa’s teeth hurt. Suddenly Alexa felt very pastel-y, very blonde, and very—God, no—boring in her paisley dress.
Clearly aware of her victory, Mademoiselle Va-Va-Voom glanced away, shrugging one shoulder, and Alexa crossed her arms over her chest, pissed. Who was this girl to dangle Alexandria St. Laurent over the pit of insecurity?
“Alexa, this is Monique,” Xavier explained helpfully, putting one hand on the girl’s bare shoulder. “My muse.” He shot Monique a grin, and then lifted his martini glass toward one of the paintings on the walls. “The show is dedicated to her.”
Slightly dizzy, Alexa shook her head, positive she’d heard wrong. Maybe, for some weird reason, she’d misunderstood Xavier’s rapid-fire French? After all, the role of muse was already filled—by her. Alexa put one hand on her hip, ready to remind Xavier of that fact, but then Monique let out a short laugh, her silver-stemmed cigarette holder quivering between her crimson lips.
“Xavi, you silly boy,” she purred, her pure black eyes fixed on Alexa. “Now it’s your turn to tell me who she is. No, wait—let me guess. One of your little amusements?”
Alexa’s fiery temper flared, and she narrowed her eyes at Monique, so ready to take this bitch on. “Get a clue,” she snapped, her trembling fingers digging hard into the paisley clutch she held. “I’m Xavier’s girlfriend.” Alexa flung the word out there boldly, waiting for Monique to blink and back off.
Instead, Monique only gave a lazy smile, removing the cigarette holder from her mouth. Casually, she reached for the drink in Xavier’s hand, with an easy intimacy that made Alexa’s stomach turn cold. “Isn’t that sweet,” Monique replied in a soft voice while Xavier remained silent and motionless at her side. “I’m his fiancée.”
Alexa felt as if someone were punching her in slow motion, draining the wind out of her. Fiancée. A French word in English. Such a funny word, Alexa thought vaguely, as her knees wobbled and threatened to give out. It definitely wasn’t one that came up in conversations with her friends back home. Why had Monique even said it?
But, as Alexa’s eyes—slightly blurred from shock—drifted toward the bling-bling rock on Monique’s ring finger, the word suddenly made sense. The horrible weight of understanding settled on Alexa’s chest, and she lifted her eyes to study Xavier. He stared back at her, his eyebrows raised in a who-little-old-me? expression. There wasn’t even a hint of shame or guilt in the face Alexa had so loved.
Desperate to look away, Alexa stumbled back a few steps, and glanced, for the first time all night, at the paintings displayed on the walls
. Then, openmouthed, she dropped her paisley clutch.
Every single painting was of Monique.
Monique with long hair—Xavier must have painted them some time ago, Alexa realized with a fresh pang of pain—but Monique nonetheless. Her face seemed to be everywhere, freakishly multiplying, like clones in a bad science fiction movie. She is his muse, Alexa understood in one heartrending instant. Of course. And it had been Monique as well in that painting Alexa had seen in Xavier’s studio.
Last night.
When he’d said—when she’d said—when they’d—
“No,” Alexa whispered, turning back to Xavier. She wanted to lash out at him, to scream, but instead she felt weak and trembly, scarily close to breaking down. “I—I—don’t understand,” Alexa went on, using every last ounce of willpower to fight back her tears. She could feel the haughty gazes of Monique and Xavier’s friends—judging her, testing her. “What about last night—and—everything? You—you lied to me.” Alexa heard herself hiss these last words as she took a step closer to Xavier. Anger swirled in with her hurt, mixing like two colors of paint.
Xavier shrugged, his hand lightly rubbing Monique’s shoulder. “Alexa, calme-toi,” he murmured, his expression still maddeningly innocent. “I never lied about anything. I assumed you knew we were just…playing.” Xavier chuckled, and he and Monique exchanged a brief, what-are-we-going-to-do-with her? eye roll. Alexa was filled the nauseating certainty that this exchange—hapless, lovesick girl facing off against a blasé Xavier-and-fiancée—was an all-too-common occurrence. “Come on, Alexa,” Xavier sighed as he turned his indifferent gray gaze back to her. “Let’s not make a big deal out of this—you’re an adult, aren’t you?”
Alexa had never fully understood the word “heartbreak” before, but now she felt it in her chest—a sharp, splintering pain, like an invisible hand was squeezing her rib cage. Suddenly she was remembering fragments that, in hindsight, made perfect sense: Xavier’s mysterious phone calls, how he hadn’t taken her back to his apartment, the knowing way his friends had smirked at her in the bar…She—street-smart, savvy, Paris-born Alexa St. Laurent—had been duped. Big-time. And now, in front of Xavier, Alexa didn’t feel at all like a grown-up. She felt like a tourist. A naive, bumbling tourist, who didn’t speak the language and couldn’t count the currency and got tricked into spending all her money on a shitty reproduction of a famous work of art.
Maybe Alexa didn’t know all there was to know about Paris. Or boys.
“Come on, Alexa,” Xavier repeated, only this time he had switched—appropriately—to English. His mouth curled up in a half smile as he let his hand drop from a yawning Monique. “Stop looking at me that way. I’m not the devil.”
“That’s true—you’re not,” a familiar voice spoke firmly from behind Alexa, also in English. “You’re just a raging asshole.”
Alexa—along with Xavier’s friends—gasped, and turned around to see who dared insult the great artist.
And there stood Holly, her face so white with rage Alexa could practically count her golden-brown freckles. Alexa had no idea how long Holly had been listening to the exchange—or, since it had been in French, how much she’d understood—but clearly she’d gotten the gist of it. Alexa’s first impulse was to whisk her friend away and tell her to stop mortifying them both. Then she realized—with a flood of gratitude—that Holly was sticking up for her. With a close friend at her side, Alexa wasn’t so defenseless anymore.
Plus, it was beyond empowering to hear polite Holly spit the word asshole.
“What did you call me?” Xavier asked Holly, looking far more amused than upset, while Monique narrowed her eyes at the new girl.
“An asshole,” Holly repeated, amazed at how clear and strong her voice sounded. “I don’t know the equivalent in French, but whatever it is, you’re that, too.”
Am I really speaking these words? Holly wondered. But she was filled with the courage of her convictions, and forgot to feel frightened. Instead, she felt almost heady with triumph. Maybe Holly did know more about boys than she gave herself credit for. She’d realized that as soon as she’d seen Xavier touch the girl at his side—the girl from the paintings—and smirk at Alexa. Holly hadn’t needed a translator after that; she’d understood everything immediately. And Holly knew she couldn’t stand by in silence while her friend’s heart was publicly stomped on. Holly Jacobson was definitely not avoiding this confrontation.
Xavier seemed momentarily taken aback by Holly’s retort, but he quickly recovered and shot her a charming smile. “I remember you,” he said, his voice lilting. Taking the martini back from Monique, he finished off his drink and dropped the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “We met last night. You never answered my question about American girls, did you?”
Alexa, bowled over by Holly’s gutsiness, turned back to her friend, wondering what her response would be. And what had Xavier even asked about American girls? Alexa felt her skin start to crawl. She’d never really known Xavier, had she? Alexa watched as Holly rocked her martini glass back and forth in her hand, clearly formulating her answer. But, just as she was opening her mouth to respond, Scarlet-Bob Girl suddenly spoke up beside Alexa.
“Wait—you’re American?” she asked Alexa in French, clearly surprised.
“You didn’t know?” Etienne cut in, rolling his eyes. “It even said so in the paper today.”
Excuse me? Alexa thought, glancing from Holly to Etienne in bewilderment. The newspaper had announced her Americanness to the world? How was that possible? But, as Etienne reached into the back pocket of his low-slung jeans—French boys, Alexa randomly reflected in that moment, seemed to carry all their earthly possessions in the pockets of their Levi’s—and pulled out a folded piece of newsprint, things began to click. In a really bad way.
“I brought this to show you, Xav,” Etienne explained as he unfolded the scrap of paper and held it up for Xavier to see. “I know you hate the ‘ratzies, but publicity is publicity.”
Alexa felt her eyes widen in horror as she stared at the full-page, black-and-white photograph…of herself. Herself, and Xavier, standing outside Café Mercerie. Xavier’s head was half-down, and he was glowering at the camera, while Alexa had one hand on Xavier’s arm and the other on her hip. Her face was stretched into a huge, eager smile, and Alexa shuddered at the sight; she looked like a shameless wannabe—D-list, at best. But worst of all, was the evil caption waiting beneath the train-wreck photo: XAVIER PASCAL OUT BAR-HOPPING WITH HIS FLAVOR OF THE WEEK, AN ANONYMOUS AMERICAN TEENAGER. SEEMS HIS BLONDE STREAK IS CONTINUING! BUT IN THE END, HE ALWAYS COMES CRAWLING BACK TO HIS BELOVED BRUNETTE, MONIQUE.
Everyone—including Monique—broke into raucous laughter as Xavier tore the paper from Etienne’s grasp. Only Alexa and Holly—the party crashers, the outsiders—stood still and silent.
“Is that from last night?” Holly whispered, nudging Alexa with her elbow. Holly felt a dash of excitement over seeing her friend’s photo in the newspaper—even if the usually photogenic Alexa looked not-so-hot. But one glance at the Alexa standing beside her made Holly’s stomach sink. Her friend’s face was bright red, and her eyes were swimming. Holly didn’t think she’d ever seen Alexa so upset—not even when she’d skinned both her knees learning how to bike-ride when she was nine, or lost her beaded choker necklace in the school cafeteria when she was eleven. Holly realized she needed to get Alexa away from Xavier as soon as possible.
Alexa swallowed, unable to respond. An anonymous American teenager. Alexa didn’t know how Le Soleil had figured out that she was American, but it didn’t matter. At this moment, that was all she longed to be—a nameless, faceless anygirl. Why had she ever wanted to be famous? Why couldn’t she be back in New Jersey, happily roaming the bland Oakridge Galleria, instead of here, humiliated out of her mind in beautiful Paris? Alexa felt a sudden, surprising wave of homesickness, and knew then that she had to escape the gallery. Immediately. If she stayed a second longer, she’d break down
in tears—the kind of tears that were impossible to hide. She might even need to wail.
And to think she’d been worried about Holly embarrassing her.
Thankfully, Holly seemed to be working the mental telepathy thing tonight. She put a hand on Alexa’s elbow and gently pulled her away from the group, her other hand still holding the martini glass. “Let’s blow this joint,” Holly whispered, clearly trying to make Alexa smile, but Alexa felt like smiling was something beyond her—something she might never do again.
She allowed Holly to lead her away from Xavier, into the swarming crowd, but all the while Alexa was dying to turn around, to say one last thing to the artist who’d never really loved her. But what could she tell him? Alexa remembered whispering au revoir to Diego—who really had loved her—and felt the fracture in her heart deepen.
When she and Holly made it out of the gallery, onto the silent place des Vosges, Alexa finally let the dam burst. As the tears cascaded down her face, she reached instinctively for her clutch, and the tissue she’d stashed in there (to blot off excess lip gloss, of course) but her hands were empty.
“My—my bag,” Alexa sobbed, glancing over her shoulder into the gallery. “I—left it—I dropped it—” Next to Xavier. She couldn’t speak his name.
“I’ll get it,” Holly said briskly, giving Alexa’s arm a quick squeeze and handing her friend her mint-green bag. She’d been secretly hoping for a reason to return to the gallery, even if it meant leaving a wounded Alexa alone momentarily. “Wait right here—I promise I’ll be back in, like, five seconds.”
French Kiss Page 18
