Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  Take that, Saint Vivia. I’m a sexually liberated woman. No moral hang-ups. No worrying about eternal condemnation. From now on, I’m just me, Vivia Perpetua Grant. Pink haired, ass tatted, sex loving Vivia.

  A gentle breeze billows the sails and our bodies are bathed in warm liquid gold Mediterranean sunshine. I can’t help but think this moment, this powerfully beautiful and true moment, is a metaphor for my new self. A cleansing breeze lifts my sails and exposes my lies to the light. I am naked and vulnerable.

  I press a grateful kiss to Luc’s salty lips and snuggle my head into the hollow of his shoulder. I don’t know if I will ever be able to thank him for helping me embark on this exhilarating, terrifying new journey, but I can think of a few ways I would like to try.

  Chapter 22

  Triple Nipple

  Fanny pounces on me the minute I walk into the suite.

  “Where have you been? My phone has been blowing up. What happened last night? How did you meet Jett Jericho? Did you really get a tattoo?”

  She stops to take a breath so I jump in.

  “With Luc. I got crazy drunk. A new friend introduced me to him. Yes, on my right ass cheek.”

  Fanny stares at me through wide, unbelieving eyes.

  “You met Jett Jericho?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Jett Jericho? Jett Jericho who started his career playing Willy Wonka in The Madness of Ronald Dahl? The same Jett Jericho who played Lucas du Courday in Vampire Chronicles?”

  “The same.”

  “Shut up!” Fanny slaps her hands on her cheeks. “Is he hot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s this new friend?”

  “Geneva de Prideaux.”

  “The heiress?”

  “Yep.”

  Fanny drops her hands.

  “You met one of the world’s richest heiresses, she plied you with champagne, introduced you to Jett Jericho, and talked you into getting a tattoo?”

  “Mmmm.” I drop my bag and flop down on the bed. “That’s pretty much it.”

  Fanny flops down beside me and we both stare at the ceiling.

  “One day, Vivian.” She holds up one finger. “I leave you alone for one day, and look what happens. You become a wild child. Next, you’ll be telling me you had sex with Jean-Luc.”

  A pregnant pause stretches between us as I try to craft a response.

  “Oh my God! You had sex with Jean-Luc!” Fanny sits up and looks at me as if I’ve suddenly grown a third nipple.

  Since she said “you had sex with Jean-Luc” more as a statement of fact than as a question, I remain silent.

  “You did, didn’t you? You boffed Jean-Luc?”

  “Boffed? Who uses that word anymore?”

  “The divorcees.”

  “Really, Fanny? Do you really want to pick up slang from the forties set?”

  “Whatever! Stop trying to change the subject. Answer the question.”

  “Which question? I’m sorry; I’m still back on boffed.”

  “Did. You. And. Jean-Luc. Have. Sex?”

  I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “Yes.”

  Fanny hoots and jumps on the bed, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old. Her giddy enthusiasm is infectious. When she finally wears herself out, she drops back down beside me and we sit cross-legged on the bed.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Was he good?”

  “Sorry, Fanny.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not talking about my sex life with Luc.”

  “That means he was.”

  “Still not saying.”

  “Fine, whatever.” She laughs. “I guess this means you’re over Nathan.”

  “I have to be.” I frown. “He sent me an e-mail calling me a whore. He threw down a bunch of legal jargon and demanded I return the engagement ring. That pretty much killed any love lingering in my heart.”

  “What?”

  “Read for yourself.”

  I grab my iPhone out of my bag, hit the power button, and hand it to her. It vibrates and chirps and bings for a long time.

  “I’ve never heard a phone do that. You must have a skazillion texts and e-mails.”

  I shrug. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

  Fanny reads the e-mail, shakes her head, and hands the phone back to me. I wait for her to call Nathan a pompous, self-absorbed, priggish asshole, but instead she says, “Where’s the ring?”

  “Over on the table. Why?”

  “Because,” she says, snatching the ring off the table, “we’re going to FedEx the ring to Nathan. And we’re sending it C.O.D., Collect On Delivery!”

  Chapter 23

  Measuring Wonka’s Willie

  The hair dye must have been temporary because the rest of it washed out when I took a shower. The Jett Jericho scandal is still raging, though.

  Before we left the Hotel Martinez this morning, I turned my iPhone on just so I could send a reassuring text to my mum and a terse response to Nathan. I had 216 new e-mails, eighty-nine new texts, and 193,975 new Twitter followers.

  193,975! How is that possible?

  Honestly, I am not flattered. I’m stressed. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having such a large following. Like I need to entertain. I wonder if this is how Marilyn Monroe felt when she wiggled and shimmied on the stage in front of a thousand GIs. Not that I am comparing my recent “celebritydom” to Marilyn’s. I know damn well this is a temporary blip on the radar screen. The storm will pass and I’ll go back to being boring old Vivia Grant @PerpetuallyViv, tweeting pictures of pig cookie jars.

  People even sent me private messages asking if I am Jett’s new girlfriend, if I am the reason he broke it off with his on-again-off-again model girlfriend. A few super creepy people asked me to describe Wonka’s Willie. Is it big? Does he shave? No lie. Fucking freaks.

  I remember the sweet, earnest man who sat on the beach, puffing cigarettes and spouting his philosophy on life and love. Poor Jett! It must be miserable to have your every move documented and scrutinized.

  Wanting to set the record straight (and satisfy the masses), I tweeted a few messages about my time in #Cannes.

  Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

  Everyone is asking me about my “wild night” in #Cannes with Jett Jericho. So, here’s my answer: NO COMMENT. #LeaveJettAlone

  Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

  @NathanEdwardsIII Returning the engagement ring, keeping the new, hot French lover. Who said breaking up is hard to do? #OverIt

  When I finished tweeting, I read a new text from Cowboy Big Balls. His bravado really knows no bounds.

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  Let me know when you're ready to ditch Captain Black. Why would you want a pretend pirate when you could have a real cowboy? Love the tattoo, btw.

  “Dude, like you’re all over the web,” Gabriel says, dropping onto the empty seat beside me. We’re on the bus, winding our way up a hill to some Tuscan farm that will be our home for the next five days. “Kayla said people are even pinning your Jett Jericho picture on Pinterest. It’s epic!”

  Kayla, seated across from us, has her nose in a worn hardback copy of Tolkien’s Children of Hurin. She ignores her brother and keeps reading.

  “It’s not epic.”

  “I don’t know. It’s pretty major.”

  “Glad to know the wreckage of my life is providing ample entertainment for the gawkers. The thing is, it’s not epic or major. It’s miserable. I’ve lost my fiancé, job, home, and now I have an international reputation as the pink-haired hussie who hooked-up with Willie Wonka.”

  “Guys suck,” Kayla says from behind her book.

  “Don’t listen to her. The only guys she spends time with are in books.”

  Kayla lowers her book enough to pierce her brother with a sharp stare. “Fictional guys are the best kind of guys, moron.”
>
  I laugh. Kayla might be slightly emo, but she’s funny.

  “Did you know Bruce Banner tried to kill himself and Tony Stark suffers from anxiety?” Gabriel says, recapturing my attention. “The Hulk and Iron Man. They have serious issues, but they’ve both saved the world from complete destruction. I like to think of that when I get down.”

  “You’re kinda random. Did you make that up?”

  The kid grins. “No, I read it on Twitter or something.”

  “Okay. So, the Hulk and Iron Man are head cases. What’s your point?”

  “Your fiancé dumped you. You’re unemployed and homeless. You cycle slower than everyone else on the tour. And the whole world thinks Jett Jericho banged you on the beach.”

  “Your point?”

  “The point is, even superheroes have their issues, but in the end they always end up saving the world. I like to think of that when things are bumming me out.”

  He gets up, flicks his sister in the head, and returns to his seat at the front of the bus.

  Kayla lowers her book.

  “He’s not a complete moron,” she says, looking at me through her fringy bangs. “He’s right. Things will work out for you, too. Just stick to fictional guys.”

  * * * *

  The Agriturismo La Lucianna is actually a posh stone hamlet built around a medieval castle and surrounded by rolling vineyards. The stone and stucco outbuildings have been renovated to serve as guest cottages. La Lucianna is an Agriturismo, a working farm that accommodates tourists, which means they produce their own wine, which means free wine with every meal. Score! I’m not a wine aficionado like Nathan and Fanny, but who’s gonna turn down free Tuscan vino?

  We’ve gathered on the terrace to dine al fresco. The view is spectacular. A patchwork of ochre fields and vineyards draped over the rolling land. Slender Cypress trees stand at attention atop the hills, silent sentries watching over the countryside. It’s like Napa but on steroids. I could stand here forever, gazing at beautiful Tuscany unfurling before me.

  “That’s San Gimignano,” Luc says, pointing to a sprawling castle perched along the ridge of a distant hill. “It is perhaps the most beautiful medieval hill town in the region. It’s called the Town of Fine Towers because of the dozen well-preserved tower houses located within the ramparts. It’s also home to the world’s best gelateria.”

  “The whole world, really?”

  Luc nods.

  “Hmmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Such a bold theory demands testing. I think I shall have to visit this gelateria, and several others in the area, and conduct my own experiment. Just for scientific purposes, of course.”

  Luc chuckles. “Are you sure you want to undertake such a dangerous experiment?”

  “If my research can somehow aid mankind, I am prepared to make the trifling sacrifice in the name of science.”

  “Bon courage, mon amie.” He raises his hand in a sharp salute. “Go with courage!”

  His mock serious expression makes me laugh out loud. Luc is proving to be the remedy for all that ails me. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a broken heart, must be in want of a good laugh.

  Luc turns his back on the other members of the group who have clustered around a long wooden table behind us.

  “I missed you today.” His voice is low and husky. “I wanted to talk to you on the bus, but Chantal insisted we use the time to go over some business matters.”

  Hello, Chantal! Now, whenever I think Chantal’s name, I imagine myself saying it the way Newman says Jerry’s name on Seinfeld. “Hello, Chantal.” It’s probably irrational, but I’m developing an intense dislike for the little French woman. I sense she doesn’t approve of Luc’s interest in me. I get that she’s his boss, but it feels deeper than that.

  “I missed you, too.”

  “Did you think about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think about?”

  What did I think about? Come on! Were you on the boat yesterday, or was it your gorgeous doppelganger that boffed…banged…whatever…me?

  Chantal, dressed in a chic black pants suit, a silk scarf knotted around her slender neck, strolls over and puts her arm around Luc. A bitter black bubble of jealousy bursts inside me. Whatthefuck? Could you be any more obvious or territorial? I want to reach out and garret her with that stupid ugly scarf. Seriously? I’m hardly a Fashionista, but who wears ascots?

  “Bon soir, Luc, Vivia,” she says, smiling tightly. “They’re about to serve dinner. Coming?”

  There it is again! That look. Definitely hostile. She was friendly when she picked me up from the TGV station. So what happened?

  Luc.

  No. I’m being ridiculous. She’s married. Then again, she is French. The French have an entirely different attitude about fidelity than most puritanical Americans.

  “We’ll be there in a minute, Chantal,” Luc says, firmly but politely. “I need to speak to Vivia.”

  Chantal’s smile slips. Her arm drops from around Luc’s waist. “If you’re certain?”

  “I’m certain.”

  Damn! You were just shut down, girl. Au Revoir!

  “Vivia,” she says, smiling. “I missed you on the Cannes tour. I was hoping we would have a chance to get to know each other better. Would you sit by me at dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, is that it? I hate to be so uncharitable and I really hope my impression of Chantal is skewed, but my sixth sense is warning me to be wary.

  Chantal leaves us, but her presence lingers. Luc avoids my gaze and needlessly adjusts his collar.

  “What’s the deal with you and Chantal?”

  He genuinely looks shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Nobody could dislike you.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He’s not really giving me an answer, but I’ll let this one slide. Just because we had mind-blowing sex on the deck of a ship off the coast of Cannes—in broad daylight—doesn’t mean we’re together. I have no claims on Jean-Luc.

  Oh my God! I don’t even know Luc’s last name. How’s that for putting things in perspective?

  We join the others at a long scarred wooden table set beneath a pergola covered in pungent purple flowers. Luc takes a seat at one end of the table and I take my seat at the other end, between Chantal and Mrs. Rosenthal.

  Chantal waits until the end of the second course before turning to me and striking up a conversation.

  “Fanny told me you heard from your fiancé. That’s wonderful. Will you reconcile?”

  She’s good.

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’ve had a change of heart about Monsieur Edwards?”

  I take a deep swallow of liquid courage before turning my full attention to the inquisitive little French woman. Okay, Chantal, you wanna go there? Bring it.

  “That’s the funny thing about being dumped by your fiancé just days before your wedding; it sorta changes your feelings for him.” My voice heavy is with sarcasm.

  “So no reconciliation?”

  “No, Chantal. Nathan has retaliated by getting me fired from my job, demanding I return my engagement ring, and publicly branding me a whore.” Okay, so I am exaggerating the last part a wee bit but she’s pissing me off. “I have a better chance of winning the next Tour de France than reconciling with Nathan.”

  I take another sip of wine before resuming my assault.

  “What about you, Chantal?” I smile sweetly. “You must miss your husband. Does he mind you taking these trips with Jean-Luc?”

  “Luc?” She laughs and it sounds like tiny tinkling bells. “Of course not. Why would he?”

  I look at Luc, shirtsleeves r
olled up to reveal muscular forearms, easy smile stretched across his handsome face.

  “Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? Look at him.” I nod in Luc’s direction. “He’s gorgeous, smart, funny, kind.”

  “Vivia”—Chantal places her manicured hand on my arm—“he’s also my husband’s brother.”

  What? Did she just say Jean-Luc is her brother in law? Damn. I was just shut down. Could I feel any more stupid?

  Chantal looks at my face, takes in my shocked expression, and laughs her tinkly bell laugh.

  “La! You thought—” She pauses, shakes her head, and laughs again. “Luc? And me? Non.”

  Obviously, I have a wonky sixth sense. I completely misread the situation.

  Chantal takes pity on me. She leans close and lowers her voice just above a whisper.

  “You probably sensed I was treating you coolly?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I was…am afraid you will hurt Jean-Luc.”

  “Why?”

  “Jean-Luc is free with his affections.”

  Chantal must have correctly read my whatinthefuck expression because she hurries to correct herself.

  “That’s not right, is it? I’m sorry, but I struggle with your American sayings. What does it mean when one displays their feelings openly?”

  “We would say, ‘he wears his heart on his sleeve.’”

  Chantal frowns and her perfectly arched brows knit together. She might have a slamming wardrobe, but Luc’s sister-in-law is seriously challenged when it comes to understanding and throwing down American idioms.

  “I would never hurt Luc.”

  “Perhaps not intentionally, but you are vulnerable. Monsieur Edwards broke your heart, and you haven’t given yourself time to heal.”

  She thinks Luc is my rebound guy and she might be right, but what a bounce he is. It’s way too soon to say I love Luc, but I can say that I am more than infatuated. He’s all I think about.

  Chantal grabs my hand and squeezes it.

  “Luc had his heart broken last year. It devastated me to see him in such pain. He fell in love with the wrong woman. She did not love Luc, the man, but Jean-Luc de Caumont, the nobleman.”