Dream Girl

by Lauren Mechling

  “We’re working on the flow,” Douglas told me when I came back out. As to whether it was flowing well, I had no idea—most of my French comes from baby talk and children’s cartoons, not the language favored by French intellos.

  Douglas must have misread my bewildered expression for one of disapproval. While Dad continued to read, Douglas got up and joined me by the coatrack Mom had decoupaged with shellac and old Le Monde newspapers. “He’ll get better,” he whispered from behind. “His flight’s tomorrow night. That gives us plenty of time.”

  Dad was still concentrating on his paper and had given no indication that he realized I was home. I turned around to smile at Douglas. “You’re a good friend,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go do some homework.”

  “Sure you are.” Douglas gave me a devious look.

  Once in my bedroom, I said hello to my fish and connected my digital camera to my computer. I hadn’t cleared out my camera in ages, and I had to wait for other images to upload onto the screen. I saw pictures of an artist’s studio in Harlem I visited with my old Farmhouse buddies, my family picnicking in Paris’s Belleville Park, and Clem and Kiki tipsily waltzing around Clem’s room. It felt as if decades passed before the shot of Rye and Otto came up. I clicked the rectangle to enlarge it. I could see Lazarus in the background, and they all had a case of red-eye that lent them a demonic aspect. Part of me wished Becca never had to see this picture, but I knew if she didn’t, she’d probably end up seeing something a whole lot worse.

  I took in a deep breath and dialed Becca’s number. She picked up, sounding dazed.

  “Am I calling too late?” I asked.

  “No, no,” she said. “I was just watching this TV show that reveals the mysteries of cooking.”

  “Since when are you into cooking?” I asked. “And what exactly are the mysteries it entails?”

  “I’m not. And the mysteries aren’t that mysterious, because I dozed off…. Oh—but I did drop off the comic book at the printer. They’ll be ready after Thanksgiving break.”

  “Awesome.” I had to look back at the computer screen before I could go on. “I have something weird to tell you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t think Rye should go to London with your family.”

  “Why? You don’t think she’s right for Andy?”

  “Um, she’s the worst thing you could possibly wish on your family.” My tone was deadly, but Becca just laughed.

  “If you want to surprise me, you’re going to have to try a little harder. No offense, C, but it’s been kind of obvious from day one that you sweat my brother and you hate Rye.”

  I decided to let that one pass. “Rye’s hanging out with Otto Soyle. And he wants her to mess with your dad’s plane.”

  “Oh yeah?” She could barely contain her skepticism.

  “I have proof. I swear.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I have a picture of the two of them together. Rye and Otto.”

  “They know each other,” she countered. “They grew up in the city together.”

  “And I have a…I have more proof.”

  “What kind of more proof?” I could just see her drawing up an eyebrow.

  “A napkin.” I realized how stupid I sounded. “It has some hair-raising information on it. You just have to see it with your own eyes.”

  She chuckled. “I’m sorry, Claire, but I can’t convince my parents to skip a family wedding based on an incriminating napkin. Your imagination is one of the reasons I love you, but you’ve got to know when to give it a rest.”

  I was trying to fight back my tears. Becca’s stubborn streak was not something I had any chance against. “Well, when does your family leave for your cousin’s wedding?”

  “This morning,” she said. “If you need to contact them and ruin their trip with this ridiculousness—which I’d prefer you not do—you’ll find them all at Claridge’s. It’s a swish hotel in London.”

  “I’ve heard of it, thanks.” I was feeling defensive. What on earth was I going to do—charter a jet to London to hand deliver the goods? And if Becca didn’t believe me, the rest of her family might not, either. I needed to show it to Rye and let them watch her try to explain. The alternative—that they might not make it back in one piece—was too grizzly to contemplate.

  “Claire?” She sounded hesitant.

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Andy. I don’t think he and Rye are going to get married anytime soon.”

  “That’s not what this is about,” I said feebly.

  “Whatever you say.” I could hear her rolling her eyes. “Now if this awkward conversation is over, I have a cooking lesson to get back to sleeping through.”

  I got off the phone feeling totally disgruntled. Becca’s attitude wasn’t the half of it—how was I going to reach her family when they were on the other side of the world? Then suddenly it clicked.

  “Papa!” I screamed, shooting into the living room. “You’re allowed to bring your spouse to the conference, right?”

  “Oui,” he said with a shrug.

  “I sense an agenda here,” Douglas said playfully. “Where exactly are you going with this?”

  “To Paris?” I replied. “It’s not like we’re celebrating Thanksgiving until after Mom gets back anyway. Oh please, please, please. Can you call the symposium organizers and tell them your little lady wants to come?”

  “She is little,” Douglas told Dad.

  I had to go. London was only a few hours away from Paris by train. If I had a free day, I could shoot there and back without Dad’s noticing a thing.

  “And why would the little lady want to go to France?” Dad asked. “A shopping spree?”

  “Exactly!” I said, grateful for any suggestion that didn’t let the truth slip out. “I read in Biba they’re selling these amazing A-line dresses at Morgan for fifteen euros.”

  Douglas and Dad were both looking at me skeptically. “And cultural sightseeing,” I went on. “And chocolate tasting…And I really want to see Uncle Cédric and Aunt Ségolène….”

  I shot Douglas a desperate look.

  “It’s better for me,” Douglas volunteered. “I was going to look after both the kids anyway. One’s easier.”

  “See?” I interjected.

  Douglas went on, “It will be nice to have a father-daughter trip. And Claire would be a great coach. I can make some review sheets for the two of you to go over.”

  “I’ll help you get ready!” I ran over to join Dad on the couch, too energized by the idea of going to Paris to care whether I was being a big dork. “I’ll be your coach and your muse….” Sensing Dad was warming up to the idea, I moved over a little closer. “S’il vous plaît?”

  “What about school?” he asked.

  “We’ll be gone Thursday to Sunday, the same days we have off for Thanksgiving,” I persisted.

  “How can you say no to such a pretty muse?” Douglas asked.

  “And coach,” I reminded them. “We’ll work a lot. Just tell them they messed up and your wife is named Claire. They won’t notice.”

  “You guys are disgusting,” Henry threw in.

  Dad started to get up. “I’ll e-mail the organizers and see if they can change the name on the ticket.”

  “Yes! I’ll be the best fake wife ever.”

  Douglas turned to Dad. “A young blond wife could do wonders for your career.”

  “C’est vrai,” I said, batting my eyelashes at hummingbird speed.

  { 29 }

  Bon Voyage and Cheerio

  Thursday afternoon, just hours before our flight, I ran up to Kiki’s to collect the cash that my secret international plan would require. While Clem and Edie played cards in the main room, Kiki brought me into her bedroom. She climbed onto a stepstool to pull down a hatbox from the top shelf of her closet and handed me two hundred-dollar bills. “This should cover the train ticket.”

  “Thank you so much.”
I folded up the money and tucked it into my pocket.

  “And take this, too.” She passed a few more notes my way. “For the box of macaroons you’ll be picking up for me at Ladurée.”

  “Same as before, pink and brown?”

  “Not brown. That sounds so common.” She steadied herself on my shoulders as she returned to floor level. “Coffee-colored.”

  “Right…” I glanced down to see she’d handed me an extra three hundred dollars. “Whoa! Kiki, how many macaroons do you want?”

  “The usual. Two dozen. If you have a spare moment, I’d replace that enormous ink stain if I were you.” She eyed my black and white striped bag disapprovingly.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said with a smile.

  “Of course you will.”

  I joined Edie and Clem for a quick hand of gin rummy; then I got up and let myself out. I was home by six and I was packed and out the door an hour later. I was getting good at this globe-trotting stuff.

  Dad seemed much more laid-back than he normally did when traveling. He didn’t stride ahead at the airport or give me any of his anal-retentive “zeep-zeep” action.

  “Why aren’t you getting impatient with me?” I asked him.

  “Why aren’t you running into random bathrooms?” he retorted.

  “Touché.”

  The flight was the easiest thing in the world. No nauseating choppiness, no crying babies, and, best of all, the in-flight movie was North by Northwest, one of my favorite Hitchcock movies (so what if I’d only seen two?).

  We landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at the crack of dawn on Friday. Dad was ecstatic the minute we stepped off the plane, and insisted on filling up on espresso and a warm croissant before hailing a taxi.

  “This is the civilized way to live,” Dad said, indicating the row of people seated at the coffee bar. “Nobody in Paris would dream of a to-go cup.” He grinned and took a final swig from his espresso’s ceramic vessel.

  L’Hôtel Grand Canard was in the Sixth Arrondissement, a swanky district in central Paris. After checking into our room and ordering up my cot, Dad and I decided to take a stroll through the Jardins du Luxembourg. Despite Dad’s caffeine level, we were both too wiped out for conversation, and spent whatever energy we had watching the park’s assortment of characters—mostly pigeons, young lovebirds, and old men reading the newspaper.

  On the way back, we stopped in at a chic clothing store with 1960s film posters on the walls. I bought a canvas tote bag with an enormous leather pocket on the front. I made sure to get it in black so I wouldn’t have to worry about any more exploding pen problems.

  “One hundred and twenty-five euros? C’est chèr!” Dad exclaimed when the shop assistant wrapped my purchase in tissue paper.

  “It’s on Kiki,” I told him, and he seemed much less troubled.

  We slept away most of the afternoon, and then went to Chez René, a restaurant on Boulevard Saint-Germain, for a four-course dinner. With the conference covering airfare and taxis, Dad felt he could justify splashing out on one big meal. “Your mother would love it here!” he exclaimed when we walked into the restaurant.

  All through dinner, I consulted my lap, where I’d put the review sheets Douglas had made, and quizzed my father on everything from eye contact and smiling techniques to optimal microphone heights.

  I could tell Dad was bored by what he thought were superficial concerns, and by the time the crème brûlée had come out, he had completely lost interest in Douglas’s notes.

  “Papa,” I said sharply, “I know you’re thinking about how much you miss Mom and how stupid this is. But getting your much-deserved due from the academic community is not stupid, is it? You’ve been preparing for this moment since I’ve known you.”

  “Since before that,” he corrected me.

  “Exactly. You have to make a good impression. Don’t blow it.”

  He looked at me as if he’d never heard anything so poignant and called the waiter over to order a chocolate souflé. In the twenty minutes it took for our second dessert to arrive, we went through Douglas’s Dos and Don’ts all over again, and Dad started to get the hang of things. Night had fallen by the time we left the restaurant.

  Back at the hotel, Dad spent some time on the phone with Mom before going into the bathroom to wash up.

  “Are you going to trim your mustache?” I asked when he stepped back out.

  “Pourquoi?” He touched the fringe above his lip.

  “It’s just looking a little messy.” In truth, it was fine, but I needed to buy a little extra time so I could call the Shuttleworths.

  My father turned and headed back into the bathroom and as soon as I could hear the water running, I fumbled with the phone, trying to figure out how to get an outside line. It proved more complicated than I’d expected, and it was a miracle that Dad was still humming “Clair de Lune” to his reflection when the reception desk at Claridge’s put me through to Mr. and Mrs. Shuttleworth’s room.

  I had no idea how nervous I was until the ringing sound started. I felt as if I was going to die of heart failure.

  Becca’s mom picked up. “Claire?” Her voice was edged with dread as soon as she identified me. “Is everything okay?”

  “Absolutely. I’m just in, um…My dad and I are in London, and I wondered if you wanted to get together?” I felt weird planning a playdate with my friend’s mom, but I couldn’t think of any other way to proceed.

  “Oh! You are!” She sounded confused about whether she should be flattered or concerned. “You know Becca’s not here with us….” Clearly she felt weird, too.

  “Oh, I know—she told me. It’s just that my dad’s really busy with his conference, and I thought it would be fun to hang out.” My ears went hot—had I just told my friend’s prim and proper mom I wanted to “hang out” with her?

  She chuckled. “Well, I’m flattered. Where are you staying?”

  “Oh, this little place called the…” My eyes shot over to the antique print of a duck hanging over Dad’s bed. “The Spotted Duck.”

  “I can’t say I’ve heard of it, but it sounds lovely.”

  “It’s, um…it’s sort of on the edge of town,” I sputtered.

  “As if that means anything to me. London is such a labyrinth…. Do you want to come by tomorrow, for breakfast?”

  I told her that might be a little rough. “We have an early thing we have to go to.”

  “Can you do lunch? Oh wait, we have a meeting with some antiques dealer at one. What about tea? They’re famous for their tea here.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes,” she giggled. “But more specifically at Claridge’s.”

  We made plans to meet in the hotel lobby at two-thirty, and I was off the phone by the time Dad came back out.

  “You like?” he patted his freshly trimmed mustache.

  “Much better,” I told him.

  Dad turned on the news and helped me set up my cot. I crawled in and pretended to be sleepy, though my heart was still bumping around too much for me to relax. Eventually I slipped into a dreamless sleep—evidence, surely, of how exhausted I really was.

  In the morning, I helped Dad pick out a bright green shirt (Rule #4 on Douglas’s list: Wear cheerful colors) and listened to him practice his speech.

  “Sounds perfect.” I hoped he was planning on leaving soon so I could get going on my own journey. “So will I see you for dinner tonight?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, but I’m trying to be like Douglas. I’m going to the participants’ dinner to practice his networking moves.”

  “Bravo,” I said.

  “If you put on a fancy dress, you can come and play with the other wives, real and fake.”

  “No thanks,” I said. I couldn’t look at him straight on—I would’ve cracked and let my mission slip out. “I have a big day. I’m going to visit Fauchon for chocolate, and I want to go to the Galeries Lafayette and try their food court. I hear they have a superb dinner platter
.”

  It was partly true; I did want to go there. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved visiting their lingerie department. The floor is filled with racks of unaffordable wisps of ribbon and lace, and the dressing rooms have day and night light switches for customers who need to know how their underwear will look at high noon as well as in the soft glow of a bedroom.

  “Shopping, shopping.” Dad rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky your grandmother likes you so much.”

  “What can I say?” I told him. “She has excellent taste. Now, let me take the elevator down with you and wish you bon courage at the door.”

  “In your pajamas?”

  I picked yesterday’s dress up off the floor and threw it on over my jammies. “It’s the tunic look,” I explained. I saw him to his taxi door. I could tell it gave him immeasurable pleasure to say to the driver, “À la Sorbonne!” and I beamed as I blew Dad one last kiss. He was going to do great, I just knew it.

  Once Dad’s car disappeared around the corner, I ran back upstairs to get ready. Remembering how Kiki always complained that people didn’t know how to dress for traveling these days, I put on the nicest dress I’d brought—a wool magenta number with gold details at the wrists—and my special black suede wedge boots that Kiki never lets me wear in the rain. Then came the hair and makeup. My hair was looking especially bird’s-nesty, and I made a note to spend the rest of Kiki’s money on a decent haircut. Finally, I double-checked my bag to make sure it had my essentials: water bottle, photos, Rye’s discarded napkin, and Murder on the Orient Express.

  I was set.

  Or so I thought. My taxi dropped me off at the Gare du Nord nearly an hour early, but just as I had settled on a stool at the station coffee counter, I spotted a woman carrying a chic leather passport case.

  Passport.

  How could I be so stupid?

  “Oui, mademoiselle?” the barista asked me, wiping my portion of the counter clean.