My colleagues and I would like to invite you to come to Flytning Værktøj. We wish to share with you our vision and introduce you to the team you would be working with.
I assume that this needs to be handled discreetly. We are happy to work around your schedule, in order to accommodate your needs.
We look forward to talking with you soon.
Regards,
Aksel Pedersen
My eyes were glued to the monitor. My brain fritzed. I quickly moved the email from my inbox to a folder labeled, Random Documents, as if that would change anything.
As each day of the past six weeks had passed since meeting Aksel Pedersen in the bar of Hotel Cambon, I had said nothing and done nothing. It had begun to feel almost like it had never happened. My feelings of guilt at not telling Sébastien had abated with time. Until now.
Pirouette
I hadn’t seen Anaïs and Yvette since Bethany Halvorsen’s show. Once I’d done the math, I couldn’t believe how quickly the autumn had whizzed quickly by. It had been almost six weeks since I’d seen them.
We met at the Métro station Rambuteau-Centre Georges Pompidou, so we could walk down Rue du Renard amongst the tourists, past the Pompidou Center, and then onto Pirouette. We passed many bustling restaurants and bars along the way where tourists and locals sat outside, taking advantage of the break in the rain.
Inside the restaurant, we were led up a black, metal, spiral staircase to the second floor, where we could see most of the bustling restaurant. The space had great energy; it was buzzing but not noisy.
At first, the girls were quite gentle, asking bland questions about Sébastien and me, but when it became clear that the relationship was developing at a faster pace than they had expected, the questions became bolder. “Tell me, chérie, the romantic interludes, are they parfait?” Yvette inquired, while glancing at Anaïs for confirmation. I did a double take. This was the kind of question Marian would ask, not Yvette.
I stared at them blankly, letting the question dangle in the air. Just as they appeared to be giving up hope, I conceded, “I’m not going to say much, I’m just going to say… in the words of Marian Connolly, he’s absofuckinglutely amazing.”
Yvette immediately brought up a conversation we had had when we first met; they’d asked me if I was a lesbian! It seemed that my hobbies, independence, and lack of love life had convinced them I was in the closet. Anaïs observed me blushing and said, “No, not a lesbian.”
Once the food began to arrive, our conversation slowed. I barely tasted my food as I sat wondering how to introduce my topics of conversation. There was no other way; with a deep breath, I leapt in. Since they already knew that I was hoping to get Monsieur Detriche’s job, I told them about the unexpected job offer from Aksel, and the complication between Aksel and Sébastien. They looked at me warily.
When I finished, Yvette jumped in right away. “You should have told him immediately.”
Anaïs nodded vigorously, agreeing with Yvette. “What were you thinking?”
I looked at them wide-eyed. “I’m not taking the job. Besides, I’d only know him for ten days at the time.”
Yvette’s arched brow said it all. ‘So?’
Anaïs wasn’t as quiet. “Kathleen, it was already clear at Bethany Halvorsen’s show how attached the two of you were, so please don’t expect us to believe that. There’s more. What?”
They didn’t know about Mikkel, and I hadn’t planned on telling them today. It felt like “too much.” Besides, it doesn’t have anything to do with the job and Sébastien. “Oh yes it does,” my conscience whispered. Sighing, I answered, “I know you hate the whole Americans-spilling-their-guts-thing, but in order to explain why I did what I did, I need to tell you something.”
Anaïs gave me an uncharacteristic sympathetic look. “We are your friends first, Kathleen. Besides, you aren’t really American…” She looked at my shoes, and nudged her chin. “…you aren’t wearing sport shoes.”
I found myself telling them about Mikkel, the girls’ theory that I needed to go to Aarhus to let go of the past, and my own theory that I hadn’t told Sébastien because I was finally happy. Really happy.
They shed no tears, they just looked at me compassionately for about two seconds and then got to the heart of the matter. “If you want him, you have to be honest. He’ll tell you what the agreement allows, and you have to tell him what’s confusing you.”
Yup. They were right. As was the little voice inside my head. Shit.
***
Back at home, I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what I was going to say to Sébastien. So far I had kept quite a bit from him. In addition to everything else, I needed to tell him what I had withheld, my miscarriage. I had yet to tell anyone about that. Just the mere thought of losing my final tether to Mikkel had torn at my heart, and to this day I could still feel sad at times. I hadn’t told the girls when they were in Paris because I hadn’t wanted Charlotte to feel anything but utter joy at her pregnancy, not worrying that somehow it made me sad. It hadn’t.
I focused for quite some time on my tendency to keep secrets. It wasn’t healthy. Or right. No matter how I approached it, I had no idea where the impulse came from. But I had to stop doing it.
My feelings for Sébastien were far too strong, and growing very quickly. Time, opportunity, and the social intensity of Fashion Week had given us a lot of time together, so our relationship knitted quickly. But how unhappy was he going to be when he found out the truth? Then, how unhappy was I going to be? Because I didn’t know him very well and had no way of predicting his reaction?
8:00 AM, Tuesday, November 24
En Svar
AFTER I HAD made certain my office door was closed and that a mountain of papers was strategically stacked around my desk—I was terrified Messieurs Detriche and Huse would appear in my office unannounced—I tried to compose an intelligent response to Aksel’s email.
“Here’s hoping the Google translator isn’t crap!” I said aloud as I began typing a response to Aksel’s email.
To: AkselPedersen@ FlytningVærktøj.com
From: [email protected]
Subj: Re: Availability
Godmorgen,
Thank you for your email. I have reviewed the offer from Flytning Værktøj and must admit to being intrigued by the unique and compelling services your company wishes to provide.
Having said that, I wish to disclose that another position within L’Oréal may become available in early January. This position is where my immediate interest lies. As I mentioned in our meeting, I had not contemplated leaving the company or Paris before receiving your offer. I hope my response is not unexpected.
I wish you success in your venture and hope to hear great things. Best of luck filling the position.
Regards,
Kathleen Ehlers
There! It was done. I had turned the job down and all reasons—well, most of them—for feeling guilty were gone, finished, fini. I felt enormous relief, having the weight off my shoulders. I quickly sent it off. It was really Monsieur Detriche’s job I wanted, so… “That’s that.”
9:00 AM, Friday, November 27
En Risiko
BUT IT WASN’T over, done, finished. I was weighed down by many conflicting emotions.
Sébastien and I exchanged email and texts. I tried to match his banter, but he noticed a dip in my mood, which I passed off as not having slept very well, because it was true. I hadn’t.
I thought about who I had once been and who I now was. The combination of meeting Sébastien, sharing my love and grief for Mikkel, experiencing the creative process of the fashion show and the interest of those at Flytning Værktøj had changed me. I had been set free from the past, from loneliness, from the activities I had used to distract myself. Now, parts of me from the past, which had lurked beneath my secrets—the painter, the girl who didn’t have to do the safe thing—wanted to be set free.
Sometimes it was easier to lose myself in fan
tasies, and at other times I threw myself into the familiar and slogged my way through the Urban Decay acquisition. I was lost in the world of mergers when my computer pinged, letting me know an email had arrived.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subj: Arriving Late Tonight
Good morning,
Just a quick email to let you know I had to change my flight. I will be arriving quite late tonight. I hope you are available tomorrow. I cannot wait to see you. I’ve missed you.
Sébastien
I felt guilty at my relief at the short reprieve I had been given. But I did feel it. I would see him tomorrow and tell him about Aksel’s job offer.
12:30 PM, Saturday, November 28
Chez Langevin
SÉBASTIEN HAD CALLED this morning and invited me to lunch at his apartment. Perhaps it was cowardice, but I decided to enjoy some time with him before telling him about Aksel’s job offer and the disclosures he’d made. I gave myself permission to enjoy lunch. Then we’d talk.
I stood outside his front door, flapping my coat, trying to air out the beads of sweat that had accumulated on my walk over. I was nervous. Fortunately, when he opened the door, my hormones took over. Overwhelmed by how gorgeous he was, how good he smelled, all my sensitive parts signaled me to jump on him. Instead, I whisked a bouquet of flowers from behind my back, which earned me a very sensual kiss. I was momentarily satisfied.
“Beautiful! Merci, chérie.” He kissed my cheek.
I followed him to the kitchen, caught my heel on the carpet, and tripped. Flustered, I gulped down the wine he’d handed me and clunked the glass down on the counter with so much force, we both winced, waiting for it to shatter. Miraculously, it didn’t. His eyebrows slashed downwards with confusion.
“Is everything all right?”
I made an evasive sound and smiled.
He refilled my glass and clinked it with his. “Santé, mon amour. But be careful. I have plans for you.” He glanced at the pot bubbling on the stove. “Let me check on this.”
I was stuck on “mon amour.” Strictly translated, it meant “my love.” Was it a slip of the tongue or just a casual endearment? If not, he might regret his timing.
When I said nothing, he asked, “Chérie, are you all right? If you do not mind me saying, you seem a little bit… not yourself.”
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts before apologizing. “Sorry. It’s been a long week.”
“So, my saying ‘mon amour’ didn’t make you uncomfortable?”
Trying to be nonchalant, I waved off his question. “Of course not! People say that all the time—it’s just a phrase, an endearment.” I tried to sound light, unaffected, even worldly.
“Then, if I were to agree that it was just a phrase, that I meant nothing by it and it was simply a translation issue, you wouldn’t be disappointed?” He leaned back against the kitchen counter and held my nervous gaze.
My heart bounced around my chest. Time to be a grown-up, which wasn’t always easy. In fact, it was often quite hard. Today, it seemed positively overwhelming. “I would, but just a bit. I haven’t been exactly shy about expressing my feelings for you.”
His casual stance disintegrated. He pulled me to him and embraced me tightly. “Bon. We both know that it isn’t just a phrase. It is true, chérie, you are my love.”
My arms wound tightly around him. “And you are mine.” My voice cracked from the wonder of it all. And from worry.
His lips trailed kisses across my cheek and then sought my mouth. There was something different about his kiss. There was a passion, a depth, and a tenderness to it that felt like something had been sealed, some promise was being made.
When he released my mouth, I leaned into him, struggling to breathe. I kept my arms around him, needing him close. “You see, we survived,” he whispered against my hair.
I hope so.
Under my hands, I felt his muscles tense. He shifted, so I knew he was looking down at me. When I raised my eyes to his, they darkened, and something akin to a growl briefly hung on the air before he dove in and delivered hungry kisses upon my lips. Locked in his embrace, I experienced a deep sense of wonder at the joy of being loved by someone who could become all things significant. This thought forced my earlier agenda to the front of my mind.
When the kitchen timer beeped, and after making sure I was stable on my feet, Sébastien reluctantly pulled away. “This will take a few minutes. Talk to me.”
“Okay,” I happily acquiesced. When his back was turned, I pressed my trembling fingers to my lips, which buzzed and burned; my core was full of torturous warmth. All of me longed for more of him, from him. I resisted the desire to press myself against him. Instead, I waved a hand in front of my face to cool down.
While he adeptly handled the mechanics of cooking, I asked him about his trip. In between giving me the highlights, chopping herbs, and tasting the sauce he’d made, I grew more relaxed. “This is good,” he pronounced. “Voila.”
***
On the table was a loaf of thick, crusty bread. He set the large, dark-brown enamel pot beside my bouquet of orange, red, and yellow dahlias. While he served me, he told me about the first time he’d made potée champenoise.
“I was a poor college student, but I really wanted something rich and healthy. It was a miserable day. I remember being drenched from the rain, and my feet were soaked, since I had holes in both shoes. I scrambled around and found enough money for the basics and then brought them back to an awful apartment I shared with two friends, Paul and Lucien. We combined all our resources and cooked a huge pot of food. It simmered for a while, and then we tasted it. It was disgusting.” He chuckled and shook his head as he sat down. “I called my mother on the phone and told her what I had put in the pot and asked her how to fix it. She was quiet for quite some time, and then she finally said, ‘Throw it away and start over.’ Well, of course, this wasn’t an option. So, my friends and I, we put a colander in the sink, dumped the soup in, and rinsed all the food off. Then we put it back in the pot with water, a few spices, and said a prayer that it would be edible.” He faded away, lost in memories.
I paused my nibbling on bread crust. “Was it?”
“I cannot say it was superb, but it was certainly better and definitely edible. However, I must admit, by the time the stew was ready, we had drunk quite a lot of wine.” A wet, bedraggled, impoverished Sébastien pulled at my heartstrings. I had never thought of him that way.
He changed the subject and asked how Hillary’s broken heart was mending. “I spoke to her a few days ago.” I dabbed the corners of my mouth. “Getting through the baptism was good for her. No impending reasons to see Michael. She sounded happier.”
“It seems, at least to me, that when something wonderful is happening to one person you know, something less pleasant is happening to another.”
As I looked at the man across the table from me, his head bowed over his bowl, all my secrets and guilt washed over me. The word, “True,” quietly slid off my lips.
It’s Complicated
I blew out a deep breath and got to the point. “Sébastien, I need to tell you something.”
The hand that had been stroking my hair stilled. “You sound so serious. What is it, Kathleen?” I noticed the lack of endearments. Perhaps that was better.
“Back in October, way back, the day after Fashion Week was over, while you were in Rome for business, I met with Aksel Pedersen.”
He twisted sideways to look at me better. His face changed from relaxed to concerned and confused. He said nothing. The silence was overwhelming, so I pressed on. “He offered me a job at his new company, Flytning Værktøj. I turned it down.”
He sounded reserved when he finally spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I had never heard this tone of voice.
I shoved my hair back from my face and nervously tugged at my shirtsleeves. I told him about the girls observing his behavior at the fashion show when
he saw me talking to Aksel and my confusion about his hiding something. I confessed, “I asked Aksel what was between the two of you.”
He stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the street below long enough to stretch my nerves as thin as they could possibly go.
“Say something,” I begged.
“What did he tell you?”
I immediately repeated the short answer Aksel had given me. “He told me you were in business, there was a breach of contract, that you both signed a non-disclosure agreement, and nothing else.”
He gave a satisfied nod. “Why did you turn the job down?”
Surprise rushed through me; this was not the question I had expected. “Do you want the long answer or the short one?”
“The long one.”
So I told him. I told him how unveiling my past had caused a lot of confusion within me, causing me to rethink my future options; how finding him had made me feel excited about living life and experiencing the world. I explained having chosen the sensible life versus the one where painting would have left my daily existence too precarious.
While I spoke, he stood, unyielding. His folded arms, his stiff posture, his blank face—they broke my heart. Was this him being angry? Or worse?
When he finally spoke, he told me, “I think you should consider the opportunity at Flytning Værktøj.”
I sat in shock. “Sébastien, I had never planned on leaving L’Oréal or Paris.”
“You should go.”
I sat on the couch, confused. I realized, after a few moments, he wasn’t just saying I should meet with Aksel. He was asking to be alone.
I gathered my things and then slowly approached him where he sat, staring into the fire. “I’m a lot, not a little, confused. I don’t know what you’re saying. Are we… over?”
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 21
