Romeo, Juliet & Jim

by Larry Schwarz

  Lu Hai waited until Juliet was luxuriating beneath a column of water before she casually called over the roar, “You have fun at the movie?”

  “It was great,” Juliet said, realizing that she still hadn’t even figured out what movie to say it was.

  “No doubt. I’m sure you picked a good one.” The statement, made without probing into what Juliet might have seen, was Lu Hai’s way of saying she knew there was no movie. Lu Hai always knew everything about Juliet without being told. After Juliet’s first time with Romeo, Lu Hai had somehow been wise enough to draw a bath with jasmine oil, telling Juliet without question or judgment, “This is a good place for women to think.” For all Lu Hai knew about her, though, Juliet knew nothing of her nurse (a term she’d started using for Lu Hai when she was nine and nanny seemed too babyish). The tiny, wizened old woman always laughed off Juliet’s questions, saying her own past was far less interesting than Juliet’s present.

  Juliet had a strong feeling that wasn’t true at all.

  “Did I hear your mother say you’d be paired up with Pierre tonight?” Lu Hai asked. Her accent had a Cajun lilt, even though Lu Hai said she was from “somewhere in Indochina.”

  “I will,” Juliet said.

  “Such a sad voice when I ask about your boyfriend,” Lu Hai clucked.

  “My boyfriend?”

  “You’ve been dating, what, three months now?”

  “If by dating you mean ‘watching him come over to flirt with my mom,’ then sure, we’re dating.”

  Lu Hai clucked her tongue. “That boy comes here for you, not your mother. He’s just smart enough to know that family comes first. That’s always true, even when you think it’s not.”

  Juliet quickly wiped away a circle of steam from the glass shower wall. She half expected Lu Hai to be staring in at her accusingly, but the woman was bent over the sink, scouring it. Still, Juliet felt something foreboding in her words, and cranked the hot water to get rid of a sudden chill.

  An hour and a half later, Juliet was dressed in a strapless black vintage Dior gown that she’d personally studded down each side with gunmetal rivets, giving the elegant silhouette a punk edge. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose chignon, with a few strands falling around her face. She was riding in the back of her family’s limousine, on the way to the ball and to her date with Pierre. Her brother, Henri, rode in the seat across from her. He, like her, looked as if he were on the way to his doom.

  She and Henri had been equals in their powerlessness ever since Henri had had his “missteps,” as the family called them. Henri was still technically the heir, but with “contingencies”—mandatory treatment plans, monitoring of his social life. For her part, Juliet was safe from ever having to worry about taking over; years of misogyny on the Capulet board meant no woman had ever been put in charge. Besides, the whole thing was more trouble than she’d ever think it was worth. With all of the branches of the family represented on the board, there were always rumors and theories as to who really wielded power behind the scenes. Some of them were so crazy as to feature the Knights Templar, a secret society formed in the Middle Ages and believed by some to still be active from a secret location. (Not so secret: The vague neighborhood of their supposed “headquarters”—somewhere underground on Rue du Temple in the Marais—incited enough fear that it had become a joke that it was the ideal place for guys to get a prudish date to snuggle in close.) Juliet thought it was a silly legend. But even if it wasn’t true, everything about dealing with the board and its politics seemed like the ballet recitals Juliet had been forced to dance in as a child: appearing before an audience she didn’t want for a performance she wasn’t interested in giving. Or at least she felt that way most of the time.

  She thought if Henri did end up being denied his birthright, he should strike out on his own. But Henri was too undisciplined and spoiled for that. So he would do what they wanted and be who they wanted, and in return, he’d have the lifestyle he was used to, without the drugs. And Juliet understood. It was all he’d known.

  But the addiction didn’t just go away. The disease that fed it was there and always would be. Their mother, who came from a long line of addicts, knew this but swept it under the rug (or, more accurately, made others sweep it there for her). So far, Henri had managed, but Juliet knew there were moments when he almost succumbed. Much as she wanted to have faith in her brother, she knew he would someday. Just as she couldn’t stop loving Romeo, Henri had his unfightable loves. Tonight, he’d be their puppet, put on the arm of a model and made to pretend he was the strong foundation of the House of Capulet, as their parents wanted. But if the board chose, they could decide upon a new successor, especially if pressed by the company’s more fearsome backers. Juliet’s own name had been bandied about in the press, but at home she was just a pretty face with the occasional good idea. There was a chance the company could even go to her cousin Thibeau, though even the more tenuous Henri would be a better choice, she thought. At least he had a heart.

  “So, Pierre tonight?” Henri said, looking across the gulf of the limo’s back seat at their parents, instead of at Juliet. “Sounds fun.” His tone hit up against the somewhat icy atmosphere in the limo. Juliet’s parents wanted their kids to be enthused about the gala, but neither Henri nor Juliet could hide their despair.

  Hélène ignored his clipped words. “He takes such good care of Juliet,” she said.

  “They look nice together, too,” Juliet’s father, Maurice, said, from his spot next to Hélène.

  Hélène wore a daring red Capulet Couture dress with a neckline that would challenge bodies decades younger than her own, but she pulled it off with ease. Next to Maurice’s hulking frame, her slight figure almost disappeared in the seat.

  “I want you to take some photos with him tonight,” Maurice added. “You are a beloved face of the company, too, Juliet. You know the little girls love a love story.”

  Then if only they knew my real one, Juliet thought, her mind escaping to the afternoon with Romeo.

  “And someday, when you two are married, you’ll have a collection of photos together that started now.…” Hélène chimed in.

  “You hear that, sister? Married.” Henri couldn’t hide his disgust. “She’s sixteen.” He practically spat at their parents.

  “It’s a joke,” Maurice said. “I’m not selling off my little girl. But when she does find a mate, I know Juliet will act for the good of the business.” Maurice leveled a glance at Henri. “Perhaps I didn’t raise two failures.”

  Henri silently turned to stare out the window. There was no arguing with Maurice on such points when his mind was made up.

  “Actually, I was eighteen when I married your father,” Hélène said in a blasé way as she checked her lipstick—Capulet Red #17, fashioned expressly for her though Juliet thought she should get a new look. She was so self-absorbed sometimes that she returned to conversations long after their direction had turned.

  “Then talk to me in two years,” Juliet said. When I will have already figured out how to run away with Romeo.

  Sensing Henri was about to say something more, Juliet squeezed her brother’s arm. There was no need for him to be worked up on her behalf. He didn’t deserve it and had his own woes.

  Besides, they’d arrived. The limo pulled into the circular drive where arrivals were being let out. A plush violet carpet had been unfurled up the steps to the museum. At the top of the stairs stood Pierre, handsome and eager in his white dinner jacket. Pierre LeFevre III was the scion of an ancient noble family, and he carried off the whole aristocrat thing with aplomb. He had a swirl of dark hair and plump, almost girlish lips, along with a perfectly straight nose and a chiseled jaw. You could have made a Prince Charming cookie cutter using him as the mold, but Juliet didn’t want Prince Charming. She wanted Romeo, and Pierre was no Romeo.

  Juliet made her way up the stairs, smiling for photographers.

  “Juliet, you look beyond gorgeous,” Pierre said when she rea
ched him. He took her by the arm and Juliet couldn’t stop herself: She flinched.

  Then her mother pinched her. Hard, just above the elbow. “He complimented you, Juliet,” Hélène said. “What do you say?”

  “Thank you, Pierre,” Juliet said, hearing how stilted her voice was. “You look nice as well.”

  He beamed. It made Juliet feel sorry for him that he couldn’t detect how hollow her words to him were. Instead, he guided her into the party, helping her to pivot for the sake of the photographers snapping shots of the entering guests. Juliet had little doubt that her smile failed to reach her eyes.

  The museum had been transformed into a sumptuous party spot. The theme for the night was Tout Est Possible, or “Anything Is Possible”—ironic, Juliet thought, since one impossibility was her going with the date she actually wanted to bring. But it did indeed seem like the organizers had decided to do everything in their power to make the event a big deal.

  The grand hall was a dazzling array of twinkling lights and soft draperies. The evening was a celebration of fashion through the ages, and mannequins wearing clothes from the Marie Antoinette era through the glory days of Coco Chanel lined the two staircases leading down to the main floor of the museum. A Capulet gown worn by Catherine Deneuve to the Oscars faced off with a famous Montague racing suit created for Paul Newman—the outfits were positioned so as to look ready for battle. Juliet wondered if it had been intentional.

  Pierre placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder and she drew a sharp breath and cringed. “I need to find the powder room. Excuse me,” she said, her voice rigid and formal.

  “Of course,” he said. “Return to me soon. I’ll wait for you near the dance floor.”

  She stepped through a throng of people and started scanning faces for Romeo’s. She did this often—at school, on crowded streets, always hoping she’d turn a corner and see him. It was hopeless, though. Even if she saw him, what could she do about it here?

  Feeling overwhelmed, she made her way toward a darkened wing of the Palais, one not in use for the party. The lights were dim and the air had the comforting smell of an old building—a damp dustiness that was more a weight than a scent. She leaned against the cool brick, scanning an exhibit of old military uniforms that probably hadn’t been updated in years. She knew she had to go back. Sighing, she pried herself away from the wall and turned …

  Right into Romeo.

  He wore an all-black tuxedo, his blond hair gelled back. His smile was electric; Juliet’s heart clutched at the sight of it.

  “You…” she breathed. How could she not believe their love was magical, when she’d wished for him and here he was?

  “I had to get away,” he said. “After today, it’s awful to be with so many people who aren’t you.”

  “I know,” Juliet said, and she slid her hand into Romeo’s. She pulled him to a bench in front of one of the displays. They sat down, legs touching. “Let’s sit for just a minute. Hold my hand. And then you will go back to the party. And then I will. Until we can see each other again.”

  Romeo’s smile was faint. “I’m always so happy when you say ‘again.’”

  “But it’s never as soon as I wish it would be,” Juliet said. She rested her head on his shoulder as he ran his thumb over her fingers.

  He kissed her forehead lightly. “You have to look at it my way,” he said. “We have what’s most important. We just have to bide our time.”

  “I know,” Juliet said, lifting her head. She didn’t add how biding time meant missing all that they could have right now. She slid slowly along the bench, until they were at opposite ends, their hands still clasped at the middle.

  “You should get back,” she said, feeling the drop in her heart as she anticipated him leaving.

  Romeo stood and helped her up. He pulled her in by the waist, like they were about to dance, and bent his head close to hers, so their lips nearly touched. Juliet put two fingers over his mouth. “Don’t kiss me,” she said. “Or we won’t be able to stop.”

  So he kissed her fingertips, brushed his lips along the top of each one. “You’re right. In every way,” he said. “Just remember that what’s out there isn’t real. This is.” And he left.

  Juliet took a moment before she went back the way she came. If they were caught emerging from the same wing, all the work they had put into their assignations would be for nothing. So she stuck to the building’s perimeters, taking her time to return to Pierre, who would be a floor below, on the dance floor beneath the museum’s entry steps.

  And yes, couples were already spinning across the dance floor, and already, Juliet found herself looking not for Pierre but for Romeo.

  Again, she found him instantly, but this time her heart clutched in horror instead of delight. Romeo was locked in step with Rosaline Linara, a fresh young model recently hired as the face of the House of Montague. Declared “the anti-Gabrielle” by French Vogue, Rosaline was all Renaissance softness, compared to Gabrielle’s modern, angular beauty. She had flowing dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that shocked you with their clarity. Her body, lithe but somehow just generous enough in the bust and hips, looked made for the flowing electric-blue Montague dress she wore. Happiness radiated off the girl as she twisted and twirled in perfect synchronization with Romeo. Other dancers stopped to watch the two of them together, and none of them could help but smile. Romeo and Rosaline looked like a perfect couple in love. It was heartwarming to all.

  Juliet’s stomach lurched and she thought she might pass out. How easily he went from holding her hand and feeling like hers to dancing in synchronized steps with Rosaline. I thought it was so awful for you to be with people who weren’t me, she told him silently. She gripped a banister next to a mannequin in a vintage YSL jumpsuit. This, this was the kind of moment when Juliet wished she had a female friend to talk to, or that she could have Gabrielle reassure her that she was prettier, better than Rosaline. Much as she knew she had plenty to be grateful for, Juliet hated the Capulet way of distrusting everyone, and never revealing a true emotion to anyone outside the family.

  “Are you all right?” Pierre asked, taking her hand. “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine,” Juliet said, smiling while looking over his shoulder. Okay, she would have liked to confide in someone, but certainly not Pierre, even if he no doubt would ooze compliments to make her feel in every way superior to Rosaline. Ugh. “Would you like to dance?”

  Pierre smiled with such joy that Juliet almost felt bad for him. “I’d love to,” he said.

  He led her by the hand to the dance floor just as the song ended. In the lull before the band began the next number, Juliet caught Romeo’s eye. His gaze bounced off hers like she was no more than one of the mannequins. Or worse, a piece of furniture. She wanted to tear her heart from her chest.

  Even if he was pretending, how did he do it so well? Wasn’t he as tortured as she was? Did he just forget her as soon as they parted?

  But of course he remembered. She knew he did. She knew that the little time they got together depended on them playing this indifference act to perfection.

  But this was too hard and too cruel. She could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

  The band launched into a slower song. Rosaline poured herself into Romeo’s arms, clinging close as they swayed together. Juliet let Pierre pull her in closer. The room was a whirl of motion. Across the dance floor, Gabrielle’s photographer was dipping her as Gabrielle’s eyes zeroed in on Henri and his date, the new face of Chanel, a pale Scandinavian with black glaze around her frosty blue eyes.

  Though Juliet felt Pierre’s hand tight at her waist, the only other person on the dance floor, in the room, on the planet, was Romeo. Her entire being alighted on him, ached for him. Even as she moved in Pierre’s arms, she subtly and slowly guided them toward the other couple. Though Romeo never looked her way or gave her any sign, he must have been doing the same. With every beat of the music, the two couples moved closer and Juliet�
�s heart pounded faster. He was so close now, she could feel him, far more than she could feel Pierre’s hands as they grasped her, or his breath as he lowered his head close to hers. When Juliet and Romeo finally brushed against one another, so softly, back to back, his touch rocketed through Juliet like a firecracker. She, who’d been trained to dance like this, stumbled on her heels. Pierre pulled her up straight, concern in his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Juliet watched Romeo’s retreating back, her breath coming shallow and fast. “I’m fine.”

  For the rest of the night, that slightest touch was their passionate kiss. The one she hadn’t allowed to happen in the dark wing of the Galliera. It bound Romeo to her. No matter who he held, no matter who he danced with, no matter who he kissed good night, he was Juliet’s.

  “Excuse me!”

  A burst of feedback squealed through the microphone, and all the dancing couples pulled away from one another and winced.

  “Pardon.” A smallish man with the carriage of someone much larger walked confidently across the stage. He was trim with a dour face but in such a precise way that you knew being trim and dour were his goals. He was standing in front of the band like he owned them. Like he owned the whole place.

  “Pardon,” he said, louder. “I don’t mean to break up the party.” But as he signaled to the band to stop playing, it was clear he entirely meant to break up the party. “Thank you,” he said, his glinty eyes passing over the crowd as though everyone present was a mere ant to him. “I’d like to thank Maintenant for giving me this venue and this forum to make a special announcement, seeing as they’re the ones sponsoring this evening.”

  The room had gone quiet. Amélie Cardon, the editor of Maintenant, was famously controlling when it came to the magazine’s events, so this man must have really been important for her to let him speak. “Hopefully, this won’t take long to say.” The accent was American, with a hint of something else that seemed familiar to her. Maybe a little Southern? She couldn’t quite place it.