“Well then,” she said, feeling a friendly affection for the American, “I suppose I should listen to you. Out of sympathy, at the very least.”
Jim smiled. “It’s the least you can do,” he said. He held out his class schedule for her to see. “And maybe walk me to class. I’m lost, and you’re the only one I’m willing to admit that to.”
“Of course,” Juliet said, thinking maybe Jim wasn’t so unaware of his truths after all.
CHAPTER 9
JIM
FRENCH GIRLS.
Wasn’t there a song about them?
No, that was “Some Girls.” The Stones.
But there had to be a song about French girls. Especially about ones like Juliet.
Though he had a feeling that Juliet was the only girl like Juliet, French or otherwise.
First days of school. He’d done a lot of them. He liked them. They were fresh starts, as trite as that was.
By the time he arrived at one, another first, he usually really needed the fresh start. He’d have left behind a string of fed-up teachers, heartbroken women, and guys who were sick of losing those women to him. He wasn’t even trying to be some prototype of a bad boy, but people sort of expected it from him, so that’s what he gave them. It was easier than figuring out what he wanted to be.
But this time, with Romeo and Juliet, it was different. They weren’t part of the usual fawning crowd of students who knew Jim’s dad was James Redmond, the biggest shark in an ocean of sharks whose calling was eating alive the others like they were minnows. He might have been the newest of new money, but even the oldest of legacy students would suck up to Jim the second they heard. Anyone with any ambition wanted an in with the Redmond family and its fortune, and Jim was the new-school easy target. But Romeo and Juliet seemed to him like people who had bigger concerns than wealth. They were real potential friends.
Still, he’d meant what he said to Juliet. If not for Romeo, he really would have hit on her. No, no, not hit on. A girl like Juliet was worthy of something better. She was someone you approached. And saw. And recognized. She wasn’t just another unimpressed fashionista. She was restless and searching, like him. Like Romeo, too, really.
Maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t think so. Something about two teenagers who could date anyone they wanted choosing each other, even if it meant they risked their fortunes, it just seemed real. And right now, for reasons he didn’t want to think about, Jim needed something that felt real.
Some rich kids were vapid and just took all their blessings without seeing that each one was its own curse. But Romeo and Juliet weren’t like that. Maybe eons of feuding families could do that to a person.
Yesterday, in the cemetery after he’d helped them escape the bar, it was the first time in years that Jim felt like maybe life meant something. Or, if it didn’t, that at least there was something to be said for enjoying its finer moments.
What was France doing to him? Any second now he was going to be wearing a beret and quoting Sartre. Though who knew what that damn guy said?
Ha, philosophy, as if that would impress his dad. James Redmond didn’t have patience for philosophy, unless there was a dollar figure and a bottom line attached. Jim had always thought that his dad’s wheels spun for more than just money and power, but now he could see that those were the fuel in James Redmond’s fire. It was the first time in years that Jim had been in the same city as his dad, and when they were far apart, Jim used to imagine his father having an eventful life of delights (wine, women, songs). In truth, what Jim was witnessing was that his dad worked nonstop. Or at least that’s what he’d observed after interacting with him almost daily.
Okay, so interacting was a generous term—but only if you compared Jim and his father to other father-son pairs. Since his mom had died (fine, killed herself) when Jim was eight, he and his dad saw each other a few times a year, usually in breakfast meetings set up by whoever was his father’s assistant at the time. The last three Christmases, James Redmond would have his staff send Jim details on his gift—a new car or motorbike—then appear on Skype to wish him a nice holiday in a session set up months in advance and lasting only five minutes, just long enough for Jim’s fake joy to wear off by the end of it.
So, he was hopeful about being in the same metropolitan area as his father. He hated how desperately he wanted his father’s approval—God, it didn’t even have to be approval; Jim was contenting himself just feeling less like some annoyance James Redmond had to handle and more like someone who could at least share his dad’s rarefied air. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but feeling your father’s utter indifference your whole life made you a little crazy.
And now his dad actually had a use for him. A business use, it seemed, but it was better than nothing. James Redmond was, above all things, an opportunist. At first, when Jim got kicked out of boarding school just as his dad was about to go to Paris to stage a takeover of two of the world’s largest fashion houses, James Redmond didn’t see an opportunity. He was just angry. His son’s personal problems—your mother’s suicide and father’s neglect would do that to you, not that Jim was complaining (who would listen?)—were a massive inconvenience. Maybe even a hold-up of work to be done.
But then Jim had said, “Can’t I come to Paris with you? Isn’t there something I could do there? To help you?” Usually, he tried to never need anything from his father, but he was running out of boarding schools to try and, quite honestly, thought he’d feel less lonely in a city somewhere, instead of yet another bucolic and remote campus.
Jim’s offer had revealed a whole new James Redmond. He’d never seen Jim as anything more than a burden, but now, suddenly, James had been reminded that his son was a human being capable of … something. Maybe Jim was just a pawn. But at least his father wanted to have him around.
James had his people determine Paris’s best school and enroll Jim in Louis-le-Grand. The last name—Gardner—was his mother’s maiden name. They’d discussed all these details on the plane ride here—his father ticking off various orders with military precision—as Jim nodded in agreement. He’d been amazed that his dad would even bother with him after yet another school failure. And then James had delivered the main thrust of his marching orders: “Keep an eye on this Romeo and Juliet,” he had said.
Jim had been hoping for a job scouting models, but this was almost more interesting. And weird.
“What kind of stuff do you want me to find out?” Jim had later asked, after a few days in Paris that he’d spent wandering aimlessly, not really sure how to trail a person. He and his father had been dining at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte, a steakhouse on the Rue Marbeuf where the servers simply asked, “Medium or rare?” and brought you a plate of steak and pommes frites. The meal was James Redmond’s favorite in all of Paris. He was not inclined toward gastronomical adventures.
James Redmond shook his head and swirled his Scotch—he only ordered wine if it was for someone else. With a slight smile, he told Jim, “As much as you possibly can. I have faith in you.”
That little vote of confidence, however cliché, had given Jim the charge he needed for his assignment. If he could just prove to his father that he was useful, maybe something would come of it. He’d tracked Juliet from her house yesterday to the Love-Lock Bridge, then to that hotel in the Thirteenth. He hadn’t expected Romeo and Juliet to come into that bar, or to need an escape.
The whole thing had been so absolutely surreal that he was shocked he hadn’t somehow revealed his secret. Whatever kicked in—maybe years of half-assed attention paid to spy movies or maybe some kind of ability for subterfuge innate to being a Redmond—clued him in that seeming like their ally was the best way to gain insight.
Jim knew it was huge that they were a couple. He knew he’d had some kind of insane Paris luck to stumble on them in such a compromising position.
He could have snapped a photo on his phone. He’d have had the needed confirmation and been done.
But no. Somethin
g told him to help them. They’d been so panicked. Instinct had taken over. And then, as they rode with him on his bike to the cemetery—he always liked finding the cemeteries anywhere he was living—he thought he might be committing the ultimate subterfuge.
Maybe he was good at subterfuge.
But so far, he’d only lied to his father about the meeting. “I don’t know if you’re right. Juliet was out with some friend of hers all day yesterday,” Jim had said as they’d poured coffee together at the counter that morning. His dad had been out late the night before because of the gala. (Jim had half-wished he could go but hadn’t pressed his dad for an invite. He knew it could screw up his spy duties.) So, this morning, James was doing all his conference calls from home. While they had servants, James Redmond was big on being at least a little DIY. He liked to pour his own coffee, black, in the morning and stand at the counter with all the papers spread around him. “But I’ll keep trying.”
“You’re tailing her?” James Redmond raised an eyebrow. “That was more than I’d expected from you.”
Then he’d smiled. Jim wasn’t sure if his father had really smiled at him in, well, ever.
He liked being good at his job. He also wished he didn’t like Romeo and Juliet so much. He’d gone from feeling like someone with no loyalties to someone with divided ones.
Today, he’d gone straight home after school. It was weird, living with his dad again. Even in the summers away from boarding school, he’d been pawned off on friends to stay in summer homes and beach mansions while his dad worked.
Now he was under the same roof, in a penthouse on Avenue du Président Kennedy. (James Redmond wasn’t crazy about being on a street named after a Democrat, but he did love that his penthouse had a coveted view of the Eiffel Tower.)
It was a nice place—no, “nice place” was what you called a bachelor apartment where the guy had a real bed and not just a mattress on the floor. This was a spectacular place. It was some kind of cross between the Palace of Versailles and Andy Warhol’s Factory.
Most of the time, Jim had it all to himself. Right now, he was sprawled on the low red modern couch playing Assassin’s Creed on the massive flatscreen. Bottles of French beer were scattered across the ornate ivory coffee table (everything in the penthouse was old “juxtaposed” with new, as the interior designer who stopped by with new old junk every week kept reminding him as she left a bill on the credenza).
What was he gonna do? On the one hand, he’d made a promise to his dad.
On the other, he already felt a loyalty to his new friends.
He was kicking the crap out of some horrible new boss, even though he couldn’t remember getting to the end of his level. His movements were rote and automatic. He didn’t really care about the game. It just kept him from thinking.
“Oh, you’re home,” came a breathy female voice. Jim’s shoulders pulled up near his ears, like he was a turtle trying to go back into his shell.
Jennifer Reynolds, his father’s chief of staff, looked like she’d stepped out of the Playboy Channel and had bought a Take Me Seriously wardrobe set. She wore tailored business suits and oversized glasses and her shiny blond hair was pulled back in a harsh bun. But very little could detract from her boat-show-model looks.
It was unfortunate, really, that her biological attributes had aligned the way they did. She was smart.
He knew his dad was screwing her, though whether it was a matter of the heart or just something James Redmond did to keep in fighting and corporate-downsizing shape, Jim didn’t know. And for her part, Jennifer did a more than admirable job switching between cooing girlfriend and terrifying second-in-command.
Except, whenever they were alone, Jim felt like she was … seducing him. She wasn’t really much older than him, so it wasn’t that odd that she’d think he’d be interested in her. But he was living with his dad, and on speaking terms with his dad. Somehow, bedding his girlfriend/assistant/what-have-you didn’t seem like the way to keep things on good terms with him.
Jennifer loosened her hair and plopped down on the couch next to Jim. She kicked off her shoes and stretched her tanned legs out on the coffee table.
“How was school?” she asked. She pointed at the TV. “You don’t need to stop playing for us to talk.”
Jim relaunched the game and this time, tried to focus. If he did, maybe Jennifer would go away. Next to him, Jennifer pulled her feet up onto the couch. Her red toenails brushed his jeans.
“Good, better than boarding school,” he said. Jim realized his game controller had slipped from his hands because now Jennifer’s bare feet were almost in his lap. He scooted over on the long couch, wondering if Romeo had to contend with such weirdness. Probably, though he’d bet a Frenchwoman would play things with more subtlety.
“I know your dad is happy to have you around,” Jennifer said. She placed a casual hand on Jim’s thigh and patted. It wasn’t unpleasant. Not at all. And normally, he would love a buxom blond shamelessly flirting with him. But the whole point of being here was to share some time with his father. He didn’t think sharing the same woman was part of the deal.
“Yeah, I just need to stay out of trouble,” Jim said, picking up his controller and resuming the mashing of buttons, doing his best at indifference. He was a little buzzed from the beers, so as Jennifer’s hand began to knead his thigh, he sighed.
“Maybe not all the trouble,” Jennifer said, leaning toward him. She took the controller out of his hands and brought her face next to his. Poor woman was probably hard up for real affection. Jim’s dad must have penciled in romantic interludes like they were rowing-machine workouts. Though he probably cuddled the rowing machine after.
Now Jennifer leaned over him so that her hair draped around his face. He hadn’t been with a girl since he left boarding school, a fumbling good-bye with a classmate with whom he’d never made it official. (“Not official” was kind of his default.)
She smelled good, and as her hair brushed his cheek, Jim’s mind went immediately to Juliet in the hallway that morning, the way she’d pulled a strand of hair around her finger and looked so doubtful about Romeo. Why were the girls who had the least to doubt always the ones who did?
And why was he thinking about Juliet when his dad’s employee was about to kiss him?
He scrambled away from her on the couch.
“What the hell? What are you doing?” he said, noticing that Jennifer had already regained her poise and was looking at him with no real emotion in her eyes. He might as well have been some course-of-business thing, like a nondisclosure agreement or something.
“Good job, Jim,” she said. “That was a test. You passed. I’ll let your dad know.”
As she clipped out of the room, Jim was starting to wonder if his loyalties were with the wrong person.
CHAPTER 10
JULIET
“MON ONCLE!” WHAT was it about her cousin Thibeau Capulet’s voice that made it carry into every nook and cranny of the large Capulet mansion as if it owned the place?
Juliet was at her vanity, idly brushing her hair and staring at the row of perfume bottles but not really looking at any of them. The week’s events had become a muddled mélange of scenes, from the hotel with Romeo, to the escape with Jim, the gala, school. Pierre had texted her sweet words all week—Miss you, darling and Can’t wait to see you again, my dear, like they were ancient people who’d met on a cruise ship—but it had been Romeo’s email to their secret account that she’d read again and again.
If you don’t know that it’s you, that it will always be you and has always been you, you should know. You are who I yearn for, no other, forever.…
God, she loved him.
But now here was Thibeau loudly sucking up downstairs to spoil her reverie. Juliet moved to the doorway of her room to hear what he was saying.
“Are we ready for the big day?” Thibeau was asking Maurice. As though he were really part of the “we.” He wanted to be. And technically, he was next in line
for the company after Henri. But he was undeserving and a slime. Plus, he was a high-stakes gambler, and Juliet suspected he was the one who had led Henri down the road to the money troubles that had forced Henri to sell those designs.
Juliet scowled and backed into her room to finish getting ready. Behind her, Lu Hai paused in folding Juliet’s underthings to make a similar face that Juliet could see reflected in her vanity mirror.
“Someone forgot we take the trash out on Thursdays, not bring it back in,” Lu Hai muttered nastily. She made no secret of her dislike of Thibeau. “I’ve smelled better things on Bourbon Street day after Mardi Gras.”
Juliet giggled. Lu Hai’s meaner pronouncements were, as Gabrielle would say, quite gangsta. And that was even more comical given Lu Hai’s ancientness. She had to be a thousand years old.
“Did I say that out loud?” Lui Hai smoothed a wrinkle from an ivory camisole Juliet had last worn in bed with Romeo. “Oops.”
It was a bigger morning than the start of Fashion Week. It was the day of the annual shareholders’ meeting for the House of Capulet. And, as a matter of fact, for the House of Montague, as well. This year, the stakes were even higher following the Redmond announcement.
In the early years after going public, the two houses had held meetings on separate days, until the heads of both learned that whoever went second had the upper hand. So now, each company had entire fall internships devoted almost solely to finding out when the other house was holding its meeting, with each house vying to ensure its announcement was later—and more high profile (and yet, somehow, more understated)—than the rival’s. The spring event, because it followed Fashion Week, was always pivotal, as both houses reinforced the strength of their fall lines and campaigns.
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