These events were actually supposed to be attended by Zara’s mother, but for years now she elegantly managed to avoid them by traveling or marrying, in alternate sequence. Just now a trip was under way, so Zara, in addition to her full-time job, had to look after various Foundations, their galas and benefits, to raise money. After almost ten years of experience, she was very good at it. Everyone assumed that she was the spoiled, rich girl, but actually it was entirely different. None of her friends slept so little and worked as hard.
In the foyer of the Ritz Hotel, Zara quickly looked at herself in the mirror. The flesh-colored dress was from the last Gucci-Collection, with long narrow sleeves and a neckline that plunged almost to her navel, held together with a golden dragon clasp, and embroidered with small crystals. Even her high heels were decorated with crystals. Jacques had arranged her hair tightly against her head, with a side-part. Strands of her own hair were wound around her ponytail , her eyes were made up with gray-black shadow and pencils, with only a colorless gloss on her lips. Zara didn’t like much make-up – it looked cheap, she thought.
As she walked across the lobby, the employees at the Ritz nodded in greeting. She knew everyone here; it seemed almost as if she lived here. Some of the guests whispered to one another. Naturally, everyone knew her from the society pages of various publications. Zara was a star.
After endlessly welcoming the guests – many were present this evening since her mother’s name and also hers were always attractive when seeking support for charitable causes – she gave her opening remarks, elegantly reminding the attendees why all were gathered here. She couldn’t very well say “Take out your wallets – and hand over your money.” This time, as almost always, she was soliciting contributions for educational projects in the Third World, which in fact was important to her personally. She raised money for women’s projects. Zara was vain and arrogant, but she owed it to her family name to support those in need.
After a while, she would chat with some of the guests whom she knew by name, which astonished more than a few. Not a one knew that she accomplished this feat of memory simply by learning the guest list by heart.
Zara’s boss was also in attendance and greeted her warmly. He was one of the senior partners at the law firm, Bill Walters. “You always look enchanting, Zara . . .” Walters was old enough to be Zara’s father, but as she stood before him in that shimmering dress, he was not feeling paternal. He could fully understand his young lawyers’ reactions, who almost went crazy in her presence. Zara smiled, although the corners of her mouth were beginning to hurt. “I’d like to introduce you to someone . . .” He turned around and behind him stood a tall dark blond man with his back toward her. “Robert . . .” Walters tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned to them, dressed as everyone here, in an evening suit of fine wool, and she recognized him immediately. It was Senator Robert Brennan, the youngest senator from Massachusetts. Everyone said he was the second John F. Kennedy and that he should enter the Democratic primary race. Since many people saw him as the second J.F.K., he had a pretty good chance, and he also came from one of the finest and wealthiest East Coast families. He was good-looking and there were tales galore of his conquests.
Zara extended her hand, and he, the perfect gentleman, bowed slightly and smiled at her. He radiated a certain charm that often went hand-in-hand with power and money. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he said. “Senator, I am honored that you would attend my little charity fund-raising event!” Blah, blah, blah, she thought -- always the usual; she could do it very well. “We could use someone like you in the campaign,” he repeated and looked deep into her eyes. Zara did not avoid his look and he seemed to like that. Walters grinned at Zara. He knew that Zara would appeal to Robert; these two, that would be an ideal couple, he thought.
“I’ll leave you two alone, I think, dear Robert. You can get some good tips here about your campaign contributions; Zara has been doing this since she was sixteen.” Zara laughed. “Now you’re exaggerating,” she said. He grinned at her. The old pimp, Zara thought; she had long ago seen through him.
Robert had asked Walters to introduce him to Zara. Up until now, he had only seen her from afar, and his passion for the chase was awakened – a genuine aristocrat, not one of those with an adopted fake name – no, a real blueblood, and beautiful as well – and she had a good reputation, not an easy mark. This was a challenge that tempted him almost as much as politics. Moreover, she had the goods to be the ideal wife in his situation – well-educated, Catholic, very good family, and when she smiled, his knees became weak.
Robert took Zara’s arm, smiled, and said, “Perhaps we can talk about that over dinner?” She could feel his fingers through the thin fabric of her sleeve. “I must admit that I don’t have my schedule memorized.” One has to play a little hard-to-get; she couldn’t very well immediately fall at his feet.
He was, at the moment, quite simply the hottest bachelor in America. “My God, your French accent is . . .” He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get rid of it at this point . . .” Baloney! The accent regularly brought scores of men to their knees; she would still have it after ten years in America, even if she had to practice to keep it.
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow at your office – and you can tell me then where you want to have dinner with me.” He grinned like a kid and squeezed her arm. “Great . . .” They would have continued flirting for a while if Zara hadn’t noticed Gregor Levy, arriving with a well-known actress on his arm. He wasn’t on her guest list, although the actress was. Who would have known that he would be the escort?
Robert followed her glance. Naturally, she had noticed Gregor; women by the dozen regularly fainted in his presence and he actually didn’t seem to notice. The women of Hollywood suited him best; he always arrived with a different actress, Robert thought. Julia Brettford was really a beauty even though her hips were a little wide when he compared them to Zara’s.
“Oh, Gregor – do you know him?” “Somewhat . . .” She turned around; actually she didn’t want to speak with him, but Robert had already waved and the two greeted one another like old friends. Well then, an opportunity to make oneself interesting, she thought, and opened her eyes wide, like Bambi.
Gregor had already noticed Zara much earlier, and had seen her at the podium. He had to admit that she could really speak well in public, especially since her French accent had a bit of an erotic effect, and perhaps that was what captured all the guests’ attention. The film that she had prepared was very professional; she must be quite experienced. Julia became very enthusiastic and whispered “Gucci.” Of course, women and their fashions! “God, she looks fantastic; there’s not an extra ounce on her . . .,” she added. Gregor sighed. He thought Zara was far too thin, she looked like one of these anorexic models, hardly any hips or breasts; it could be that this almost transparent dress on a woman ten pounds heavier would not measure up to the expectations of the designer, but that was primarily due to the fact that most of them imagined boys in their dresses.
Robert, that politician – he had known him for a long time. While Gregor had ambitions on the economic front, Robert pursued the political. His grandfather had been a senator, and it wasn’t necessary for Robert to earn money; his family was stinking rich.
“You’ve met Zara Valois-en-Beaujolais, of course?” Gregor twisted his mouth into a mocking smile. “Well, I’ve had the honor.” Zara gave them a forced smile. “Unfortunately I have to take care of my guests, Senator, Doctor Levy.” Zara nodded in their direction. She had to get away! She preferred not to spread out her family history in front of the senator – perhaps it wouldn’t sound very appealing coming from the mouth of someone like Levy – to whom she was the reserved aristocrat, and that’s what he should continue to believe.
Zara had barely turned her back when Robert said to Gregor: “Man, is she hot and I’m going to dinner with her tomorrow.” And unfortunately Zara also he
ard the answer. “That’s all only window-dressing – be careful, that is a spoiled, degenerate aristocrat.” “Well, good that you don’t find her attractive.” Robert gave Gregor a collegial pat on the shoulder. “What are you doing in New York? Are the rumors true that you’re turning your back on investment banking?” Gregor smiled. “Sorry, I can’t talk about that just yet, but it could be that I’ll soon be in New York more often.” Robert laughed. “And then you’ll return to your old profession?” Gregor pursed his mouth; “old profession” meant his career as a model. That would probably haunt him forever.
These spoiled children had no idea how difficult it was to acquire his education and his career, since unlike Robert or these pampered aristocrats, he had earned every dollar himself.
“Perhaps, Robert.” He looked around and noticed Zara chatting and joking with an elderly couple, and pocketing a check. Their eyes met very briefly and she seemed to smile contentedly.
Of course Robert called, and Zara naturally had an evening free – she had to cancel another date – but he didn’t need to know that. She asked where he wanted to go and he suggested the Essex House. Alain Ducasse, one of the most admired chefs, was in charge of the kitchen there. Robert was sure it would be appropriate for a French noblewoman such as she.
He arrived at the restaurant before she did. Zara was late – that was also her way. She didn’t want to wait for anyone – if, then it should be the other way around – except, of course, in her job. There she was punctual, but that was different.
Robert saw her coming and stood up. He had good manners, which one couldn’t say for all men. The waiter took her pink coat and Robert smiled; he liked the dress -- no, rather the woman in it -- Yves Saint Laurent, crepe with a ruffled hemline and at the cuff of the long, narrow sleeves, with a plunging neckline, of course – and all that in a warm, pale pink, with three-inch strappy heels. Her hair was pinned up, with a few stray wispy curls framing her face.
She extended her hand from a distance and he kissed it lightly. The guests at the next table watched them, recognizing both, but he and she had long accepted the fact that they would never be anonymous anywhere.
She sat down. Robert had already ordered Champagne and whispered. “I’ve heard from Walters that you’re very choosy as far as Champagne is concerned.” Zara smiled; he was really hot! “Not only regarding Champagne, as you may have heard.” He should be made aware right away that she didn’t go to bed with just anyone.
He grinned and unfolded his napkin. “I’ve taken the liberty of putting together the menu for you with the help of the chef.” A dominating macho guy, she thought, and was a little disappointed. Well, let’s see how well he does. Ducasse came to greet them both – Zara knew him from her mother’s last wedding, where he had been responsible for the food, and she knew his prices rivaled a very good lawyer’s.
Zara was actually not a big eater, but men usually directed their gaze on things other than if she had cleared her plate. Even Robert looked more into her eyes and at her neckline than at her plate, and Zara thought he wouldn’t notice that she ate hardly anything.
Zara couldn’t complain. Robert was charming and amusing, just as she had expected. They went to a bar nearby after dinner, and Zara knew he was used to the fact that women usually went home with him on the first date. In this regard Zara would disappoint him.
It was already after midnight when she looked at her watch quite deliberately. “Senator, I believe it’s time for me . . .” “Oh, Zara . . .” He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “May I see you again?” She didn’t take her hand away. “Would you like to?” she replied coquettishly in return. He looked deep into her eyes. “Yes, you can’t believe how much . . .” Robert had really not expected that she would go home with him on the first evening; she had been quite distant. She was the perfect example of a princess, he thought, and he had been careful not to become too familiar during the course of the evening, fearing that she would get up and leave.
And even the meal had apparently not appealed to her, since she had moved the food around the plate unenthusiastically. Perhaps she was used to something better, although she had greeted the chef joyfully. He had no idea what the two talked about, since his French amounted to no more than a single sentence about a topic which definitely didn’t come up.
Now, as they stood on the dark street and waited for a taxi, he could put his arm around her. She allowed him to do so and looked at him, just as he looked at her. She was beautiful, he noticed for the hundredth time this evening, and imagined how she would look naked, how it would be when she lay under him, as she moaned when he took her. He sighed; the mere thought of her body aroused him.
“Are you cold, Senator?” she asked, as she saw his strange look. Robert grinned. “No, not at all, you?” Zara was cold, the thin little dress didn’t keep her warm, but that’s the way it was – one must suffer for beauty’s sake. “The taxi is here.”
Zara was apartment-hunting again. The realtor had reported that a banker had bought the entire house that she was interested in, and that he had priority over someone who had just wanted to rent, and that the owner had actually wanted to get rid of the stone house.
During a lunch break, she found an acceptable flat that was also affordable, not far from the original apartment that she had loved and lost. Even though Zara earned a very good salary, she found the rental rates in New York outrageous.
She moved in on the weekend, and in the next few days, as she passed “her” stone house, she saw contractors working and sighed. The house was so beautiful: three floors, large terrace area within the center court; the apartment that she had wanted to rent also had a balcony, a foyer and a hallway, natural stone floors, and it was full of light! It was also move-in ready -- there were only a few renovations to be made. The house reminded her of the south of France and now a banker was moving in. Perhaps she should transfer to another department, she thought; it would still be several years before she would become a partner in the legal division.
In the meantime, she and Robert had seen each other several times and she knew that the next time he would expect her to sleep with him. She was reluctant – actually he was not her type. He was too stiff, too conservative. After going out together now and then, she didn’t find him especially erotic, not at all that attractive, too smooth.
In the gossip columns, as she discovered on her way from the new apartment to the subway, she was already being described as the new Jackie O, and there were photos of the two of them again and again. She sighed and threw the newspaper in the next trash bin. She also didn’t want to deny that he had serious intentions, but she kept him at a distance, because actually she had someone else in her sights.
She passed by the house again, and noticed large moving vans in front with packed boxes and cartons bearing stickers that read “London.” The banker apparently comes from London, she thought, and walked on toward the subway station.
In the train she leafed through the Wall Street Journal and came across an announcement that she read with considerable interest. Gregor Levy was the new CEO of LHM. That was intriguing; obviously, that’s why he was suddenly in New York. Apparently the rumor that had been rampant throughout the city for months was correct. LHM was a conglomerate of various high-end fashion houses and the largest concern in the field.
Possibly he’s going on another shopping spree, she thought, and folded the newspaper. Her stop was next. She had to keep her eye on this, Zara decided, as she got off the subway train. This was a possible starting-point to do him in.
That morning Gregor looked out of the window of the only room that didn’t resemble a construction site, and saw Zara passing by in front of his house, buried in a newspaper, with a paper cup in her hand. What time was it actually? He glanced at his wristwatch: it was 7:30 a.m. He could hardly believe it and looked out again. She was headed to the subway station. With her hair down, her Burberry trenchcoat, and her beige briefcase, he hardly recognized her,
but it was definitely Zara.
She had been at a campaign event with Robert yesterday. That rascal had roped her into it, and she was in no way at home before 2:00 a.m. He knew exactly what time it was because he had gone out to eat with Julia and then to a bar. As they walked by the hotel, some guests had dropped some Democrat stickers inadvertently. It was definitely after 2:00 a.m.
Gregor also knew that the partners in the firm where Zara worked demanded such a high level of performance that her long name wouldn’t be of any use. He wondered how old she actually was – twenty-five? – no, that was too young; she was, after all, a Harvard Law graduate, and had been working in New York for two years as a lawyer. She had to be at least twenty-eight. A workman interrupted Gregor’s thoughts. He was standing in the doorway with some kind of component in his hand and wanted to know where it belonged.
Gregor sighed. Actually, everything was supposed to be finished already, but originally the owner of the house wanted to rent out the individual apartments, and now some renovations had to be done. The house was very beautiful and expensive, but he could afford it. He left the room and went down the great wooden staircase to the hall. In addition to the high ceilings, the stone and hardwood floors had most appealed to him.
The house was actually too large for him alone and reminded him of the fact that he didn’t enjoy being by himself. He thought of his older brother who already had four children, with a fifth on the way. Not that he wanted his brother’s way of life, but sometimes he had a longing – just a little – and he thought of Julia. Without a doubt, she was beautiful, but he couldn’t imagine spending his life with her. And besides, she wasn’t Jewish, and was therefore out of the question. His parents would never accept her, would they? In truth, he had never discussed it with his parents. Apparently his parents had come to terms with the thought that he would remain a bachelor.
Love under contract Page 2
