by Alix Nichols
I smirk and shake my head.
She’s the exact opposite.
Setting aside the women who live in mud huts on under one dollar a day, Diane is as far from my interests and way of life as a Western female can be. And that’s why I stayed away from her chamber in Burgundy. Just imagine the imbroglio of having sex with the woman I’ve hired to play my fiancée. Hired and play are the keywords here. Sleeping with her might give Diane the wrong idea. And if there’s one thing a gentleman never does to a woman—regardless of her social background—is giving her the wrong idea.
Hang in there, man.
Just two more months of this charade and she’ll be out of my life for good.
I park the Lambo on the corner of rue Lafayette and rue Bleue and climb out.
As I walk down rue Cadet, I notice an unusually large crowd blocking the sidewalk terrace of the bistro. It’s early May, and mild enough to sip your Kir cassis outside, but that doesn’t explain all those extra chairs, people standing in the aisles, and others sitting on their backpacks. And everyone—everyone—has their heads turned up, staring at the wall-mounted TV.
Diane, Elorie, Jeanne, and some of the waiters are among the crowd. My fiancée remains seated as I peck her on the forehead. She’s wearing the perfume I gave her a few weeks ago, and this pleases me to no end. The delicate iris- and patchouli-based fragrance blends seamlessly with the alluring scent of her skin, highlighting her tomboyishness as well as her femininity.
I wish I could bottle it and keep it in my inside pocket at all times.
When my mind clears a few seconds later, I say hello to the others. They greet me without taking their eyes off the screen.
Is there some important match underway? Why didn’t Octave or Greg tell me anything? They’re both huge sports fans and between them, they have all major sports covered. So what is it—tennis, football, or rugby?
The screen displaying country names and points isn’t helping.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“The Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says before turning to her friends. “This can’t be true! Belgium gave us nul points. How could they?”
Manon grits her teeth. “Traitors.”
“So did the UK,” Elorie says.
“Yeah, but that’s normal.” Diane looks at me. “It’s a tradition. Brits always down vote France at Eurovision. We do the same to them, by the way.”
I place my hand on her shoulder.
Diane gives me a sweet smile. “Will you stay and watch this with us?”
“I was hoping to take you to dinner—I haven’t eaten yet. Besides,”—I look around—“there are no spare chairs.”
“I can fix you a croque-monsieur or a hamburger,” Jeanne offers.
Diane stands and pats her chair. “We can share this.”
“OK.” I sit down and turn to Jeanne. “A hamburger and a beer would be great.”
She stands. “Don’t let anyone steal my chair.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.” Diane drops her purse on it.
“So, let’s see what’s this all is about,” I say to Diane, as she lowers herself onto my lap.
This song contest is clearly something she enjoys. I’m not going to spoil her evening by insisting we go eat a proper dinner in a proper restaurant. And I wouldn’t want to appear rude by leaving. So my reasons for staying are just gallantry and good manners. And perhaps curiosity about this European song contest I’ve heard about but never watched.
The prospect of having Diane’s pert little ass on my lap and my arm wrapped around her slim waist for the next hour or so has nothing to do with anything.
“Who’s the favorite?” I ask. “Are they good?”
Diane picks up her mojito. “Malta and Ukraine are number one and two, but it may change with the next country’s vote.”
“Everyone’s equally awful in this contest,” Elorie says.
“Then why watch it?”
“The point of watching the Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says, “isn’t in discovering good songs or new talent—we have The Voice for that. It’s in commenting.”
“On what?”
Diane turns to me. “Everything. The contestants and their costumes, the hosts and their bad jokes, and, of course, the songs.”
“You forgot the national commentators,” Elorie says. “We comment on them, too.” She turns to me. “This year it’s your buddy, celebrity columnist Marie-Anne Blenn.”
“She’s not my buddy.”
Elorie cocks her head. “But you’ve met her, haven’t you?”
“Everyone with a ‘de’ particle in their name has met her.”
Manon puts her index finger to her lips. “Shush! Australia is next.”
“I thought this was a European contest,” I can’t help saying.
“Didn’t you watch the news last night?” Jeanne puts my hamburger and beer on the table and takes her seat. “Australia was hauled across a couple of oceans and parked between Iceland and Scotland so they could take part in Eurovision.”
“Shush!” Manon orders again.
We watch the song that’s so resolutely and proudly tacky it deserves at least one point. To my surprise, it gets a lot more than one, including from France. Have my fellow citizens lost their famed good taste? A longtime opera buff, I forget that the vast majority of the seventy million people who are just as French as I am wouldn’t set foot in an opera house even if I paid them.
The next performer has the left side of his skull shaven and the right side covered in long raven-black strands that drape his right eye like a little curtain.
“The Barber from Hell has struck again,” Marie-Anne Blenn’s voice-over informs the viewers.
“Wait till he starts singing,” Manon says. “I’ve already watched his video on YouTube. His song is called ‘Eagle.’ ”
Diane tilts her head back and looks up. “Lord, please make it so that he doesn’t have wings attached to his back.”
Manon purses her lips, struggling not to smile.
The singer opens his mouth—and spreads his eagle wings.
Diane drops her head to her chest. Manon giggles.
Next, a well-endowed female singer dressed in a long skirt and tight bodice steps out from behind a curtain. Ten seconds into her tear-jerking song, she raises her arms to the ceiling, clenches her fists and rips off her skirt.
“She has the male vote in her pocket,” Elorie says.
Diane turns to her. “She doesn’t have any pockets.”
“Fine. Tucked into her bodice.” Elorie pokes her tongue out. “Smartass.”
And so it continues. Song after cheesy song gets points following a logic I fail to grasp. One thing is clear—it has nothing to do with their artistic quality.
At some point, I realize I’m staring at the screen without seeing anything. Nor am listening to Marie-Anne Blenn’s and the girls’ acerbic comments. My mind is completely overtaken by something a lot closer to home—Diane. More specifically her back against my chest, my left hand on her tummy, and my right hand, which has somehow made its way to her thigh.
I’m sporting wood. And I’m perfectly aware there’s no way this development could’ve escaped Diane’s notice. Right now, I’d give half of what I’m worth for everyone around us to be temporarily relocated to a parallel universe so I can do what I’m dying to do. Cup her breasts. Fondle them. Pinch her nipples gently between my index and thumb. Slip my hand into her panties and stroke her until she pants. And then stroke her more until she writhes and moans. All the way to her orgasm.
God, this isn’t helping.
I must stop thinking these thoughts at once. What I should do is glance at my phone, look concerned, and say I have to go.
Diane shifts in my lap as she leans forward, peering at the screen.
Jesus. Christ.
My lids drop, and I forget what I intended to do. My breathing becomes shallow. All I can think of is my hand in her panties.
Would she be wet for me?
“My money’s on yes,” Jeanne says.
I open my eyes. What the fuck?
Jeanne passes a napkin with a two-column table drawn on it to Manon. Manon scribbles something in the first column and hands the napkin to Elorie.
“What’s that?” I ask Diane.
She looks over her shoulder. “We’re betting on the Greek contestant.”
She points to the screen where a guy in a shiny white suit is wailing yet another heartrending ballad while playing a grand piano.
“And?”
“In roughly fifty percent of performances that feature a piano—especially when the contestant is playing it himself—the instrument is set on fire at the end of the song.” She smiles. “So the bet is if the Greeks will burn their piano.”
“I see.”
I feel a little stupid for having panicked a few seconds ago.
“What’s your bet—yes or no?” Diane asks, holding the napkin.
“No,” I say.
She puts my name in the second column and hers in the first.
A minute later, the piano burns.
I hand Jeanne a fifty euro bill and a two euro coin. “I have to go now.”
She starts to rummage through the pocket of her apron.
“Keep the change,” I say. “Please.”
“OK. Thanks!”
Diane stands up.
“Please stay,” I say to her. “I don’t want to be a spoilsport.”
She shakes her head. “You aren’t.”
We stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m sure she’s asking herself the same question I am—are we going to have sex tonight?
We say good-bye to Diane’s friends and get into my car.
“You know,” she says, “I still don’t understand why you hired me knowing I had a chip on my shoulder.”
I hesitate. “I have a confession to make.”
“Go on.”
“Part of the reason I picked you was guilt. I’m not proud of what I did to Charles, and I guess I wanted to buy myself a good conscience by supporting him through you.”
“I don’t get it. Isn’t driving competitors out of business what you do all the time, what all successful businessmen do as you keep telling me. Why the sudden guilt?”
“I may have gone further with Charles than I usually do.”
“Explain.”
“I had my R and D team clone his bestsellers.” I pause, hesitating again.
The corners of her mouth drop. “And then?”
“My sales team pushed them at half of his price.” I glance at her. “He didn’t have a chance.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Diane fidgets with the three-carat rock on her ring finger as if itching to take it off. She won’t talk to me.
It doesn’t look like we’ll be having sex tonight, after all.
And that’s a good thing, right?
Part IV
Town House
Chapter 17
Diane
I’m staring at the prints of my rooftop photos spread out on the floor of my TV room. Only half of them—that is, twelve out of twenty-four—will be on display at La Bohème starting next Monday.
The question is which twelve. And I’ll be damned if I have a clue.
Earlier this afternoon, Chloe stopped by to help me choose. She left an hour later, utterly frustrated with my inability to make up my mind.
“They aren’t your babies,” she said with her hand on the doorknob. “They’re just photos.”
I made a face. “I know.”
“And they’re all great, anyway.”
Does she realize how totally counterproductive her last comment was?
I go over the prints again, remembering the exact location, circumstances, and weather conditions of each shoot. Some of them are colorful and happy, like the ones I took in Buttes Chaumont. Others are black and white and melancholy, just like Paris feels sometimes when it’s drowning in smog and drizzle. I can handle that sort of weather all right for twenty-four hours. After forty-eight hours, my mind begins to crave a respite. After seventy-two hours, my body starts to zombify. After a week of fog, the only solution to avoid a total collapse is an immediate southbound evacuation of my person.
This photo was taken atop Notre Dame—the only spot in Paris with a view of the seven bridges across the Seine—in the middle of an epic downpour. And this one I shot by night in late December, from the top of the Arc de Triomphe. I wasn’t allowed to take my tripod up there, so I had to get creative. But, man, it was worth it! I took my best night shot of the Champs-Elysées with its horse chestnut trees wrapped in sparkling garlands, snowflakes dancing in the air, and an unobstructed view of the boulevard all the way to Le Louvre.
Chloe has a point—in some ways, my photos are my babies.
Ask a mother of two to pick the child she likes better, and you’ll know what I’m going through. Besides, now that I’ve resigned from the supermarket, as per my contract with Darcy, I have a lot more time for photography. This is great, but it has a flip side. I spend even longer on editorial decisions than before.
My doorbell rings.
I startle and glance at the clock on the wall. It’s seven in the evening—too early for Darcy. Elorie is still at work. Chloe must be on her way to Montrouge to see the house she and Hugo will be refurbishing next. And, anyway, none of these people ever show up on my doorstep without calling first.
Turns out one of them does after all—Darcy.
“You don’t have to let me in if you don’t feel like it,” he says from behind the door. “I realize I should’ve called or buzzed from downstairs.” He doesn’t sound quite like himself.
“It’s OK,” I say, deciding that my tee and leggings are presentable enough, and open the door.
He steps in, holding a gorgeous bouquet in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.
I put my hands on my hips.
“I bought these from the florist two blocks down the street,” he says, handing me the flowers.
“What’s the occasion?”
He shrugs. “Can a man give his fiancée flowers without needing an occasion?”
He’s definitely acting weird.
I cock my head. “Is the man in question drunk?”
“Just a little.”
Darcy smiles his crooked smile, provoking a mild quake in my knees.
I hate it when he does that.
“Have a seat.” I motion him to the couch in the TV room. “Oh, and if you step on any of the prints on the floor, I’ll strangle you with your own overpriced tie.”
“Understood.” He makes his way to the couch, slaloming between the prints.
I set the flowers in the vase that Chloe left behind when she moved out and fetch a bottle of Orangina and two glasses from the kitchen.
He points at the vodka. “We should drink this first. The Poles swore it’s the best vodka in the world.”
“Which Poles?”
“From Mleko, the biggest milk product company in eastern Europe. They’re market leaders for yogurt and ice cream in over a dozen countries. My deputy and I, and most of my legal team, have been working on this since February. As of today, Parfums d’Arcy is Mleko’s main flavor supplier. We signed a deal this afternoon.”
I arch an eyebrow “While eating yogurts and washing them down with Polish vodka?”
“Exactly,” he says. “And with French champagne. And without the yogurts.”
I shake my head in disapproval. “So, you down a few shots and decide that now is a good time to go check on Diane.”
He spreads his arms. “The alternative was spending the rest of the evening carousing with my new partners. I told them it was my fiancée’s birthday today.”
“And left the poor Poles to carouse in a foreign city all by themselves?” I tut-tut.
“My deputy’s with them, bless his heart.” He opens the vodka and pours a little in each glass. “It’s called Zubrowka, and it’s
flavored with bison grass.”
I sigh.
“Come on, chérie,” he says. “Don’t be a spoilsport. I want you to tell me if Zubrowka is the best vodka you’ve ever had.”
“I’ve only tasted one other vodka before. A Swedish one, I think.”
“Must’ve been Absolut. It’s owned by Pernod Ricard now.” He hands me a glass. “You’ll tell me how it compares to Absolut.”
I take a sip, keep the liquid in my mouth for a moment, and swallow.
“Can you feel the woodruff and almond notes on the nose?” Darcy leans in. “And the vanilla near the end?”
“Err… I’m not sure.”
He drinks the content of his glass. “Definitely vanilla at the end.”
I empty mine. “It does have a sweet aftertaste… I guess.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
He nods. “The Poles came with pickles and sausage to go with the vodka.”
He refills our glasses. “Try to drink this like a Pole, to the bottom.”
I nod and we both empty our glasses in one gulp.
“Are these the photos that’ll be displayed at La Bohème?” Darcy asks, pointing to the floor.
“I have to discard half of them.” I give him a mournful look. “It’s killing me.”
He squats in the middle of my prints and spends a few moments studying them.
“You really can’t choose?”
“Nope.”
He picks up the photo I took from the terrace of l’Institut du Monde Arabe and sets it on his left. “Yes.”
Next, he takes a pic from the series I shot in the 11th. “No.”
He continues, taking one pic after the other and sorting them into his yes and no piles. I watch him until he grabs my Latin Quarter roofscape and places it with the rejects.
Crouching next to him, I lift the photo and transfer it to the “yes” pile.
He smiles. “Ah, so you do have some favorites?”
“I don’t. It’s just… I almost broke my neck taking this one. If you leave it out, it’s as if my almost sacrifice was for nothing.”
