I laugh and lean back on my elbows in the soft grass.
“I’m serious. I never pictured my mother to be the type to press about grandchildren, but I swear, if John doesn’t get serious, then the buck’s passed to me.” She takes a small pull of wine. “Like my eggs are going to expire soon or something.”
“You’re twenty-eight,” I gasp. “Hardly the age of expiration.”
“Yeah, well,” another pop of a grape, “whatcha gonna do?”
“So this Jean character? The real deal, you think?”
“Ha!” Sophie rolls her eyes again. “As real as the swimsuit model was, and the slue of attractive women he’s dated. Time will only tell, my dear. Time will only tell.”
I sigh and look up into the sea-blue sky. I close my eyes, and as I breathe in deeply I catch the faint aroma of lavender mixed with the buttery scent from a boulangerie.
“But if Jean’s the one, then maybe she’ll pull through and fill my mother’s grandmotherly void,” Sophie continues on in her rambling way. “My love life sure as hell is not very much of a love life.” She sighs heavily. “Think I’ve had enough wine.” She pours out the small amount that’s in her cup.
“No romantic trysts since you’ve been here?” I pry, raising my eyebrows suggestively. “London lovers, maybe?”
“Please, Jack.” She brushes the tops of her ballet flats. “I wouldn’t call it nonexistent…but it’s nothing romance-novel-worthy.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “Ha, ha! If it isn’t nonexistent, then that means it’s somewhat existent. Which means things just got a whole lot more interesting. I beg to differ that that isn’t romance-novel-worthy, girl!”
She tilts her head to one side and gives me an impassive expression. “No,” she says simply.
I let out a whistle. “You got lucky, didn’t you?”
“Hardly call it luck.”
“That Frenchie you were seeing last time you were here, was it?”
She pulls up some blades of grass and plays with them in her palm.
“Come on,” I urge, flipping onto my stomach. “Sophie and the Frenchie hit it off again.” I whistle again. I can sense the slightest of blushes as she fiddles more aggressively with the plucked blades.
“This is the epitome of girl time, and you’re kidding me!” I’m flabbergasted. “You’re not going to spill?”
“All right,” she says in a coquettish way. “Henri—”
“That’s it! Henri!”
“Henri and I…” She stops playing with the grass.
“Yes?”
“We’ve seen each other,” she says, voice hesitant.
“And?”
“It’s nothing serious.”
“I don’t care. It’s something! Tell. Tell!”
She begins to play with the blades of pulled grass again. “It’s nothing. He’s seeing someone anyway.”
“Oh, damn.” My enthusiasm deflates immediately.
“Or…dating someone. I don’t know. He’s the kind of guy who has open relationships. Casual, you know?”
“Ménage à trois!” I sing through a throaty laugh. “Oh, shit, Sophie!”
“N-No,” she stammers out. “Not like that. Well,” she blushes harder, “okay he would go for that, but not me. No, no.”
“When in Paris…” I sing, still laughing.
She closes her fist around the grass and shoots me a cautious look. “I told him I wasn’t up for that. I’m the kind of girl where it’s either a committed, one-on-one relationship—which, let’s face it, is impossible to create given our locations.”
I nod quickly.
“Or…” She returns to playing with the grass, dropping a piece, then two, back onto the lawn, “I’d consider a simple no-strings-attached kind of thing. No broken hearts allowed.”
I raise one eyebrow inquisitively. “That means…” I wait for Sophie to fill the space, but when she doesn’t, I blurt out, “You mean you guys had a threesome?”
“No, Jackie!” She winces. “No! What? Okay, you’re crazy.”
“Well then…what?” I eagerly await her response.
A grin breaks out on her face, and she gives a hard exhalation to the remaining blades in her palm.
“Sophie!” I lightly punch her thigh. “Tell me!”
“Paris is the City of Love…and opportunity. I’m on vacation.” She pauses, looking over to the fountain and children. Her grin’s weakened, but it’s still obviously there. “You do the math, Jack.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My first night in Paris was spectacular! Sophie took me to this really energetic nightclub over in the Latin Quarter, where we danced with rounds of guys, some international students studying abroad, some locals looking to unwind, and even a couple of Spaniards on vacation who thought some smooth moves on the dance floor was the instant ticket to mine and Sophie’s hearts…or at least our hotel rooms.
The dancing was fun, and afterwards Sophie and I made our way to the lively area near the Place de la Bastille. We ducked into a really fun and uniquely decorated wine bar where there were dozens of oak barrels stacked up and down the walls. Eventually we made our way back west and found a swanky rooftop bar a short walk from our hotel where wine and oysters were served atop hardback classical books, brought around by waiters with hairstyles and clothes circa the Golden Age. It was like something from a dream!
We laughed, we dined, we drank, we gossiped. We had all the fun two girls out in Paris could dream of having, and all that after a revving time wandering about this rue and that rue, hitting up the Louvre to catch a look at the Mona Lisa (and a few others Sophie really wanted to point out, but about which I couldn’t care less), trekking to Sacré-Cœur, and taking an evening boat tour along the Seine, and watching the glittering Eiffel Tower sparkle in the sapphire, evening sky.
It was sightseeing Paris in a day, because today, my second and last full day in the City of Lights, is all about shopping! I mean, how can I be steps away from the birthplace of high French fashion and not introduce my credit cards to the homes of Hermès, Chanel, and Lancel?
To break up the monotony of designer labels and historic haute couture along the famous and glamorous Champs-Élysées, I have to be fair to Sophie and agree to duck into some boulangeries and pâtisseries, and the occasional café or chocolate and wine shop. She calls it “market research,” but I tease that we should call all of the sampling and small purchases and finger-licking just what it is: a damn good excuse to stuff our faces with the finest food we’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.
Between each pastry-, macaron-, espresso-, and wine-tasting stop, we step inside top French fashion houses along the Triangle d’Or. Dreamy places like Chloé, where I can finger the bohemian dresses, and Louis Vuitton, where I can get lost in the intoxicating scent of leather and handbags (oh how beautifully the two go together). I’m in a shopper’s paradise, getting lost in the land of Chanel, Dior, Lacroix, Givenchy, Hermès, JPG, YSL…oh heavens, just look at me!
I have carrier bags weighing me down, a brand new Lancel handbag hanging off one shoulder, a new pair of Dior aviators perched upon my head, and a pair of baby-blue Lanvin ballet flats on my feet, Sophie sporting her beloved new black and white polka-dotted pair. Hermès is around my neck in the form of a slate-colored scarf, Givenchy’s on my wrist with dazzling rose gold and peach gems, I’ve got a box of assorted Ladurée macarons to snack on (and some to bring back to the girls), and even a pair of sharp-looking cufflinks for Andrew, compliments of a very successful spree at Cartier (where I also happened to find a dazzling teardrop necklace).
It isn’t until I’m in the dressing room at Eres, trying on a sleek, black bathing suit, when I begin to worry that I’ve bought more than my third empty suitcase can hold.
“Sophie,” I whine, glancing about the carrier bags and totes that cover the dressing room’s floor. And this is only about half of them! The other half are out with Sophie.
“Yeah?”
“I thin
k I might have gone overboard.”
Sophie giggles, and I can hear her pad over.
“Yeah, overboard a little, maybe,” I say, still surveying the pile of goods splayed about.
“Too many macarons and wine?” She titters, her head now peeking up over the dressing room door. “Can’t fit into your size double-zero bathing suit?” Her fingers grab around the top of the door and she peers down. “Damn!” she gasps. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” I slowly pry open the door, and she peers her head through the crack. “But that’s not what I mean.”
“Buy it.” She waves her hand up and down my body. “It was made for you.”
I look back at myself in the mirror and sigh. “Yeah… There’s a reason they’re regarded as the finest suits in the world. They’re all made for somebody.”
This little black number is the most beautiful and form-fitting suit I’ve ever tried on. Eres cuts their suits to fit all shapes and sizes, and they don’t miss a beat. Whatever you want and need, Eres has it and will hide it, cover it, flash it, make it perfect.
“You must get it,” Sophie says, looking agog. “I wish I could splurge and get one.”
“I’ll buy you one,” I say spiritedly. “Please let me buy you one!” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, but I’ve been using my credit cards—the ones Andrew says are practically limitless and at my disposal to make myself happy—to fill my closet (as if it wasn’t already filled to the brim). Sophie’s picked up a couple things along our shopping way, but I’ve got an easy fifty-pounds’ worth of carrier bags and totes on her puny handful.
“Jack,” she says, one hand on her hip. She pries the door open further. “Do you know what these things cost?”
“A small arm and a leg, yeah,” I dismiss. “And worth every appendage.”
“No. I won’t let you.”
“Come on! It’ll be fun!” I give her pleading eyes. “Just throw my crap into a room, get yourself some pieces to try on, and let’s have fun!”
“As if we aren’t already on fun overload,” she says with a smile, about to close the door. “Oh!”
“Yeah?”
She peeks her head back in. “What was that about going overboard? That suit looks smashing on you.”
“Oh,” I wave off with a flick of the wrist. “I was saying I think I went overboard with all the purchases I’ve made.”
Sophie’s eyes grow wide.
“But who cares, now? You’re going to try some suits on and get yourself something Henri or whoever will drool over. It’s all good.”
Sophie rolls her wide eyes and pulls back out of the door. “Dear lord,” she mutters. “You really shouldn’t get me something, Jack.”
“Oh, hush.” I grab the door’s golden handle. “Just go try things on and get something that really shows off those long legs and trim waist.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“My mind’s made up!” I make a motion with both hands to shoo her on her way.
“But if you’re already worried you’ve gone overboard with—”
“No, no.” I shoo some more. “What’s a few more things, really? In the grand scheme? The main damage has already been done. Now this is just…what? Like residual profits.”
Sophie’s face twists. “Huh?”
“Pennies,” I brush off. “It’s Andrew’s money, anyhow. He’s loaded, won’t even notice. And after the damage I’ve done on the Champs-Élysées what’s a few suits at this point?”
Sophie sighs and begins to gather together the hill of carrier bags. “If you insist…”
“Besides,” I say as I close the door, raising my voice so she can still hear me, “I haven’t even touched their lingerie section yet!”
***
“Désolé, Madam,” the tall, thin lady at the registry says, holding out my American Express.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the card and slipping it into my wallet. I look about for the pen, ready to sign. “I mean, merci.” I flash Sophie a toothy grin, seeking approval.
“Désolé, Madam,” the lady says again, arm still outstretched.
I give her a stupefied look as she says, “Un moment.”
“What’s the problem?” Sophie asks.
“Your card did not go through,” the lady says in even yet heavily accented tones. She clasps her hands together and stands stoic, waiting for a response.
“Your card,” Sophie says. She looks to me and motions to my wallet.
“I thought I paid?” I look at Sophie with the same stupefied look.
“Your card did not go through,” the lady repeats.
I hand back the American Express when Sophie says to give it another try.
“Désolé, Madam. Again, it did not go through.”
“What?” In a flurried movement I open my wallet and pull out my Visa. “Here.” I thrust it forward. “Try this one.”
“Have you used this one yet?” Sophie asks, turning the American Express over in her hands.
“Please,” I splutter, “I’m burning a hole through it.”
“Maybe that’s the problem, silly.” Sophie gives me a goofy grin and slips the card in my wallet.
“Désolé,” the lady says, this time holding out the rejected Visa card.
“That one, too?” Sophie spews in bewilderment. “Maybe you didn’t authorize that one to be used abroad.”
I shake my head in denial, not yet at the point of nervousness. I still have a few more cards to try. “No, no,” I say insistently. “I alerted my banks. Half of them are auto-enabled as it is, what with Andrew’s overseas travels all the time.” I pull out the MasterCard. “Here.”
Sophie and I wait eagerly, silently.
“Désolé, Madam,” comes the familiar phrase after the card’s run through the machine.
“Dammit!” I pull free my Discover card.
Again, Sophie and I wait eagerly, silently, and this time I’m actually sending up a silent prayer that it goes through. This has never happened before!
“Non,” the lady says.
“Try it again,” I urge. “I’ve used the other three like crazy today. Maybe they’re burned out. But this one surely must work.”
I don’t return the glance, too nervous to peel my eyes away from the card as it goes sliding through the machine, but I can feel Sophie looking at me.
“Désolé, non.”
“Fuck.” My heart starts to race. I can feel the heat coming from behind as the next customer in line taps her foot lightly.
“Let’s not get angry,” Sophie whispers.
“Here!” I pull out my Diners Club card. “Try this one.”
The lady looks at the card with a furrowed brow, then slowly shakes her head. “No, sorry. We don’t take this card.”
“Okay, no problem.” Sophie pushes the Eres carrier bag filled with beautiful designer bathing suits and lingerie forward. “We’re sorry for wasting your time, but I’m afraid we can’t pay for these.”
“Wait!” I say, a little more loudly than I wished. “Here!” I thrust forward nervously my second Visa card. “This one’s my backup. If this baby doesn’t work I don’t know what will!”
I cross my fingers on my right hand and pull it tight against my back. I grip my wallet firmly with my other hand. I bite down on my lip and watch on in both fascination and fear. Please work, please work.
“Déso—”
“Désolé, yeah, yeah, I know,” I say curtly. “Dammit.”
Sophie quickly grabs my wallet, manages as best as possible the bulk of the carrier bags, and gestures towards the door. “Merci beaucou, madam. So sorry for your trouble. So sorry.” She leans in and whispers in my ear, “Let’s save the last shred of dignity we have and scram now!”
***
“I don’t know how that’s possible!” Sophie says, exasperated. “You’ve been using those cards all day, left and right.” She pauses, stares straight ahead across the trafficked street, then says through a low chuck
le, “Then again, that’s probably exactly why this has happened.”
She turns towards me in her seat on one end of the green wooden bench. “Jackie?” She situates herself a little more comfortably among the piles of carrier bags that fill the space between us, and spill out onto the ground near our new Lanvin-ed feet. “I know you spent a lot of money, but just how much did you spend? Maybe you do have a limit and you shot it through the roof.”
I fix her with a blank stare, then blindly pull open the Ladurée box. “I once bought a one-of-a-kind L'Wren Scott gown, a Tiffany’s bracelet, three designer bags, and rented a Ferrari for the weekend and dined at a five-star Michelin restaurant in the Hamptons on one card in less than twenty-four hours. Those plastics can take a beating.” I pop a pistachio-flavored macaron—the whole thing—in my mouth.
“You and Andrew live on another planet,” she breathes out. She stares down at the mess of consumerism that divides us.
“Macaron?” I offer, holding out the box.
She declines, then says, “I don’t get it! Jack, you’ve said that’s never happened before?”
“Nope. Never.” I fish around for another tasty pistachio macaron, but when I spot an orange one I opt for that instead.
“Oh, no!” She grips my arm as I’m about to take a bite.
“Okay, okay.” I lean forward and take a bite at the treat. “I know they’re not intended to be eaten whole.”
“No!” Sophie pushes her bangs back, her hand dramatically clasping the top of her head. “Why didn’t we think of this sooner?”
“Hmm?” I take another nibble of the orange one, this time the bite significantly smaller than the previous, despite its mouth-watering taste. Now is certainly the time to indulge…in already-purchased, delectable sweets, that is.
“Theft!” Sophie exclaims. “Maybe someone’s stolen your cards and your credit card companies have shut them down! That happened to me once, when there was odd activity going on with one of my cards.” She scratches her head.
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