by Hazel Parker
“Hello, beautiful,” she said, pulling me into an embrace and kissing me on the cheek. “It has been so long since I saw you in France!”
“I’ve been trying to get you to America first, that’s why,” I said with a smile. “And no, New York doesn’t count. West Coast, Helene. That’s where you’ve got to come.”
“Well, for now, come to my table,” she said. “I have many friends in the industry I would like to introduce you to.”
Now we’re talking. This is where I actually earn my keep.
We walked through a sea of men in suits, women in cocktail dresses that were far shorter and more revealing than mine, and bartenders trying not to get groped or shouted at. At the back of the club, on an elevated platform, someone named “DJ Crunchit” was playing music that vaguely sounded familiar, but it faded to the side as Helene introduced me to all of her friends, many of whom were models for the wine industry.
I had to admit, I was only attracted to men, but even I could not help but feel like I’d landed in the Garden of Eden. Had I been a guy, I probably would have fainted from the number of attractive women around me.
“Ladies, this is my friend Layla, from America!” Helene said.
I made the rounds, learned where everyone worked, and made mental notes for whom I thought would be most interested in talking business at some point in the next couple of days.
“For now, though, let us celebrate that we have made it to another incredible weekend at Fashion Week,” she said. “I have bought some champagne for all of us.”
The girls clapped and cheered. Though my family thought of me as the extroverted and outgoing one, I mostly kept quiet and smiled politely. Perhaps the events of the day had tired me more than I had thought.
“This,” Helene said as she presented a bottle. “Is a Cremant from Loire Valley.”
I know exactly what that is.
It’s from his vintage collection.
His.
But I refused to show any panic on my face. I took a quick glance around and did not see him and felt at ease. Just as someone wearing my brother’s baseball jersey didn’t mean he was about to show up, someone having this particular champagne didn’t mean Pierre was going to be present. I’d still remain guarded give the fact that it was Fashion Week and people could make a cameo, but for now, I could lay low.
And if I had to run? Well, I’d cross that bridge when I got there.
Helene had one of the attendants to our table pour us all glasses.
“Cheers,” she said. “To all of us.”
We clinked glasses and took a sip. I took mine gradually, while the rest of the women downed theirs quickly, the better so they could get back to their alcohol. I might have been the only one that evening not looking to see where the night took me.
I made conversation with the two girls on either side of me, having to shout over the noise, but things started to go well. One of the girls was going to be in Los Angeles in a month’s time, and I told her we would exchange contact info so she could discuss appearing in advertisements for Ferrari Wines. Another one of the girls had retired from advertising but ran an agency; we exchanged business cards. Though such an exchange went nowhere almost all the time, the “almost” qualifier made it worth doing.
It didn’t take long for some of the girls, perhaps overburdened by having to look perfect all day, from starting to stand up and dance on the floor. I knew where this would lead—men would soon be drawn, like vultures to dying prey, and keep their distance while observing. A few daring ones would try their hand at dancing with the girls, either by dancing by their side at first or by just straight up grinding on them from behind. And if it worked, then a whole lot more would suddenly show up.
Although against the rules of the establishment, I sat on the top of the booth, the better to give me a view of the whole place. It was already quite crowded, and many people were already drunk. There were a few Frenchmen near our group, dancing in rather ridiculous fashion, as if trying to warm themselves up for the moment when they approached a circle of wine models. I scanned the room, looking back…
Pierre.
Oh, shit.
He was there.
Leaning right against the wall.
And looking right at me.
There was nothing else he could have been looking at. There was no one seated near me, no one behind me, no artwork near me that I could be mistaking his look for. He was staring. Right. At. Me.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I could feel the color drain from my face. Everything around me became distant as it felt like the only thing I could see was the man who had thrown my heart on the floor, stomped on it, and spat on it five years ago. All of this time, I had been able to keep him at a distance, and even with the two freak encounters the past twenty-four hours, we’d never looked at each other.
But now, it was unmistakable.
Five years of distance had failed to keep him away. My worst nightmare had found me for the third time this trip, and now that he and I had made eye contact, he was not going to let me go.
I was so caught up in my own head that I could barely see how Pierre was reacting to seeing me. He looked...
The fucking same as always. Stoic. Cold. Determined.
Maybe if I had a better sense of myself right then, I could better evaluate, but I was in a full-blown panic. That was not hyperbole; I began to feel my breathing weaken, my heart rate accelerate, and my senses dull.
And then he took a step toward me.
I had no fucking idea what to do. Tell the bouncer to block him off? Run away? Just accept that this was going to happen and talk to him? What the fuck was I supposed to do?
I felt like Sarah Connor, watching the Terminator approach her. The Terminator would stop at nothing. Pierre would not have a shotgun, but the people would move out of the way all the same; he would not stop until he was close enough to touch me.
And to do what? Embarrass me some more? Charm and seduce me? Fuck me?
For all that time, for all the negative feelings I had for him, for how sick he made me feel...he was still...handsome and serious and terrifying and hot and awful and…
“Layla!”
I looked down coolly, belying my nervous tendency, to see Helene smiling at me.
“You OK, girl?”
I looked back up. I’d lost Pierre in a crowd. But I knew full well he hadn’t magically decided to just split off from his purpose.
“I need to go,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just...I don’t feel well.”
“Layla?”
“Can we get brunch tomorrow or something?”
“Well, sure, but—”
I left without saying another word, even as Helene kept calling out to me. It was a good thing that she knew I suffered from social anxiety from time to time; she’d be more forgiving of that excuse tomorrow than if I told her the truth.
I still did not see Pierre as I ducked under the crowd, but if he’d seen me once, he knew I was here somewhere. I crouched down low as I made my way through the mess of people, doing my best to make my slipping away unnoticeable. If I could get by without even Helene knowing where I had gone, all the better.
I knew this club well, having attended it in years past, and I knew where the exit was. But so, too, did Pierre, most likely. I still crouched low as I made my way to the exit, the sea of people gradually parting as the crowd must have wondered why someone would leave a party like this so early.
I fucking hated it.
I fucking hated that my purpose for being here was being defeated by the presence of a man I’d been with for all of forty-eight hours. I fucking hated that it had, at best, gotten working relations with the two girls at the table off to an abrupt and short start. I fucking hated that I let Pierre bother me still.
I got outside. I breathed fresh air. I looked over, noting quickly the line had moved maybe two people. The girls who had bitched before about me getting inside now probably stared at me, feeling like I had reaped som
e sort of karma for being out of the club so early.
They didn’t know. Or if they did, they wouldn’t care.
I looked over my shoulder. I did not see Pierre. But like Sarah Connor, I knew that my escape was not permanent; he would be back, and he would find me again if I did not fucking move. I hailed for a cab, but it blew right by me.
It was just as well. Where had I planned to go? The hotel? My hotel? Our hotel?
What if he was actually only a couple rooms down? What if he had known I’d be here? What if…
Another cab came up. I hailed it down. It approached the curb. I looked over my shoulder.
He was coming.
“Hurry up!” I shouted.
No one had any idea why I was screaming. No one could help me.
I could barely help myself right now.
Chapter 6: Pierre
“Remind me why in the name of all that is good I decided to let you arrange plans for tonight, Antoine?” I said as I stood in line for the post-Miu Miu party.
“I told you, I couldn’t get bottle service!” Antoine said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and it was my fault for not knowing any better. “You think it would be so easy on a night like this?”
“On a night when it is a bit chilly and the alternative would be to be inside the nightclub?” I said rhetorically.
Antoine rolled his eyes. In any case, I could only hold the man’s attention for so long; like a rabbit that could not stay still in one patch of grass, he always needed to be looking for something else to hop to, be it a woman, a drink, a new location, whatever. He had not yet mastered the art of stillness.
Of course, far be it for me to be so haughty when I was in line for a nightclub during Fashion Week, half because I had a feeling that a fling from five years ago would be inside.
Eventually, I had had enough. I got out of line, went up to the bouncer, and smiled.
“Sir, is there any chance that you might be able to procure early entrance for my friend and me? We are friends of the club.”
“Friends,” in this case, was based on the fact that I had a hundred euros in my hand I was slipping the bouncer. The man took my handshake, smiled, and nodded. He ushered us in, ignoring the cries about how it was not fair that the locals were being given access. I think I heard one American yell, “Do you know who I am?” Even I could not help but laugh at such a preposterous statement. No, no one knew who he was.
Inside, we immediately found a circle of friends who had had the wits—or perhaps insanity—to come to this club for dinner, sit here for hours on end, and then already have a spot inside when it transitioned to a nightclub. We made small talk as I brushed my jacket back and put a hand in my pocket. I scanned the room.
She was not there yet.
But call it intuition, call it my gut, call it a sixth sense, I knew Layla Ferrari would show up. She would not have stayed at my hotel and been here for work and have skipped an event like this; there were too many well-known people for her not to try to network with.
And besides, I could see one of the models that worked for one of the wineries that I owned. Helene, I believed her name was; she was a nice lady, with a much nicer personality than someone of her looks typically had. I had never been anything more than professional with her, but not many men would want to try to hold on to that distinction. If Layla was not friends with Helene, she would certainly want to be.
I headed to the bar with Antoine, ordering myself a cocktail. Antoine got some shots. I rolled my eyes and told him I would be back. I found a pillar in the nightclub to lean against and looked out.
I saw a waitress carrying a bottle of champagne from one of my wineries and watched her take it to Helene’s table. But Helene had stood up. I looked at the remaining women there, all of them gorgeous, drop-dead beautiful, all of them looking like they were itching for a good—
She’s here.
I could not say what prompted that knowledge, but I just knew that she had entered the building. Maybe it would all turn out to be bullshit, but I doubted it. I did not get such knowledge and thoughts so easily.
I kept my place against the pillar, looking disinterested in everything around me precisely because I was. I waited until Helene returned. And sure enough, trailing right behind her, in a gorgeous purple dress, with her long hair flowing beneath her shoulders, looking even more beautiful than my memories had given me of her.
Layla Ferrari.
I would never forget the name. My heart was racing. For five years, I had carried weight inside of me for what I had done, for my failure to admit why I had left. For five long years, I had wondered if I would ever get the chance to be in the full presence of Layla again.
And now, here I was, with just that. It was surreal. It was nothing short of special.
It also was not yet realized, with fifteen feet of active nightclub dancing separating us, something that might as well have equated to fifteen miles in the real world.
Still, with patience, I sat there, sipping on my drink, content to let people wonder who that tall, limber man was leaning against the pillar. Layla had her back mostly turned to me; the positioning of the table she was at made it so she’d have to turn ninety degrees just to see me. But that was fine. I could wait.
Antoine and his friends by now had broken off from me, and Helene and some of her girlfriends started to dance. I wondered if Layla started dancing, if I would approach. Such a thing felt crass, almost, to sound arrogant, beneath me; I considered myself too sophisticated to simply press up against her from behind and think that would resolve everything.
But maybe this whole dance was just one big excuse to—
She sat up on top of the booth. She now had full view of everything. I felt like the girl in the horror movie who knows she’s about to face her worst fear. I knew what mine was right then—that I would actually get what I wanted and I’d have to face everything from my past in one short spurt.
Time had been very kind to her. While I truly believed most women overestimated the “damage” time did to them, I could understand how some would believe time was not helpful. In Layla’s case, time had given her a sort of sophisticated look that complimented her beauty well. She was always attractive and had always had a great body, but now, she carried herself and presented herself with the dignity and grace of someone who knew what she was doing.
Perhaps I was overly romanticizing her. Perhaps…
She looked my way.
We made eye contact.
I wanted to reach out to her, touch her, hold her, pull her to me. Yes, even as my heart skipped beats, even as everything in the world seemed to grow silent, I just wanted her.
But my feet were frozen. It was as if I did not know what to do.
And what made matters worse, even if it was entirely predictable, was that Layla did not look at me with confusion, hurt, or anger. She looked at me with a coldness that would have frozen the Pope himself.
I guess I should have predicted that part. How I would have felt as a man if someone had just left me in the middle of a shower could only pale in comparison to the agony I had probably caused her. But perhaps if she understood…
It was no longer about proving a point to Antoine, or even about proving anything to myself. It was about...it was about reconnecting, maybe even rekindling. At a minimum, it was about making things right, apologizing, reaching out and saying why things had happened.
But could I really do that? “Hi Layla, here is why I am a reclusive, closed off, emotionally unavailable billionaire incapable of providing you more than a few nights of erotic pleasure.” How in the hell would that go?
Still, for all of the thoughts, I felt an obligation, a duty to approach and explain. I took one step forward, and the rest followed.
To my dismay, she ducked into the crowd. She was trying to escape.
And again, who could blame her? The name “Pierre” probably conjured up images of immense pleasure and pain, of tender love and
sudden hurt, of hope and dismay. The best she was probably thinking was, “He might apologize, but then he’d hurt me again.”
But still, I felt I had to say something.
I knew she had to have left. I started to make my way for the only exit at this club.
“Pierre, you pussy!” Antoine yelled. “Women here everywhere!”
I did not care for Antoine’s sophomoric shouts. I did not so much as turn around. In fact, there was a very good chance he said much more and I just ignored it. Just as he had challenged me to stay, I felt challenged to talk to Layla. I would find her.
I walked through the long tunnel. She was standing at the curb alone. This was my chance. I just prayed she gave it to me.
A cab pulled up. I picked up my speed. No, no, I had not come this far only to be denied my chance. Perhaps it would be fair karma, but I had not gotten where I had in life by bowing to the rule of karma. The cab driver got out of the car and opened the door for Layla. I picked up my speed to a jog.
“Excuse me, that’s my ride,” I said.
The driver was confused enough that he stepped to the side. It was all the opening I needed. I smoothly moved inside the car, gently brushing up against Layla as she pushed herself to the other side of the car.
And I sincerely believed when I saw the look in her eyes, she was going to kick me in the face for what I had done.
“Get the fuck out of this car right now.”
Well, I suppose it was somewhat of good news that she had not kicked me in the face. She had not resorted to physical violence yet. But…
“I said, get the fuck out!” she said. “You want me to cause a scene, Pierre? You want me to get you arrested for harassment?”
I had to choose my next words very carefully. They might be the only words that Layla would actually listen to before she set down either the path of eternal hatred or early forgiveness.
“I only want to speak to you,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.
“Are you sure about that?” Layla snipped. “Are you sure that you don’t just want to set me up, only to ruin my fucking life for the next five years? Or do you really want to just ‘speak to me?’”
