The Virgin Society Collection

44. Lovely Little Lie

44

LOVELY LITTLE LIE

Bridger

I scan the lobby one more time, tugging on the cuffs of my shirt, peering at the elevator.

I’m still hunting for my business partner as the clock ticks well past ten. Ian, Mia, and I are showing brand partners around the Afternoon Delight locations today in Paris. Easily a half dozen Parisian ad execs cluster around us in the lobby.

But only one of the two Lucky 21 owners are present.

Tension climbs up my spine. But I do my best not to show it as I say to the VIPs, “Ian should be here any minute.”

I try to inject lightness into my tone I don’t feel.

Where the hell is Ian?

“It’s not a problem,” Philippe says. He’s with the perfume maker, and I appreciate his effort to smooth over the annoyance of waiting.

But Ian’s absence is a problem. I fiddle with the collar of my shirt, then glance at my watch. He’s fourteen minutes late.

I swallow down my annoyance and paste on a smile. “It’s probably just the time change. I’ll just go round him up,” I say, since they don’t need to wait any longer.

Mia pulls me aside and sidebars, “I’ll keep them busy.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, then I cut across the lobby, turn down the hallway, and push open the door for the stairs. I take the steps two by two up to the third floor, speed down the hall. Then I rap on his door.

If a rap could be angry, mine is livid.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. Not quickly, not quickly at all, I hear the click of the door unlocking, then opening. Ian smiles, wide-eyed. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down that he’s currently buttoning up.

Thank god he’s ready.

Except…

He doesn’t usually wear jeans and casual button-downs for work meetings.

“We have a meeting right now. With our partners. We’re taking them around the city,” I remind him.

He tosses his head back, laughing. “Right, right,” he says, all chipper. “We do.”

With a sly shrug, he gives that look that people flash when they don’t give a shit. “But I’m going to nip off. I think I’ll head to Giverny for the day.”

My jaw hangs open. Did he just say that? “What are you going to do?” I ask, because he needs to repeat that for me to believe it.

“Giverny. It’s fantastic this time of year. Just tell them I had…” He waves a hand as if he’s hunting for a reason, then snaps his fingers. “Food poisoning,” he says, clutching his stomach as if that will help sell the lie. “Will you, mate?”

I don’t try to hide my irritation as I drag a hand through my hair, peering briefly into his room.

I catch a glimpse of a pair of black flats on the floor. Like the ones Isla wore to dinner last night.

A ball of rage lights on fire in my gut. Are you fucking kidding me? He’s asking me to cover for him? In all the years we’ve worked together, he’s occasionally used me as an excuse, he’s claimed he’s had meetings with me, and I’ve shrugged it off since he’s never asked me to lie.

I’ve simply been his alibi.

Now he wants me to be his enabler.

I grit my teeth. I grind them. But now is not the time to argue. “Fine,” I bite out. “But I’m not doing it again.”

He rolls his eyes. “Young people. I swear. So righteous. It’s just a lovely little lie. Surely, you’ve told them,” he says off-hand. There’s no dig. There’s no sucker punch to it. It’s not as if he knows I’m involved with his daughter.

And yet I feel a thousand razor cuts slicing me up.

I can’t do this any longer. I can’t lie by omission. I can barely hold back any longer. The truth wells up inside me— I’m in love with your daughter. It threatens to spill out right now on the floor of his suite, with all its consequences. Namely, the end of all trust—the trust we’ve had as business partners.

But with our brand marketers waiting downstairs, I swallow the truth, instead saying, “We need to talk when we’re back in New York.”

“Of course. My door is always open for you.”

Then he turns around to join his lady, and I go downstairs and cover for him while he spends the day with his newest affair.

That evening I walk along the Seine, heading to meet the Paris production team for dinner at a brasserie by Notre-Dame. As I walk along the water, passing bouquinistes peddling old and new books, I catch up with Jules in New York on the phone.

“And I sent you coverage of Isla Moretti’s script,” she says, as businesslike as she’s always been.

I’m caught off-guard though. “Isla, as in our writer Isla?”

“Yes. She wrote her own show. It’s called… Happy-ish .”

“Good title,” I say begrudgingly.

“Bad story,” she says.

“Yeah?” This delights me. This should not delight me. “What’s the storyline?” I ask, getting down to business.

“A woman in New York goes on dating quests,” Jules says crisply.

That nags on my brain. It sounds a hell of a lot like a show that’s already on Webflix. “Like Ellie Snow’s The Dating Games ?”

That show launched to fantastic reviews and ratings. It’s already been renewed for another season.

“As a matter of fact, it’s exactly like The Dating Games . It’s completely derivative. Also, the lead is unlikeable. Ian sent it to me. I think he didn’t want to turn her down himself.”

I seethe as I cross the bridge nearest to the famous cathedral.

He wanted the rejection to come from me. I’m not going to play his game. I’m going to knock on his suite tonight and tell him to do it himself.

Except…no.

My game needs to be truth. My game needs to be honesty. My game needs to be standing up for who I believe in. For myself, for the woman I love, and for the people I work with.

Like Jules. My badass, no-nonsense junior producer. I trust her judgment. If she thinks the script is derivative, then I will stand by that, and my office will do its job—saying yes or saying no.

That’s what I do—I make those decisions.

“You can go ahead and pass on it,” I say. “Make sure it’s clear the decision is coming from our office. We work as a team.”

There’s an audible gasp. A rare display of emotion from my stoic former admin. “Great,” she says, and I can still hear the thrill in her voice before she tamps it down, sliding into full professional mode again. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow afternoon when I send out all the replies to agents. And don’t forget, your tickets to the gala tomorrow night will be waiting at reception outside the ballroom at the Luxe Hotel.”

“Thank you,” I say. Then I hang up, go to dinner, and turn my focus completely on my production team here in Paris. They’re working hard on this show. We’ve turned it around. I want nothing more than a terrific launch for Afternoon Delight .

If it goes well, it’ll pay a lot of people’s bills for a long time. That’s what I need it to do.

When dinner’s done and I’ve said goodnight to everybody, Mia tells me she’s going to catch up with friends in the city. “They convinced me to grab a glass of wine in Le Marais.”

“Gee, so sorry to hear. That sounds terrible.”

“The worst,” she says. “See you in Los Angeles next time you’re there. By the way, the marketing for this show is magnifique .”

“My marketing VP is brilliant.”

She waves goodbye, then heads on her way.

I’m alone again. Walking through a city. Just like I do in New York when I need to reset. To think.

And, also, to clear my anxiety. To erase the tension that’s chased me my whole life, since I was younger and felt the uncomfortable press of too loud, too boisterous, too intoxicated crowds.

I’ve shucked that tightness off through sports, through exercise, through control, through stories.

But especially through work. My relentless quest for excellence is a pursuit that’s defined my days and my dreams. Lucky 21 has woken me up in the morning and put me to bed in the evening.

It was all I ever needed in my twenties.

Until Harlow stormed into my heart.

Until she peered over my walls fearlessly, then knocked them down brick by brick, moment by moment, insisting that she noticed things. That she noticed me .

Then, insisting I notice her.

Day by day, I did.

Now, she’s all I need.

And more so, she’s what I want. Even if wanting her changes everything else in my life, like the relationships I have from nine to five. Because it does. There is no easy solution to being with her. Only hard ones. But she’s worth it.

That same sense of calm I felt with her the other night tiptoes alongside me as I walk by the river, the moonlight reflecting off the water.

I pass a magazine stand. Then another one peddling postcards of Paris. I take a moment to assess what I’m feeling now that I’ve made my decision, waiting for the familiar knot of tension to tighten.

I don’t feel it at all.

I know what I want.

I know what I’ll give up.

I’m ready.

I take a picture of the last bouquiniste, framed by the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. Then I send it to Harlow with the caption: Want to go here with me? How about for Christmas?

Her reply lands quickly. Don’t tease me. You know I want to.

I write back. You know I want to take you. Come with me.

My phone pings once more. Oui.

When I’m back in my hotel room, the clock ticking close to midnight, I text again to see if she’s free. She tells me she just left work.

As I toe off my shoes, I call her, and I waste no time. “We need to come clean as soon as possible. Let’s set a time to tell him,” I say, then I lay out the whole plan. The one I’ve been working on this week in the city of light. “What do you think? I return tomorrow just before the gala. I think we should do it on Saturday morning. Together. I want to look him in the eyes and tell the truth.”

I can hear the gulp in her voice, but I can also hear her strength as she says, “And he needs to hear it from me too. Should we take him out to breakfast or lunch?”

“Breakfast. Wait. No,” I say, running through scenarios as I pace around the suite. “He might make a big scene in public. We don’t want that.”

“Good call. I’ll invite him over for lunch at my place. And then you’ll be here too.”

Finally. “Yes.”

She shudders out a breath though, full of nerves.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, honey? We can wait. I’ll wait for you,” I say.

“No, we’re not waiting. We’re doing this,” she says, emphatic.

Good. I need her intrépidité . Telling Ian will be the biggest thing I’ll have done in my whole life.

“This is huge,” I say, struck by the magnitude of what’s happening in my life, in my heart. I sink down in a chair by the window, Paris stars winking in the sky.

“Are you sure, Bridger?”

It takes nothing for me to say, “Completely. In every way.” I glance at the time. I have a plane to catch in the morning. “I’ll see you tomorrow, honey.”

“And on Saturday, after we talk to him, we’re going out. We’re going to hit the town, and I’m going to kiss you on the street like you’re a sailor returning home.”

I’m RSVPing for that kiss right now. “Anything for you.”