16. Lily
Lily
T his morning, I was back at the University of Southern California.
Unlike yesterday’s event, today was devoted to visiting the campus, and spending more time with the teachers. Since it’s an intense and expensive program, the school wants to make sure we know what we’re getting into.
In the afternoon, I visited UCLA.
After that, I stopped by the American Film Institute. It’s not on the list of my father’s approved schools, but curiosity won. That, and defiance.
Once that was done, I played tourist in Beverly Hills since I couldn’t yesterday, given I was on a tight schedule.
LA is so different from New York, London, or Paris. The city has its own unique vibrancy––one I’m warming up to. I won’t lie, this sunshine is making me drunk with giddiness.
Conscious of the time, I cut my stroll short. There’s still time for me to get ready for Rhys’s birthday party, but Michaela sold me on the orange blossom and honey body scrub treatment at the Pompadour Spa. She said it’s a must to shake off the jetlag blues.
Sign. Me. Up.
I stroll across the lobby of the hotel on my way to the elevators, when Michaela approaches me, her trademark warm smile stretching her lips. “Perfect timing.”
I pull my oversized designer diva sunglasses off my face. “Perfect timing for what?” She’s about to respond, but I interrupt her. “I love your dress. You have impeccable style.” My eyes drop to her feet. “And you’re rocking those heels. Bravo for going with a bold color.”
“Thank you.” She beams. “I could’ve gone for white high heels, but these yellow ones make a statement.”
“And black would be so predictable.”
“I was thinking along the same lines.” Mikki winks. “You decided not to wear your beautiful Dior Couture secondhand shop find two days in a row.”
“Trust me, I considered it long and hard, but I thought it was a little much for afternoon visits at colleges. Not to mention, the couture would be over the top for the understated hairstyle.” I pull at my long braid.
She laughs.
I opted for something less showy—a white sleeveless top with a pair of slim fitted raw silk three-quarter pants in fuchsia, which I paired with black satin Manolo Blahnik Hangisi heels.
“I love this on you.” Her eyes are riveted on my necklace.
“Thank you.”
“What a versatile piece of jewelry. It pairs perfectly with couture or a more subdued outfit. Where did you buy it?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure if I should tell her the truth or not.
I decide to play it safe. “It’s one of those lucky finds.”
“If you find another one, buy it, and I’ll reimburse you.”
I contain my excitement. “Will do.”
Praise from a woman with impeccable taste stirs something in me.
Mikki checks her watch. “Our table should be ready.”
I frown.
“It’s four-thirty. Le go?ter is being served right about now in the La Belle époque Room.”
“Afternoon tea French style?”
“I made reservations for two.” Mikki winks. “Care to join me?”
“ Absolument! ”
Translation: Absolutely.
“With each passing day, I like you more and more, Lily.”
“Ditto, Mikki.”
“As Marie Antoinette would say, let them eat cake . I love that expression. It’s so joyous.”
That comment angered the French and caused the Queen’s death by guillotine. I don’t correct Mikki. She said cake. I’m there.
Lacing her arms with mine, she drags me to the over-the-top elegant café.
The space is spectacular.
The décor at the hotel is quite modern, but the elegant tea salon is a perfect blend of modern and a touch of je ne sais quoi that hints at olde-worlde charm.
As we trail across the room, Mikki nods here and there at patrons who wave as she strolls past tables.
She’s a formidable hostess.
Instead of sitting at one of the unoccupied tables, she keeps walking all the way to a private area located at the back of the restaurant.
We come to stand in front of a table set with an extravagant flair, including tiered cake stands, floral mismatched tea cups, cloth napkins, and a crisp white tablecloth that reaches the floor.
Nice.
“This is where upper management eats,” she says.
I nod.
My eyes lift to the large candelabra chandeliers dripping with crystals dangling from the ceiling.
If I could whistle, I would.
I meet her gaze. “You don’t do things halfway.”
“At the Pompadour? Never. Not to mention, afternoon tea is an experience. You can’t enjoy it sitting at your desk, stuffing your face, while poring over spreadsheets.”
“I agree.”
Right on cue the song changes to C’est si Bon .
I point to the ceiling. “It’s a kitschy song, but a classic.”
The sound of the accordion gives a Parisian atmosphere and complements the songbird’s vocals.
“I agree, but it sets the mood, and guests love the oldies,” Michaela says. “The newer French songs don’t have the same cachet.”
I bob my head to the guitar solo.
“Oh, it’s a bilingual version,” I say when the female singer sings the next verse.
“ Mais, bien s?r .” Mikki winks. “Let’s sit.”
Translation: But of course.
Before I have time to blink, a parade of waiters fuss at our table, setting plates of desserts for a delightful afternoon snack. With irreproachable care, they serve tea and serve us a beautiful assortment of bite-size options.
With a solemn bow, they scurry off.
My mouth waters as I take in the display of scrumptious desserts set on beautiful ornate Limoges style porcelain plates.
“Madeleine cakes, tartes au citron , tarte Tatin, gateau opéra, Saint Honoré, and Paris-Brest,” I say. “You’re even serving baguette and chocolate squares.” This is one of the most quintessential after-school treats for kids in France.
“I discovered how delicious that combo is the first time I visited France.”
“Life is short. I love how the French bypass savory options and strictly focus on dessert.”
“Got to love how the French think.”
“Oh, I love pain au chocolat ?” I point to the golden chocolate croissants.
She cocks a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Try pain au chocolat blanc .”
“Mother of God. Croissants stuffed with white chocolate?”
She nods.
Sweet baby Jesus.
She points to another plate. “And these are petits pains au chocolat blanc .”
“White chocolate bread?”
“Yup!”
She says that as if it was no big deal.
Carbs and white chocolate? Angels are singing.
“Phoenix’s youngest brother, Roman, doesn’t like milk chocolate,” she says.
“He doesn’t?”
“He doesn’t enjoy the taste.”
That guy must be a Martian.
“Our pastry chef came up with the white chocolate alternatives to classic French pastries. Roman loves them. So does our guests. They’re a crowd pleaser.”
“You people know how to live,” I say. “What about this?” I point to a small smooth caramel-colored cake.
“ Gateau à la confiture de lait , aka, dulce de leche cake. We’re talking about moist and fluffy brown butter layers covered in sinful dulce de leche buttercream, topped with a braid of vanilla buttercream.”
“You’re killing me.”
Mikki laughs. “Dulce de leche is heavenly.”
#Fact.
“There are a few spots in New York that serve a French afternoon tea, but none rival what we serve at the Pompadour Hotel, which is why we had to open a separate afternoon tea salon that serves le go?ter because the La Belle époque Room at the New York location had a one-month wait list.”
“Impressive.”
“We keep the experience as traditional as possible, even going so far as choosing Marriages Frères instead of British tea.” She points to the teapot.
“As I’m sure you know, unlike the British high tea, the French only serve sweet.
Some restaurants in Paris break with tradition, but we decided not to. ”
“It’s like being in Paris.”
“Minus the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, it’s a close second,” she says.
“You forgot the moody Parisians on a rainy day.”
“Angelenos are darn right grouchy when it drizzles, and plain bitchy when it rains.”
We laugh.
“I hope it’s okay with you, but I asked the bar to hold on the booze since the champagne will be flowing tonight,” she says.
“Not a problem.”
“Please.” Mikki invites me to dig in.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
I bite into the pain au chocolat blanc . I moan. “Oh my God, I may never leave this hotel.”
“You don’t have to. We can keep charging your credit card.”
“My father would fly into town, throw a hissy fit, and demand an explanation. ”
Concern colors her green eyes and her lips flatten in a straight line.
Shit. “There I go ruining our time together by talking about my father.”
“I don’t know the man, but I’m not one of his biggest fans,” Mikki says. “As for an explanation on the charges on his credit card…” She shrugs. “Too many film schools, not enough time. You had to extend your trip.”
“Oh, you’re good.” I laugh. “I like having you as my accomplice.”
“Anytime.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
For a few long minutes, we’re far too consumed by our desserts to speak.
Once I’m done devouring the white chocolate croissant, I move my attention to the tempting dulce the leche cake. I’m unprepared for the burst of flavor gushing into my mouth. I close my eyes for a beat, as if I’m in a communion with God. “This is exquisite, incredibly moist, and not too sweet.”
“I’m quite partial, but we have the best pastry chefs in the country.”
“I believe it.”
As we enjoy our afternoon tea, I answer Mikki’s questions about the two schools I visited. It was nothing earth-shattering. Still, I’m touched she cares.
When it comes to the colleges, I’m going through the motions. In the end, since my father is footing the bill, he’ll select the school of his choice. It’s all part of the grand plan.
Whatever.
I should be offended the puppet master hasn’t been in touch yet, but my father continues to ignore me. Ironic, considering he’s the one who insisted I make the trip.
“My second visit to Beverly Hills saved the day,” I say. “ Fingers crossed Rhys’s birthday party will make up for a fairly boring day.”
“No need to wish upon a star, dear friend. You’re going to have a blast. Phoenix’s inner circle know how to party. Same goes for the sisterhood.”
“I can’t wait.”
Speaking of people who haven’t been in touch…
“I wonder what time Gage is going to pick me up,” I say. “I booked a spa treatment, and don’t want to make him wait. He was supposed to text?—”
“He won’t be able to pick you up.”
My brows wing in surprise. “Oh.” I school my expression not to show my disappointment. “I see.”
“He sent me a text and asked me to take you to the party.”
Her words hit me in the gut.
I drop my fork on the plate and rummage through my bag for my phone. I pull it out and check my messages.
Nothing.
A pang of something I can’t describe hits me dead in the chest.
“He didn’t text me to tell me.” I hate the complaint in my voice.
The deep-seated fear of rejection that’s plagued me since my mom died, kicks in.
“He’s having a hell of a day.” Her expression is apologetic, but it does nothing to lessen the blow.
He couldn’t text me or at least copy me on the message he sent Michaela?
Don’t take it personally, Lily.
I’m being overly sensitive.
He’s a virtual stranger.
No need to get bent out of shape because he changed his plans at the last minute. The man has a business to run. I’m passing through town.
I pull in a breath and let it out. “Okay.”
“Since yesterday, he’s been dealing with a public relations nightmare, involving Jam Session’s show host. It’s a mess.”
“I didn’t know.”
She adjusts herself on the seat. “I should warn you.”
Uh, oh.
“Gage can be a bit… abrasive.”
“Given his position, I’m sure everyone wants a piece of him.”
“It’s more than that.” She lets out a long exhale. “People who were close to him, betrayed him in the worst possible way.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s not my story to tell, so I won’t say more, but…
” She falls silent for a beat. “I will say this, Gage tends to keep people at arm’s length.
It took him a long time to warm up to me, but my husband warned me, so I didn’t take it personally.
He also allows himself to be consumed by his business.
In all fairness, most billionaires do, but Gage uses work as a protective shield.
” She brushes a hand in front of her face, as if to sweep everything she just said under a rug.
“Anyway, you shouldn’t be disappointed if he doesn’t show up tonight. ”
A lump swells in my throat.
“But don’t worry, the sisterhood has your back,” she says. “Plus, you’re absolutely gorgeous. I’m no psychic, but I can predict the single guys in our inner circle will fight over you. Men will fall at your feet.”
There’s only one man I want to fall at my feet.