Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Alicia is standing in front of the Yogurtland at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, wearing a lavender beret. “Bonjour!” she cries. She hands L’Wren a matching red beret, felt and limp. “So nice to meet you, L’Wren,” she says, hugging her. L’Wren looks less than pleased. For me Alicia pulls out a cream-colored baseball cap with Paris written inside a shamrock of green sequins. “It was the tackiest I could find.” I put it on and admire myself in a strip of mirror outside the duty-free store.
We reach our gate with time to spare. Alicia unzips her roller bag to show us how meticulously she has packed, squashing everything into small cubes and three-ounce containers. There was a whole year in her twenties, I remember, when Alicia didn’t even use a wallet, just carried around a plastic Walgreen’s bag and stashed her credit cards and any cash she had inside.
Once we board, I settle into my first-class seat, in its own pod, fully reclinable, with a feather duvet, two pillows, and a toiletry bag of fancy samples. L’Wren is directly behind me, slipping off her shoes. I poke my head down the aisle, trying to spot Alicia.
“I’m sorry,” L’Wren says, catching my frown. “Upgrading you was supposed to be a good surprise.”
“No. It’s amazing. Way too generous. I just feel a little bad for Alicia.”
“She was always going to fly coach, wasn’t she? Nothing has changed for her.”
“Yes, but I was also going to fly coach. We were going to sit next to each other.”
“She’s not twelve, Diana. She’s fine.”
“Of course.”
But once the plane is in the air and the first round of drinks is served, I slip out of my seat and past L’Wren, already deep in a Xanax sleep. I carry my chilled glass of champagne and make my way to Alicia. It’s worse than I feared—a middle seat between a panicked-looking man with a baby and a much older man who is already snoring. Alicia is deep into reading her book and still wearing her beret.
When she spots me, I raise the glass—“Cheers! To Paris!”—and hand her the champagne.
Alicia grins. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my new homies.”
After a few minutes of our whispered chitchat, the snoring man lifts his sleep mask. “She’s fine. Go back to first class.”
We fly through the night. As I drift off to sleep, I imagine I’m flying to meet Jasper, who will pick me up at the airport with a bouquet of wildflowers and whisk me off to the south of France for a few delicious days in the sun. But after I change into my bikini in the villa bathroom, I open the doors and see Oliver waiting on the bed, in a bright blue swimsuit, his chest tanned, his eyes sparkling. I startle awake, disoriented. I try to distract myself with the TV. I scroll the screen forever and then finally decide on a Seinfeld rerun. It reminds me too much of watching TV with Oliver, though, so I shut it off. I look out the window and eventually drift off watching the red flash of taillights.
Halfway through the flight, I head back to Alicia, who is still engrossed in her book, looking tired. I convince her to swap seats with me. After some maneuvering, I manage to find a position on my side, my knees pulled to my chest, and drift into the very shallowest part of dozing. Then the cabin lights come up, too bright, and breakfast is served. While I pick at my croissant and sip my lukewarm orange juice, I think about texting Jasper. Should I let him know I’m coming to Europe? He was the one who initiated all this. What would happen if I told him I was in Paris?
—
L’Wren and I stand watch over her mountain of luggage while Alicia goes in search of a big enough taxi. L’Wren spritzes my face with something cool and rose-scented and hands me a pouch of powdered vitaminC. “For the jet lag.” She raises her bottled water as if to make a toast. “Look at us. You have been through hell the last couple of months. I have been tempted for the first time in my life and have acid reflux my acupuncturist can’t cure. We’re going to leave that behind in Rockgate. We are new women. You’re going to say yes to my suggestions, right?”
“Sure.” I smile. “Within reason.”
“No. With no reason. We are going to say yes to the most insane ideas no matter what they are. For five whole days.”
“Okay.”
“Not ‘okay.’?”
“ Yes. Yes, L’Wren.”
“Perfect. So here’s the itinerary”—she pulls up a list on her phone—“with a few tiny little gaps for your meetings.”
—
Once our luggage is neatly stacked in the trunk and along the front bench of the taxi, I cram myself between Alicia and L’Wren in the back seat. I feel dazzled, in awe even of the foreignness of the bland roads around the airport. We gaze quietly at the scenery until we near our hotel, the beauty of the city center unfolding before us.
“Even the dogs are chicer in Paris! Look at their fashionable little coats!” Alicia says.
“Did I show you Arthur’s dog? I’m not even a dog person, but this dog is something else.”
L’Wren pulls up a photo of a handsome white-and-black husky.
Alicia peers at L’Wren’s phone. “Is Arthur your husband?”
“No! Oh no. Arthur works with me. He volunteers with my rescue.”
I recognize a familiar posture in Alicia—she leans forward, curious. “Why do you have a picture of his dog on your phone?”
“L’Wren loves animals.”
“I don’t know why,” L’Wren says flatly. “I guess because he’s cute.”
Alicia settles back in her seat and looks out the window as we idle in traffic. I’m relieved that she’s lost interest. Then she says, “Does your husband like Arthur?” We’re not even to the hotel yet, and my fears about the two of them clashing are coming true.
“My husband?” L’Wren says lightly. “Mmm. Kevin doesn’t like anyone really.”
“How is he doing? I mean…I really like Kevin.” I feel both women looking at me so I stare straight ahead, at the back of the driver’s cap, then fake a yawn.
“I’m so glad to know you like him, Diana.” L’Wren laughs. “He’s in London actually. Some high-stakes something or other.”
“Are you going to see him?” Alicia isn’t dropping it.
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“He’s so close. A romantic night in Paris?”
“Are you going to see your husband?” L’Wren returns fire.
“My husband is in Santa Fe.”
“I’m just grateful I don’t have a husband!” I blurt. “We all have nice husbands except me and nice kids and lovely people with dogs that we like in our lives. Oh look! The Eiffel Tower.”
“This is a perfect light.” Alicia turns for a better view. “We need a picture!”
I look at L’Wren. I sense the last thing she wants to do is stop, but she smiles and says, “It is the trip of yes. ”
—
As we pull up to the hotel, L’Wren explains that during one of the hotel’s long-ago renovations, the builders found a stray dog and took him in. “That’s why their logo is a greyhound.” Alicia and I try to listen politely but the lobby takes our breath away—grand and high-ceilinged and perfectly ornate with brocade, marble, gold, and crystal. The bellman shows us to our suite, two rooms with a shared sitting room. L’Wren reaches for her wallet and tips him. “Thank you so much. Will you make sure the reservations for tonight are in order?”
“Of course.”
“This room is gorgeous.” Alicia is as awestruck as I am. “L’Wren, thank you. Merci! ” Contemporary and elegant, with Murano glass lighting and tinted oak floors. Alicia twirls in front of the fireplace as if she were home at last.
L’Wren perches on the wide marble step at the suite’s entrance, looking wary of accepting Alicia’s gratitude. “Diana, I don’t mind sharing a room. Should we take this one?” She gestures to a room with two large beds and its own balcony overlooking the hotel’s elaborate gardens.
“Don’t be silly.” Alicia wheels my suitcase toward the shared room. “You upgraded our whole experience. Diana and I can share.”
We’re now standing in a perfect triangle, 180 degrees of hotel suite marked off among us. All I want is to collapse on a bed and for these two to stop being fake nice.
“Why don’t you two share and I’ll take my own room?” I don’t wait for their reaction. I can hardly believe I’ve just said it—the room really should be L’Wren’s, she did pay for it—but something about Paris has gotten to me. I feel freer somehow, even though we’ve just gotten here. My friends stand with their mouths agape as I wheel my suitcase into the smaller bedroom. L’Wren claps her hands and calls out, “Okay, but no napping! We’re going to power through today and try to get on Paris time!”
Alone in my room, I open the curtains and see the Jardins Tuileries and the tips of chestnut trees across the road. It’s so much prettier even than I had ever dreamed. One summer my mother and I spent a full week at the movies, watching only French films. She was trying to become absorbed in her craft. My mom loved Jeanne Moreau, aped her every expression. It didn’t land my mother any acting gigs, but we were both grateful for the ice-cold air and the large buckets of popcorn. Being here now, I’m surprised by how much of the atmosphere of those films comes back to me.
I unpack my clothes, hanging my sundresses and wondering if L’Wren was right to bring so much luggage. Maybe I should have packed a few more outfits. Alicia calls, “Diana! Meet us downstairs to walk to breakfast in ten. L’Wren and I are starving!”
I should be relieved they have agreed on something. I take a quick, cold shower and put on a creased dress. I check my phone, wanting to call Emmy before she leaves for camp but knowing it’s still way too early in Texas. No missed calls from Oliver, which must be a good sign.
—
At a small café with a blue-painted front, hung with flowers, we sit outside and sip espresso and eat pastries.
“Petit déjeuner,” Alicia repeats to herself.
“Oui. Très bien.” L’Wren compliments her, somewhat patronizingly. I settle into my chair and take a long sip of my water. The café sits on a hill, and from here I can see the edges of the Fête des Tuileries. I picture Emmy here, us waiting in line for the rides. I imagine the two of us traveling alone—in my mind, I’ve convinced her to let me sketch her standing in front of the Louvre, her long, wavy hair whipping in front of her face. It’s a beautiful image, one I hope to make real, but I feel a niggling gloom. I know what it is—a feeling that someone is missing, but I can’t make out who. But why do I have to feel like someone’s missing?
I wave my hand in front of my eyes as if to bat away these thoughts. I sit up and take a bite of my croissant. If I keep moving, maybe I won’t feel this sadness.
“L’Wren, what’s next on the agenda?”
Her eyes light up. “I’ve taken into account that we’re low on sleep, that this will be a first time in the city for both of you, and then I’ve also considered crowd patterns and weather…” She looks up at the sky as if to understand the position of the sun and its bearing on our itinerary. “We’ll start at the Arc de Triomphe. Then to the Champs-Elysées and across George V to the Liberty Torch. We’ll cross the bridge and stop at Pierre Hermé for macarons and something cold to drink before we get too hot. And then tonight…we say yes to it all tonight…. Food and champagne and more food…”
L’Wren trails off. Her face softens and her eyes go misty, an expression so palpably dreamy she could be joking, like an actor trying to impress us with her uncanny timing. “God, I want to have sex,” she murmurs, then blushes when she feels our eyes on her. “Doesn’t everyone here look at least a little bit in love?”
We all take a long look around us. The soft sound of other conversations. The facade hung with wisteria so large they need a special city permit.
“You should call your husband.” Alicia’s voice is gentle. “Have him meet you in Paris for the night. It’s just a train ride. Or meet him in London.”
“Yeah.” L’Wren pulls her focus from the sidewalk and back to the table, looking at me first, then Alicia. “Why doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Because you’re in love with someone else.”
“Alicia!”
“What? Are we not saying it out loud?”
L’Wren sits up taller. Her tone is chilly. “You and I are not saying it, no. We just met yesterday.”
Alicia persists. “I’m sorry. I meant—it’s totally normal. Expected even. It sounded like a big deal coming out of my mouth, but—really it’s not a big deal, it happens.”
“It’s my marriage. It’s my life. Of course it’s a big deal.” L’Wren stares into her coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Alicia says. “But honestly, everyone feels this way in a marriage. Last year I wanted to have sex with my allergist. I kept inventing reasons to go see him.”
She gets L’Wren to laugh, which only makes L’Wren’s tears fall faster. She wipes them with her napkin. “Did you sleep with him?”
“No. He could not have been less interested in me. I don’t know that I actually wanted it to go there. That’s the thing—I get your confusion and I’m sorry I sounded overly familiar.”
“No, I was being flippant. It’s not your fault.” She blows her nose into the napkin. “You’re right. I do worry that I’m falling for Arthur. And I don’t want to.”
“Maybe it’s just a blip?” I offer.
“No. I definitely want to fuck Arthur. Right here on this table. On the street. In a car.”
I am surprised to hear L’Wren open up. My eyes are gritty with fatigue and I’m woozy from caffeine. “Would you, could you in a boat?”
Alicia looks at me and frowns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Toddler joke. So sorry.”
“I would definitely fuck him on a boat,” L’Wren says.
“Oh dear.”
“I want to. Can I? Just once?”
“L’Wren…” I try to sound levelheaded. “It’s probably not even about him. Your feelings for Arthur maybe have more to do with you and Kevin. This might have nothing to do with Arthur at all—”
“It is about Arthur. He’s perfect, Diana. We talk. Like all night on the phone. Kevin and I never talk. Not really. We catch each other up and then we go to bed. I haven’t wanted to talk to a man in so long.”
I try to catch Alicia’s eye, but her gaze, calm and empathetic, is settled squarely on L’Wren. I have no real instinct here, but I do sense L’Wren wants me to make an attempt at advice, at the very least. “Maybe Alicia is right? Maybe you should meet Kevin—somewhere new and far from your everyday lives. You said the same thing to me when I was struggling with Oliver. You said, ‘Do everything you can to save your marriage. You don’t want any regrets.’?”
—
On our way back to the hotel we stroll arm in arm down a wide, leafy boulevard lined with luxury stores. We pass stunning windowfronts filled with Italian quilted jackets draped over satin slip dresses, gold lambskin loafers, and bold, strange couture looks. Alicia and I exchange a look—if anything could be counted on to lift L’Wren’s spirits…
“Oh, L’Wren,” Alicia says, lingering in front of a short cashmere jacket, “that would be amazing on you.”
L’Wren smiles. She sounds pleased. “That red is not quite my color.” She points to a metal-studded denim outfit, nudging Alicia. “I can see you in that.”
“Gorgeous,” Alicia says. “But I have to pee too often to ever wear a jumpsuit.”
At the next store, it’s me who catches a breath. The dress in the window is so spectacular. It’s a deep green with a full skirt. I can’t think of any reason I shouldn’t have it.
“Wow,” is all Alicia says.
“Try it on,” L’Wren urges.
“It’s probably more than my mortgage.” There’s a reason.
“I’m only asking you to try…” L’Wren says.
We enter the boutique, which is lit by an amazingly quirky bird chandelier. There are worn-in leather club chairs outside of every changing room.
The woman behind the counter is the picture of elegance in a crisp black pantsuit. She has razor-sharp cheekbones and a slick bob. If not for L’Wren’s steady hand on my back, I would have turned and run.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
“She’d like to try on the dress in the window,” Alicia says.
I feel convinced the saleswoman will know that I cannot afford anything in this store. But she smiles warmly.
“Of course. I’m Marie, if you need anything else.”
Alicia starts to actually chant, as though she were at a Texas football game, “Go, Diana, go! Go, Diana, go!”
Inside the mirrored dressing room, I slip on the dress. The full skirt falls just below my knees. I don’t recognize my reflection. I feel two feet taller. My skin looks clearer. The dress is transformative. I’ve spent so many years working in a job where I can melt into the furniture. The woman in the mirror is still me —but the me that hasn’t been weighed down by an impending divorce, mortgage payments, and first-grade playdates. The woman I see in the mirror has wild sex and is invited to more parties than she can attend.
Marie pops her head into the changing room.
“Gorgeous! But you can’t wear it without heels. I’ll be right back. Are you a size 7?”
“I am.” She’s good.
Alicia shouts, “We need to see you!”
“What is the occasion?” Marie asks, returning with a pair of high heels.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t have an occasion. I have never had an occasion.
“An evening event,” I say lamely.
Seconds later, Marie rests a sleek black blazer over my shoulders.
“Sunglasses?” she asks.
“Yes,” I tell her, hiding my ten-dollar gas station frames deep in my purse. She hands me a pair of cat-eye frames.
Before she can ask me about a bag, I leave the dressing room. L’Wren beams.
“Oh. My. God. You are not leaving Paris without that dress.”
I do the math in my head. If I never eat out again, quit my weekly tennis lessons for an entire year, and put off replacing the air-conditioning, I can almost afford everything.
“I’ll take it,” I say. I so desperately want to be this woman. Even if it’s just for a few days in Paris.
By late afternoon, we wilt like spent blossoms, our feet swollen and heads woolly and aching. I’ve bought stacks of postcards for Emmy at every stop along the way, and L’Wren picked up one too—a photo of a kitten in a beret. We spend the evening inside, and I make it until nine p.m. , heroically, then give up and sink into the cool linen sheets, my new dress laid out on the king-size bed next to me.