6
“How much time do we have until guests start arriving?” I ask Frankie as the cab pulls up in front of the hotel.
“Plenty,” she replies, glancing at her watch. “At least an hour.”
I nod, nervously peering out the window at La Maison Rouge Paris, which is perched on a quaint street in the Montmartre neighborhood.
It’s beyond charming, with enormous cypress trees that flank the lantern-lined entrance and the warm amber glow of candlelight
flickering from the sills of each guest room window. Tightly bunched arrangements of red roses line the steps leading to the
gilded double door.
“What do you think?” Ella says, suddenly materializing behind me. She’s dressed to the nines in a red-sequined minidress that
accentuates her petite frame and ample cleavage. I feel plain in comparison, having selected a high-neck long-sleeved black
gown. She points to a gold sign beside the entrance: un endroit pour trouver l’amour. “A place to fall in love,” she translates, grinning. “Sebastian loved your idea!”
A place to fall in love? More like a place to have a mental breakdown.
“The flowers look great, don’t they?” she continues, smoothing her hair, which is curled and pinned to one side. I feel instantly
less glamorous with my tight bun.
“They do,” Frankie interjects when I don’t reply. “Now, how can I help? Put me to work!”
“Absolutely not,” Ella replies. “You’re a guest . Please, come in, and have some champagne. Sebastian insisted on top-shelf tonight!”
Speaking of Sebastian, I spot him ahead, smiling confidently in the hotel’s foyer beside an ice sculpture of a man and woman—nude,
in the David style—embracing as their lips meet. Christian gazes up at it curiously. Everything about the hotel is grand—from
the lush velvet drapes to the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Ella shifts in her heels as Sebastian approaches, beaming when he kisses her hand. “The place to fall in love,” he says, slipping
his arm around my waist. “My brilliant wife.”
“Um, hi,” I say awkwardly.
“Hello, mon amour ,” he whispers, pressing his lips against mine. Miraculously, I don’t flinch—or whack him over the head with my Chanel handbag.
I remain frozen, haunted by Frankie’s warning about the fate of psychiatric patients in France. Whether it’s true or not,
I make a mental note not to raise any eyebrows.
“It’s all perfect, isn’t it?”
I nod obediently.
“I have you—and Ella—to thank.”
“ Merci ,” Ella says as she slips her arm into Sebastian’s in an easy, familiar way.
I don’t care, of course (and why should I ?). Besides, it’s just the French being, well, French , but I can’t help but wonder: Does this assistant of mine have a thing for him? When I catch Frankie’s eye, I can tell she concurs. What’s with my assistants these days, both in reality and this
alternate one?
“Your vision is nothing short of genius,” Ella says, batting her eyelashes at Sebastian.
“A beautiful party, surrounded by beautiful women,” he replies. “I am the luckiest man in Paris.”
When I feel my heels wobbling beneath me, I’m grateful for Frankie’s steadying grip on by arm, especially when Sebastian reaches
for my hand. “Darling, come with me. I want to show you the most magnificent suite.”
I search Frankie’s eyes. Don’t worry! she telepaths to me. Go!
“Suite?” I ask nervously as he leads me to the elevator.
“Yes,” he says, tucking his arm around my waist. “On the top floor.”
When the elevator door shuts, Sebastian inches closer in the dim light, his breath on my skin. “I’ve missed you,” he says,
running his hand along the length of my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
I’m surprised by the surge of electricity coursing through my veins, but also relieved when the elevator doors open again.
Sebastian leads me to the end of a dim hallway, swiping a key card beside a door to our right. “ Voilà ,” he says, weaving his hand in mine as we cross the threshold.
The suite is truly magnificent, in fact, it rivals any of those loved-up couple posts you see on Instagram, depicting the Parisian life
of pied-à-terres, exquisite pastries, and indulgent bubble baths.
I eye the elaborate bed, where Sebastian seems to be luring me. My heart beats faster with each step, especially so when he
takes me into his arms and delicately presses my body against the wall, running his hand along the edge of my thigh. When
he kisses me, I feel light and fluttery—like the only thing that exists is the few square feet we occupy.
“Wait,” I say, coming to my senses. I take a step back and smooth my dress. “Shouldn’t we go back downstairs and greet our
guests?”
He shakes his head and pulls me back into his arms. “Let’s be fashionably late,” he whispers in my ear, his breath like a
feather on my neck. “I want you.”
When he kisses me again, I’m powerless to resist. Maybe this is it? Maybe this is love— the love I’ve always wondered about, but never found, and all because I tossed a scrap of paper in the garbage can after a wedding
reception? Could this be my chance to get it right?
As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers find the buttons on Sebastian’s shirt and unfasten them one by one. I stifle
the cautious part of my brain, the one that tells me I’m being foolish, that I’ve lost my mind, as he begins to unzip my dress,
kissing the top of my spine, just as his... pants vibrate. “ Merde ,” he says, running his hand through his hair before reaching into his pocket and eyeing his phone. “I should probably take this.”
“Right,” I say, standing up as he makes a beeline to the bathroom, speaking in a hushed voice—in French.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he reappears.
“ Oui, oui ,” he says buttoning up his shirt. “It was nothing, my love.” He kisses my cheek before helping me with my zipper. “But you’re
probably right. We should be good hosts and head downstairs.”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Totally. I’ll just... get my heels.”
He smiles at me warmly in the elevator, but I can’t help but feel a shift. Whoever called, whatever their conversation, it
sucked the passion right out of him.
“There you are!” Frankie says as I enter the foyer, where a dozen people are milling around. “Where’ve you been?” she whispers.
“I was beginning to worry.” She pauses, then frowns. “Oh dear, your lipstick is smudged. Wait, were you...?”
“Up in the penthouse suite with Sebastian,” I say nervously.
Frankie laughs. “Well, I’m glad that you two are... staying the course... despite, you know, your state of mind. What
was it... like?” She gazes off into the room nostalgically. “I mean, when you’ve been married as long as Christian and
I have, things can get a little, well, routine , you know? I can’t even imagine the thrill of experiencing that ‘first time’ again.”
“No, no, we didn’t...” I pause, eyeing the entrance where a couple in their sixties have just walked in. They’re both regal-looking,
like they belong in a chateau adorned with Louis XV furniture. The woman holds herself like a countess, exuding a certain
zest that somehow makes her more alluring than any other woman in the room. Even the younger men in attendance seem to fall
under her spell, including one talking to Ella who can’t keep his eyes off her.
“Who’s that?” I ask Frankie, who pulls a folded page from her purse.
“Ella asked me to give you this,” she says. “The guest list—with notes on each attendee—food preferences, quirks, et cetera.”
“So, my cheat sheet?” I look over the page with little luck. “Great—it’s in French.” I sigh, handing it back to Frankie. “Can
you make any sense of this?”
She scours the document in her hands, then nods. “Bingo. That woman is Claudine Trousseau, or Madame Trousseau, as she’s known—one
of the most famous lingerie designers in France. She and her husband have just returned from their seventeenth-century chateau
in the south, and according to these notes, Sebastian’s been entertaining her interest in investing in the La Maison Rouge
Hotel Group.”
I furrow my brow. “Great, so I have to kiss her butt.”
“Bingo,” Frankie says as Sebastian crosses the room, whispering something in Ella’s ear. She straightens his collar before
he slips away to greet Madame Trousseau.
“Frankie,” I whisper, “was he just flirting with Ella?”
“Of course not,” she says, though her tone is far from convincing.
I wave and smile at people I don’t know, avoiding conversation at all costs. “Where’s Christian?”
“Oh, probably off gawking at the hotel’s art,” Frankie quips, reaching for a glass of champagne. “It’s fine. I told him that
you’re my date tonight, anyway.”
“Thanks,” I say, “for being here for me. I... don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Uh, you’d be a disaster. And you’re welcome.”
An hour passes, and then another. There are a hundred or so people mingling and milling about, enjoying the flowing champagne
and piped-in jazz music. The party is a success—at least as far as I can tell—that is, until I pass Madame Trousseau. I feel
obligated to stop and say a brief hello, but I immediately regret the decision when she turns to the woman beside her and
mutters something in French, her expression cold and guarded.
“I’m... sorry for... interrupting,” I say quickly, finding my way back to Frankie, who’s just snatched an hors d’ouevre from a passing waiter.
“You have to try these,” she says between bites. “They’re insane!”
“Frankie, I totally flubbed. I went over to say hi to Madame Trousseau, and, I don’t know... I must have offended her somehow,
because she totally blew me off.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you misread the situation?”
I nod. “Maybe.”
“Don’t worry about Grandma Trousseau,” Frankie says, popping another bite into her mouth. “Let Sebastian handle her.”
“Right,” I say, noticing a man looking at us from the other side of the room. He’s a little younger than me, well dressed,
with light brown hair that falls just over his left eye. He slicks it back after taking a sip of wine, flashing a smile in
our direction. I nudge Frankie’s arm. “Do you see that guy looking over at us?”
“You mean every guy at this party?” Frankie laughs, slipping her arm in mind as she whisks me across the room, taking a quick
glance over her shoulder as we round the corner. “Come on, let’s find the restroom. I’m pretty sure I have an enormous chive
wedged between my two front teeth. I also need to borrow your lipstick.”
“Sure,” I say, digging through my purse, where I find my phone buzzing. It appears to be the same person from earlier today
at the museum, with all the emojis. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” I say, tucking my phone away with a sigh.
“Me, too,” she says, puckering at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, then applying a coat of matte-red lipstick. “Want
me to round up Christian and have him get us a cab? I’m sure no one will notice if we slip out—make a little French exit .”
I nod. “Yeah, but I should probably find Sebastian first. What should I tell him?”
“That you have the stomach flu,” Frankie suggests. “That always works.”
I smile, turning to the bathroom door, when Ella walks in holding a manila envelope. “There you are,” she says, her skin flawless and fresh. Twenty-somethings. “Great party, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling awkwardly.
“All right, before I forget, I wanted to confirm that I’ve booked the flights to Saint-Tropez. We depart tonight at midnight.
It was tough getting a charter, but”—her voice shifts into a singsongy tone—“guess who pulled some strings?” She smiles, clearly
proud of herself.
“Uh, thank you?” I say, a little confused. “I’m sorry, I guess I somehow missed the memo that we were leaving tonight. Seems
a little weird to get on a plane so late, and after this big event. I haven’t even packed.”
Ella shakes her head. “No, no. You’re not going.” She laughs. “Just Sebastian and me.” She opens the manila envelope, sorting through papers. “Oh, and I booked
that suite he loves—the one with the balcony that overlooks the terrace with the citrus trees.”
I take a step back, my gaze alternating between her and Frankie. “The two of you are going to Saint-Tropez? Why?”
“For his... business meeting,” she says, pausing to clear her throat. “You know, Madame Trousseau.”
“Then why are you going?”
“He... asked me to come along to... smooth out the edges.”
“To... smooth out what edges?”
“Well... all of them,” she continues, a little surprised. “Lena, that’s what I do.”
“I bet that’s what you do,” I say, shaking my head. “It was you, wasn’t it? The one who called Sebastian when we were up in
the suite before the party started?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you do,” I continue, my jaw tensing. “You’re having an affair with my husband, aren’t you?”
Frankie looks like she’s on the verge of a heart attack as Ella gasps, placing her hand on her chest. “Absolutely not.”
Her response is believable enough, though I reach for the envelope in her hands for proof, pulling out the hotel reservation details.
“This says there are two rooms booked,” I say, after reading the reservation details. “One is a single; the other for two .” I hand the page to Frankie; she nods, confirming my quick detective work.
Once confident and poised, Ella suddenly looks like a frightened field mouse shivering in front of a broom. She rubs her forehead.
“Lena, I’m so sorry. I... thought you knew. I... thought you and Sebastian had an... understanding .”
“An understanding?”
Frankie tugs at my arm. “Lena, let’s go, okay? Don’t worry, we can sort this all out later.”
“No,” I say. “I want to sort this out right now.”
Ella looks terrified, though I can’t tell if her expression is born of empathy or regret. She merely nods, steadying herself.
“Lena, after all these years, surely you know that Madame Trousseau is... Sebastian’s lover.”
I’m so stunned, my mouth falls open. I don’t deserve to feel betrayed, and I have no grounds to feel the anger that’s rising
up in my chest, but it’s there nonetheless.
“Really I...” Ella continues, a bit forlorn. “I had no idea that you weren’t aware, I mean, especially because—”
“Thanks, Ella,” Frankie interjects. “It’s been a long night. I think we should find ourselves a cab.” She hustles me out of
the restroom into the lobby and tells me to wait while she looks for Christian.
I nod despondently, staring ahead where Sebastian stands in the far corner, locked in conversation with The Madame . Her husband is gone, off with his own lover, I assume. And yet, I can’t help but imagine the lingerie she’s packed for their
romantic weekend. Will he hold her the way he held me tonight? Does he love her? Does he love me?
I don’t have any answers, but I do know one thing: Sebastian certainly showed his true colors all those years ago. In fact, he predicted this. I’m so trapped in my mind that I hardly notice the figure beside me—just another insignificant person in this bizarre charade—that is, until he whispers, “ Hello, mon chéri ,” in my ear.
I take a step back, eyes wide. It’s the guy from earlier—the one who was smiling from across the room. He seems normal enough—in
other words, I don’t get the feeling that he’s the type who’d drag me into a dark alley—and yet, something about his presence
feels off, and why is he standing so close?
“Excuse me, who are you?”
“Oh, I see we’re role-playing tonight,” he says, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Jacques.” When he inches closer and places his
hand on the small of my back, slowly letting it creep lower, I take another giant step back. My heel catches on my dress,
and I stumble sideways, flailing my arms as I desperately try to reclaim my balance. But gravity has her way with me, cruel
as she is, hurling my body sideways and directly against the edge of the ice sculpture.
As I wobble in my heels, I clutch its cold edge for balance, which turns out to be an ill-fated idea when a chunk cracks off
and the whole thing begins leaning to the left, taking me down like a felled tree. Timber!
The next thing I know, I’m on my back, sprawled out on the floor. I barely feel the pain—just a throbbing sensation along
my right leg, and I suspect I’ll have a nasty bruise in a few hours. Oh, but I do feel the gazes of the other party guests
boring into me like lasers. The room is abuzz in a chorus of whispers, and here I am, lying on the floor beside a slightly
pornographic ice sculpture, part of which is presently dripping onto my forehead—French water torture.
My vision blurs as the room begins to spin. Is this the end? If I close my eyes tightly, will I wake up from this nightmare
and find myself back in the guesthouse on Bainbridge Island? For a moment, I think yes. This is the close of my wild delusion,
the final scene of a chilling dream. Any second now, I’ll sit up in bed, in a cold sweat, relieved to be home. I’ll call Frankie,
and we’ll have a good laugh.
Oh, but no. When I open my eyes, I’m still here, in Paris, lying next to the disgraced ice sculpture. The only bright spots are Christian’s and Frankie’s faces hovering over me—dual lighthouses calling out to me on a stormy sea. Jacques? Gone.
Frankie kneels beside me, placing her hand on my cheek. “Lena, can you move your legs? Is anything broken?”
“Yes, and no—at least, I don’t think so.”
“Good,” she says, nodding, before looking up at Christian. “I’ll get us a cab, can you—”
“I’ve got her,” he says, effortlessly lifting me into his strong arms.
The partygoers hover, gawking and whispering. There’s no empathy in their eyes; this is sheer entertainment, though I’m relieved
not to see Sebastian or Madame What’s-Her-Name in the peanut gallery. He probably took her up to the penthouse to pick up
where we left off, but I don’t care. I just want out of here.
When the crowd doesn’t budge, Frankie rattles off something in French, then follows up with, “What’s wrong with you people?
Step aside. We need to get her out!” She sounds pissed, and I love her for it.
A miniature cab is waiting outside, and Christian helps me into the backseat. “I don’t think there’s room in here for me,”
he says to Frankie. “You two go ahead. Stay with her tonight. She shouldn’t be alone. I’ll find a ride back to our place,
okay?”
“Okay,” Frankie says, her eyes beaming with love as she leans out of the window to give him a parting kiss.
At first we don’t speak, maybe because neither of us knows where to begin or what to say. But when my phone buzzes in my purse,
I glance at the text message, then hand it to Frankie. “Tell me,” I say, my stomach in knots. “This person who’s been texting
me, that man who came on to me tonight. Frankie, tell me what’s happening. Make it make sense.”
She looks out the window for a long moment, then back at me. “Okay,” she finally says, taking a deep breath. “Lena, it’s true,
Sebastian is having an affair. But...”
“But?”
“So are you.”
I nod, quietly processing the bomb she’s just dropped. “How do you know?”
“Because you told me, on the phone two months ago.”
I can’t immediately pinpoint what I’m feeling, but it’s a mix of shame and sadness, with a pinch of disgust. Here I am, a
supposedly happily married woman, who’s just found out that her husband has a lover, and—news flash—so does she! I shake my
head, feeling the weight of Frankie’s revelation.
I lean my head against the side of the car. “It’s all so sad.”
“Yeah,” Frankie replies. “But I’m not judging you, honey.”
I sigh. “You should. I’m judging myself .”
“I mean, at least he’s cute.”
I grimace. “Jacques?”
She nods.
“Of course his name would be Jacques.”
We both laugh—for no reason and every reason—before slipping into silence again.
“Frankie,” I say after a long moment. “I’m... not in love with him—Jacques—am I?”
“No way. You were very clear that this was just a... thing.”
“A thing.” I bite the edge of my lip. “Okay... and what about Sebastian? Do I... love him? Do I truly love him?”
She smiles, her eyes curious and wise. “You profess to, yes, but, honey, you’re the only one who knows the answer to that
question.”
I nod, letting her words sink in as the driver pulls up in front of the apartment building. When we step out of the cab, I
clutch my back. “Oh man, I think I pulled something.”
“Advil and ice,” she says, helping me into the building.
Inside the apartment, Claude gives us an exuberant welcome before we peel out of our dresses and heels, shedding the trappings of this very bizarre evening. I lost an earring somewhere, which strikes me as oddly hilarious. I imagine my stray bauble lying on the floor of the hotel lobby, right beside the ice sculpture, which, by now, is probably becoming a puddle.
“What are you laughing about?” Frankie asks.
“Everything,” I say as she tosses me a pair of pajamas from a dresser drawer.
She smiles, changing into her own pair, before bringing me a bottle of Advil, an ice pack, and a mug of herbal tea.
While Frankie takes Claude out to relieve himself, I think about today’s shocking chain of events. I’m no closer to understanding
what’s happening, just that it’s happening... only to me. I just hope that tomorrow this big hot mess of a nightmare will
all fade away. It has to.
A few minutes later, Frankie climbs into bed next to me, and we lie together in silence for a long while, cloaked in the protective
blanket of our seventeen-year friendship. There are no words—not now, at least none that need to be spoken. The fact that
she’s here with me is enough. Two tired souls sharing space. We’ll figure out the rest later.
I think back to meeting Sebastian all those years ago, how I’d bristled at his theories on love. At the time, I wondered,
worried, even, that there might be a grain of truth to it all. After today, however, Sebastian somehow makes Mr. Conveyor
Belt more appealing. At least he wasn’t living a double life.
I exhale deeply, my head sinking into the pillow, where I first opened my eyes this morning. “I love you,” I whisper to Frankie,
her dark ringlets cascading over the white sheets. “Love you, too,” she replies, yawning.
With moonlight streaming through the windows, I look over at Frankie—mascara smeared under her eyelids, mouth gaped open.
I wipe away a little drool from her cheek with the edge of my sleeve when she begins to snore. She sounds like a baby elephant
with a head cold. I smile to myself. Two best friends, sharing a king-size bed in Paris under the most ridiculously unbelievable
circumstances. Yes, this, too , is love.