Chapter 6 Gustave
Gustave
The air in Chamonix is fresh, and it scours my mind clean.
Snow dusts the peaks, glittering in the morning light as Aubert and I step out of the chalet where we’re staying. I have two meetings here—an investor breakfast and an afternoon board session—but in between, it’s just the two of us.
Aubert adjusts his goggles, impatient to hit the slopes.
Eighteen, restless, and with legs longer than mine, he has his mother’s looks but, mercifully, not her attitude.
He isn’t an elitist snob. In fact, last summer he worked as a gopher at the Le Monde newsroom.
Simone lost her mind that a de Valois would stoop to being a peon. I thought it would build character.
Either way, Aubert hadn’t asked for our blessing—he simply stated his plans, straightforward as ever, and explained why he couldn’t accompany Simone to Milan for her annual shopping trip. He had a job to hold down.
Aubert’s desire to study journalism—to be a reporter—is another ongoing battle between him and his mother, one I’ve told her to cease and desist. He isn’t going to be trapped in an office like me, managing portfolios, if that isn’t what he wants.
If my fortune can’t buy my son the freedom to choose his own path, then what’s the point of it?
My parents are no better—mortified that the heir to the de Valois name shows no desire to expand the family fortune, as though what we already possess isn’t more than enough. For them—and for Simone—ambition is measured solely by the weight of a portfolio.
I’ve tried to teach Aubert that true ambition is about finding a way to be content—devoting yourself to something you’re passionate about, something that makes the long hours worthwhile. If that’s journalism for him, then so be it.
I like making money. I like my job. So, why shouldn’t he?
“Come on, Papa.” Aubert is already sliding toward the lift. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
I smile at his cockiness. “You know I skied competitively, don’t you?”
“That was years ago,” he dismisses.
“Are you calling me old?”
He grins at me. “Oui*, I think I am.”
“We’ll see.”
We ski for an hour, carving clean lines down the powder, and by the time we stop for hot chocolate at the mid-slope café, his cheeks are red, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“Let us say it was a tie,” he offers as he blows steam from his cup.
“You lost, son. You’ve got to learn to accept that I’m a superior skier.”
He snorts.
“So, how is the bac preparation going?” I ask.
Aubert is in Terminale, the last year of lycée, working toward the baccalauréat. His track is humanités—history, literature, and languages—perfect for the journalism studies he insists he wants. The bac is brutal: weeks of written and oral exams, and I know he’s working hard to be ready.
“I’ve been thinking.” He purses his lips and gives me a measured look. “After the bac, I want to go to the states…California.”
I raise a brow. I had a feeling this was coming.
He shrugs. “I need new perspectives, and I can’t get that if I stay in France or even Europe. And”—he pauses dramatically—“the Lakers.”
I chuckle. “Ah, that’s the reason you want to go to California.” My son is a basketball fan. He plays, and he streams every NBA game he can.
“Specifically, Los Angeles.”
I nod. “I presume you’ll be looking at UCLA, USC?”
He frowns. “How do you know?”
“Maybe I have been looking into schools in the United States…and specifically Los Angeles for you.”
He smiles wide, and that’s all I need to feel good about the debacle of my marriage. My son. Determined, restive, unwilling to be boxed in.
“Merci*, Papa*.”
“It’s my job.” I lean back and take a deep breath. “But Los Angeles is far…a thirteen-hour flight from Paris.”
“I know. But maybe distance is good.” He hesitates, then adds, “Especially with Maman.”
Aubert stares into his cup as his words hang in the cold air.
Simone and I separated two years ago, started talking about it three years ago—and the truth is we’ve been fighting all of Aubert’s life.
I feel guilty, tremendously so, for putting him through that.
And finally, when we did get divorced, it was a nightmare with paparazzi chasing Aubert, which is why I want to stay out of the limelight as much as possible. Perhaps being away from France would be a good thing for him. Safer.
“Everything okay with your mother?” I ask casually. I don’t want to lead him into his answer.
He shrugs wearily. “She’s…angry with you for the divorce, with me for supporting it.” He shakes his head and then gives me a sad smile. “It’s to the point that I don’t want to see her. I’ve been coming up with excuses whenever she wants to meet.”
I take a breath. Simone’s persistence is a familiar pressure, but hearing Aubert say it aloud twists something in me, like I’ve failed him.
“I just want you both to be happy,” he says quietly, guilt clouding his expression. I know he’s torn between loyalty to his mother and his refusal to see the world through her eyes.
“I am happy, Aubert.” I clamp my hand on his, squeeze. “You worry too much.”
“Non! That would be you, Papa,” he counters with a crooked smile. “You worry all the time…especially when it comes to seeing a woman. You’re like some monk. It’s weird and emotionally unhealthy.”
I laugh, startled. “A monk?”
I wasn’t a monk a week ago, and an image of me taking Tara from behind in the shower flashes. She has generous curves that I have touched, caressed, and indulged in. I shift uneasily. It is bad form to have a hard-on when talking to your son.
“Oui,” he insists. “You should see women, Papa. Be happy. I don’t want Maman thinking she still has a chance because you’re single.”
I’d been single, content with it. Until that night with Tara—her bangles catching the light, her laugh spilling over the music, the way she turned a Paris cocktail bar into a secret between us.
I stifle a sigh when I think about how I accused her at the Pyramid. I’m so fucking paranoid that I attacked her. It was wrong. It was unfair.
I owe her an apology.
“I’ll consider it,” I soothe, my chest feeling heavier than the Alps around us.
Aubert stretches his long legs. “But, please, don’t pick someone boring, Papa. You know…like Uncle Philippe? His new girlfriend looks like she was ordered straight out of a catalog—twenty-two, all lips and fillers, can’t hold a conversation, and is glued to her social media.”
I bark out a laugh.
Philippe Badeaux has been my closest friend since boarding school—more of an uncle to Aubert than any other actual blood relation.
The Badeaux family has been in banking since Louis-Philippe sat on the throne; finance runs in his veins the way wine runs in mine. Philippe can read a balance sheet the way a conductor reads a score—instinctively, flawlessly, and with a touch of arrogance.
And yes, his latest conquest is a model who looks like she was airbrushed into existence. Sigrid is not exactly a brilliant conversationalist, but then, Philippe doesn’t keep company to debate monetary policy. For him, the markets and his lovers share the same rule: high risk, high reward.
Sigrid is also a fashion influencer. A job title that didn’t even exist when I was growing up.
In some ways, I suppose that’s progress—society moving forward, new opportunities for ambition.
Still, I can’t help but think that social media, especially the gossip side of it, is the devil’s own invention.
“I’ll try my best.”
Aubert grins. “But…you know…if you’re looking for a good time. A model might be—”
“Shut up,” I say good-naturedly. “Mon fils*, I’m not discussing this with you.”
“I’m eighteen, Papa, you know I’ve had sex, right?”
I groan and look up at the sky as I roll my eyes. “I hope you used a condom.”
“Yes, Papa.” Then his eyes light up with mischief. “Maybe next time I should buy a pack for you and—”
“Enough of that!” I cut him off, laughing. “Let’s get back to the slopes where I can kick your ass again.”
* Yes (French)
* Thank you (French)
* Father (French)
* My son (French)