Chapter 9 Tara
Tara
It’s been a month since I arrived in Paris. A week since Gustave stood in my apartment.
I haven’t seen him since.
Still, every time I pass the café downstairs—the one where he sat—I find myself looking for him. It’s become a reflex now, like checking for a shadow that’s no longer there.
I have no idea why I’m so obsessed with him.
Maybe it’s because he was my first one-night stand.
Maybe it’s because it was the best sex of my life.
Maybe it’s because he actually came back to apologize—none of my exes ever did that, especially not the asshole who cheated on me.
But the truth is, the past feels like another lifetime. Philadelphia might as well be on another planet. Paris has filled every corner of my life with newness—light, sound, possibility.
If someone had told me, four weeks ago, that I’d spend a Friday night at the Fondation Louis Vuitton, sipping champagne with France’s cultural elite, I would’ve laughed and said, “I wish.”
And yet, here I am—wish granted, roped into an opulent circus by Cece and Jean.
Apparently, when there are extra tickets for lowly Louvre staff like us to an LVMH benefit auction, attendance isn’t optional—it’s a command performance. Since I came to Paris, I’ve made the best of my weekends, playing tourist. I’ve already been to the Louvre…ha ha!
But I’ve also gone to the Center Pompidou, the Musée d’Art Moderne, and the Musée d’Orsay to swoon over the Impressionists. I wandered through Sainte-Chapelle, light pouring through stained glass like jewels, and climbed the steps of Sacré-C?ur to look out over the city.
I’ve strolled through the Jardin du Luxembourg with a paper cone holding a crêpe beurre-sucre, browsed the bouquinistes along the Seine, and even gotten lost in Le Marais before ending up with falafel for lunch.
Paris is ridiculous—every street corner is part of an endless painting.
Now, I can tick the Fondation off my checklist.
As I imagined, it is stunning.
Frank Gehry’s glass-and-steel dream, all sails and curves, gleams like a futuristic ship dropped into the Bois de Boulogne. It impossibly brings together stark modernity and vintage opulence.
Any minute now, James Bond is going to swagger through with a martini in hand.
Shaken not stirred!
I look around, fascinated, as light pours through the faceted windows, catching on every glass of champagne, every diamond necklace, every couture gown.
I tug, self-consciously, at my vintage black dress, the one I scored at a thrift shop in downtown LA’s fashion district, convinced that all the way across the Atlantic, it would pass for ‘understated Parisian chic.’
It doesn’t. Not when a woman walking by me is wearing Chanel straight off the runway. I only know this because Cece tells me.
Regardless, I am dazzled.
The galleries are hung with bold, splashy contemporary pieces—huge canvases in neon pinks and acid yellows, sculptures that belong on another planet.
Waiters in black jackets circulate with silver trays, balancing delicate flutes of champagne and canapés so beautiful that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to eat them or admire them.
Smoked salmon on blini no larger than a coin, foie gras mousse in pastry shells, and radishes hollowed out and filled with goat cheese. They’re works of art!
It’s a far cry from the dusty pastel I spend my days coaxing back to life. I feel as if I have stepped into an Emily in Paris montage, except I don’t have a wardrobe budget, courtesy of Netflix.
“Stop looking like a deer in headlights.” Cece loops her arm through mine. “You belong here.”
I have confessed to her and Jean that I feel out of place at such events, and maybe that’s why they’ve made it their mission to take me to enough so that familiarity can breed comfort.
I smile vaguely at her and am spared another pep talk when Jean—who’s been chatting with a family friend poured into a custom Gucci dress that reveals far more than it hides—returns to us, his face alight like he’s unearthed gossip gold.
I’ve learned that my colleagues love to gossip about the rich and famous as much as they do about art acquisitions and artists.
“Rumor is that Gustave de Valois will be bidding on the main attraction tonight.”
My ribs tighten, a vice closing around my lungs at the sound of his name.
“Not the Cimabue,” Cece gasps.
Jean nods eagerly. “Apparently, he has a thing for good old Giovanni.”
“Probably because they’re both arrogant,” Cece quips, earning a knowing laugh from Jean.
Giovanni Cimabue, the Florentine painter of the thirteenth century, was infamous for his inability to accept criticism—even his own. If he spotted a single flaw in a painting, no matter how exquisite, he’d destroy it without hesitation.
My eyes find Gustave then, and I want to tell them they’re wrong. The Gustave I know isn’t arrogant. He has grace. He has humility. He apologized—a man like Cimabue never would have.
Delicious in a dark suit cut to perfection, he stands near the stage where the auctioneer is warming up the crowd. His posture is regal…very Count-like, as if the entire room exists to frame him.
He’s flanked by men in suits equally tailored and bespoke, and women glittering with jewels.
He looks entirely at home—every inch the aristocrat who makes me feel plebeian.
I see movement next to him, and I take a long, deep breath, hoping it will restore my equanimity.
Because Gustave is not alone.
As if fate hasn’t tortured me enough, Simone glides into view. She is a tall, sleek figure in a column of burgundy satin, her hair swept into an updo that probably required a couple of hours of professional work.
She greets people with air-kisses before she drifts toward Gustave, touching his arm like she has every right to.
I am suddenly very aware of the thrift-store zipper at the back of my dress.
I down half my champagne in one gulp.
“Oh, and look, Phillipe Badeaux is here.” Cece is on tiptoes.
“He’s one of de Valois’s friends,” Jean tells me, and points discreetly to a good-looking blond man who’s talking to both Gustave and Simone.
They’re all laughing.
There’s a woman, slim and dressed in a black outfit that reminds me of Elizabeth Hurley’s vintage safety-pin dress, standing next to him. She’s focused on her phone. She looks familiar.
“That’s Sigrid Montagne,” Jean whispers, his eyes on the celebrities. “Model. Works a lot with Givenchy.”
Right. I may have seen her on a billboard or two.
It’s incongruous to be here with all these fancy people.
This is definitely not my world. But it’s okay to be a guest, isn’t it?
Maybe I can pretend I’m conducting a sociological study: An Ethnographic Examination of Behavioral Contrasts Between the Fondation Louis Vuitton Gala Set and the Residents of Boyle Heights.
“Oh my God!” Cece cries out softly, clutching my arm, her nails digging in. “Is that Lily Collins?”
Oui, apparently it is.
She’s in a structured black and white dress that looks like it came straight out of her television show.
Cameras buzz around her.
“So ringarde*,” Jean says with exaggerated snobbery—the French word Emily in Paris practically turned into a meme.
I laugh softly at the ridiculousness of it all.
An announcement in French and English is followed by the delicate chime of a bell, which ripples through the galleries, signaling that the auction is about to begin in the auditorium.
We descend from the upper levels—past an installation of mirrored panels that catch every glint of jewelry, every swish of couture fabric—into the glass-and-wood amphitheater nestled beneath Gehry’s billowing sails of steel and light.
Rows of cream leather chairs await, gleaming softly under the architectural glow.
When the lights dim, the hush is immediate, reverent, as if we’re in a chapel.
Since we’re not going to be bidding on anything, I stand to one side with Cece while Jean tries to impress a model he just met.
The auctioneer takes the podium, and interestingly, the auction is conducted in English—probably because many of the guests are not fluent in French.
The auction unfurls like theater—rare wines that cost more than apartments, contemporary sculptures that look like they belong in a spaceship, a signed Basquiat sketch that makes Cece squeal under her breath.
The numbers are obscene, tossed around the room as if euros were air.
The last item of the evening is the Cimabue, and as if in reverence, the lights shift ever so slightly as the auctioneer’s assistants carry forward a small panel, no bigger than a sheet of paper.
It is the artist’s famed The Mocking of Christ.
Thirteenth century. Jewel-toned tempera on wood.
Rediscovered only a few years ago, I can feel its impact from across the room, its energy humming with centuries of prayers and betrayals, the gold leaf still catching the light like fire.
The crowd holds its breath. Cece grips my wrist, wide-eyed. “Isn’t it amazing?” she whispers, obviously in awe.
“It is,” I agree.
It’s a historical treasure, priceless in theory—though someone will no doubt price it anyway and sell it for more than I earn in a year.
Paddles go up, and the auctioneer speaks clearly to announce who is bidding.
“We start at two hundred thousand euros to Count de Valois.”
My eyes snap to the man.
How much money does this man have?
Obviously, I know where Gustave is sitting, though I pretend not to look.
The price climbs quickly, sharp bursts from the auctioneer’s lips echoing in the glass-and-wood chamber. Another paddle rises across the room, some silver-haired collector in a navy suit, and for a heartbeat the spotlight shifts away from Gustave.
When the light returns to him, he is the image of aristocratic composure—bidding on one of the rarest works in existence with the same ease one might order a café crème.
Simone’s jeweled hand curls possessively on her ex-husband’s sleeve as she whispers into his ear. His mouth curves faintly. The intimacy of it sends a hot spike through me.