Chapter 15 Tara
Tara
Marisol might be a nerdy engineer, but she’s into fashion and absolutely envious in the best way possible that I’m attending Paris Fashion Week. I’ve been instructed to take a ton of pictures, which I have delegated to Cece, who will be doing so anyway.
Speaking of Cece and Jean, they are beside themselves, buzzing like kids on Christmas morning. Thanks to their persistence and connections, I’m now at a runway show in a cavernous tent in the Tuileries.
It’s another world.
Cameras flash everywhere, and the air is thick with perfume, couture, and anticipation.
People float past in gowns that look sculpted, and in suits so precise they seem tailored by geometry itself.
I don’t fit in…again!
I’m in my favorite flowy, white, lacy boho dress, simple sandals, and a matching straw bag I bought in Mexico City. I might as well have a sign that says: Not from this planet.
Meanwhile, Cece is in a vintage Chanel dress and looks like a goddess. When I complained that I’m out of place, she waved a hand, saying, “You look fabulous. Different is chic.”
Right!
The music starts, and models stride out under the lights, blank-eyed and fierce.
It’s mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.
I look around the room, excited, and my eyes land on…yeah, you guessed it. Gustave. My throat goes dry.
It’s been two weeks since Pommard. We have seen each other twice since then. At my place. On Friday nights. Weekends are busy for Gustave with things he must attend…like a fashion show, apparently, with his ex-wife.
Simone is draped on Gustave’s arm like she never left it, glittering in high fashion, her smile dazzling for the cameras.
The sight knocks the air out of me.
He’s across the runway, seated with Philippe, both of them impossibly polished in tailored black. Philippe begins to clap, wave at the stage, and I see his girlfriend, Sigrid, walking the ramp, shimmering in a pink concoction of tulle and magic.
“Look, Phillippe Badeaux is here,” Jean remarks. “And de Valois….”
“With his ex-wife.” Cece’s voice drops. “I hear that he and Simone are heading for reconciliation.”
I school my face, force myself to breathe evenly. Right then, Gustave’s eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second.
The jolt is instant.
I feel small, exposed.
Philippe notices me. His gaze lingers, and he smiles, nods in greeting. I do the same, less cheerfully than he. He knows who I am, I realize. Gustave told him.
Does Simone know who I am?
The thought makes my skin prickle. The whole charade, Gustave pretending not to know me, feels like a game I never agreed to play.
The models keep walking, the music pounding, but the show might as well be invisible. All I can feel is the weight of Simone’s hand on his arm and the ache in my chest.
The cracks are showing. I can feel them widening.
When we’re together, anything is possible—everything is, but now in the real world, it’s obvious what place I hold in his life.
I’m a side piece. A mistress.
Dios mio! How did I let this happen?
I want to leave, be alone to lick my wounds, but Cece and Jean insist that the after-party is where it’s at, and we must go.
Come on, Tara, don’t let him take your pleasure away. Live a little. It’s probably your first and last Paris Fashion Week.
They take me to Maxim’s de Paris.
Once the domain of Belle époque aristocrats and fashion royalty, it’s still all mirrors, velvet, and gold—dripping with old-world decadence. It’s where you instantly feel as if you don’t belong unless your last name is stitched into a designer label or is on a plaque in the Louvre.
It’s packed in here. Photographers, influencers, models, stylists, editors—anyone who matters in Paris tonight is in attendance.
A DJ in the corner spins something retro and cool, while champagne flows like tap water.
Cece flits through the crowd. Jean is chatting up an actress I vaguely recognize from a billboard about a Netflix movie.
I want to disappear…especially when I see Gustave…again!
I can’t escape him, it appears.
There’s a circle of people around him—laughing too brightly, leaning too close, basking in the rarefied air of those who believe they’re Somebody.
He’s standing near the bar, a tumbler with amber liquid in hand, the picture of ease and charm in his impeccably cut jacket. Philippe is beside him, saying something, and the crowd is hanging on his every word.
Simone is there, too.
She’s tucked in at Gustave’s side, her hand resting on his chest like she’s placing a claim. She looks perfect—wearing a midnight blue gown that wraps around her like ink poured over curves. Her hair is in a sleek chignon, and her diamond earrings catch the light every time she moves.
They look like a couple. No, not like any couple but the couple.
He belongs here. I don’t.
My stomach turns. It’s hard to watch him here, drink in hand, people swirling around him like a constellation, while I’m in the shadows, barely a footnote.
He smiles at Simone.
Something inside me splinters.
I want to leave, but I also want to stay, to see us for what we are.
Because we’re not real.
Because pretending is exhausting.
Because maybe if I stare long enough, the illusion will break.
Because that’s what we are, a fantasy woven out of time and place in my apartment at Saint-Germain-des-Prés and his cottage in Burgundy.
Simone catches sight of me. Her gaze pauses. Cool. Curious. Assessing.
She knows.
Dios mio, she knows!
She turns slightly, says something to Gustave.
He looks.
And this time, there’s no flicker of recognition.
No spark.
No trace.
He lifts his glass—to me or past me, I can’t tell—but it’s polite, detached.
Cece pulls me to meet someone, but her enthusiastic words are like bees buzzing noisily in my ear.
“I need air.” I wrench myself away from her. I need to get away. I need to get out of here because I’m breaking open in front of everyone.
I run out into the Paris night, where the lights are too bright and the city feels like it’s laughing behind its glitter.
How do I come back from this?
The air outside Maxim’s is cooler than I expected. Or maybe it’s because my skin’s gone cold.
I press a hand to my chest, as if that will hold everything in. Like maybe I can keep pieces of it from spilling out onto the Champs-élysées in front of strangers, traffic, and God.
The city keeps moving—cars hissing by, a horn blaring somewhere, laughter spilling from a bar—but inside me, it’s silent, dead quiet, except for a piercing wail you hear when something detonates too close.
“Tara.”
I don’t turn. I stare at the street like it might give me an exit, a trap door…an escape.
I feel him stop a few feet behind me. Close enough that I can sense him, feel the weight of his gaze on my back.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
A cheap beginning. A coward’s excuse.
I huff out a breath and glance back at him over my shoulder. His expression is open. Apologetic. Infuriatingly sincere.
“Really?” My voice is tight. “You didn’t think Cece might drag me to the after-party of the century?”
His jaw tightens a fraction. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“No?” I let out a dry laugh. “What was it supposed to be like then?”
He doesn’t move as he watches me with agony in his eyes. It hurts me to see him in pain. I want him to be happy. I want him skinny-dipping with me in a river in Burgundy.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, his hands tucked in his dress pants. He says the words like they cost him everything.
And here’s the truly awful thing: I let him say it. I let him stand there and look at me like that because I want to believe him. Because I’ve fallen in love with him.
And it’s pathetic.
I know it.
And yet, I stand, folding in on myself, to let his apology slide into the fissures still forming inside me.
“I leave in three and a half months,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him. “This was never going to be more than…whatever this is.”
He watches me, grief etched in his gaze. But he doesn’t say anything.
Because what can he say? That he loves me back? But he doesn’t. Not in the way that would have him pull Simone’s hand off his chest like it burned him.
So I save him from saying anything at all.
“I know what this is.” I try to sound breezy, but I fail miserably. “I do. So…I don’t know, enjoy it while it lasts. No expectations. No heartbreak.”
Except I’m already heartbroken.
I’m standing in the middle of Paris with the man I can’t have, pretending I’m okay with scraps, and lying through my teeth to the two people who are not buying it—him and me.
He reaches for my hand.
I let him.
Because I miss him.
Even when he’s standing right in front of me, I miss him.
And I don’t want to be strong tonight.
He squeezes gently. “Merci, Tara.”
I want to scream, demand what he’s thanking me for, but I know. He’s grateful for my understanding—for knowing that he’s not committing sins against me, he’s living his life the only way he’s capable of.
I watch him disappear back into Maxim’s, and after a moment, I leave, too. I tell Cece I have a headache—it isn’t a lie. The ache is real, pulsing behind my eyes, born from somewhere deep in my chest.
Author’s Note
I know that Paris Fashion Week is usually held in late February or early March, and in late September or early October. However, I’m taking some creative liberty to move Fashion Week to April because I really wanted to attend fashion week vicariously through Tara.