Chapter 5
DIANE
“Did Belle Auxbois at least say she’d think about it?”
I turn to glance at Dad, who’s slumped in the passenger seat, fuming.
I take it the pop star made no such promise.
It doesn’t surprise me. The diva demonstrates typical rich-person behavior—exploit whomever you can, whenever you can, for as long as you can.
Come to think of it, this credo must be the most important qualification for joining the Rich Club.
The only real difference between Belle Auxbois and Darcy is that her fake sweetness and angelic voice have misled millions of people into thinking she’s a nice person.
Dad and I are in his car, and I’m driving him home from his physical therapy session.
The poor man hates these sessions with all his heart.
I don’t blame him. His therapist is a hulk of a woman with sadistic propensities.
She would’ve made a formidable Grand Inquisitor in another time and place, wringing confessions of witchcraft and heresy from innocent souls.
But luckily for the medievals and unluckily for us, Troll Queen isn’t an officer of the Inquisition.
She’s employed by a public hospital just outside of Marseille.
It took me six weekends with Dad and trips to the hospital’s rehab center to figure out her deal. This meant hours of watching her walk and talk—in fact, “bark” would be a better word for her unique communication style—and listening to grown men and women begging for mercy behind her door.
Have you ever tried to read a book while your beloved daddy screams, “Please, I can’t take it anymore!” next door?
I have.
And I didn’t enjoy it.
Anyway, Mamma Grizzly is convinced that stroke rehab protocol has to be painful to be effective.
And God forbid someone confuses what she does for a living with massage.
Because, you see, madame isn’t a masseuse.
Hell, no. Her job is not to rub and knead people into comfort.
Her job is to twist and contort patients into recovery.
To be fair, Dad has improved dramatically since the dominatrix first laid her hands on him. He can now move his fingers and speak more distinctively.
And that’s the only reason I haven’t sued her. Instead, I always make sure my smartphone is fully charged before we head to the hospital. When we get there, I stick my earplugs in my ears and let System of a Down outshout Dad.
“What exactly did Belle say when you called her?” I ask again.
He turns to me. “It’s a no-go. She cited the contract.”
That damn contract! Why hadn’t he shown it to me before signing?
“Did you try to appeal to her humanity? Explain how much it would mean to you in your current situation?”
“Yeah, I did.” He sighs and turns away to stare at the road. “She said she was sorry, but she couldn’t do it.”
“Not even to admit you gave her a hand? Or that she consulted you?”
“You see,”—he lets out a bitter snort—“Madame Auxbois was featured on some morning show a couple of days ago, where she told the whole country she’d concocted the perfume in her kitchen. All by herself.”
I blow my cheeks out. “That’s ridiculous.”
Stupid cow!
I glance at Dad’s defeated face, and my heart aches with pity. If I want to help him—and God knows I do more than anything in the world—I must get better at channeling my anger into something constructive.
Count your blessings, Diane.
For one, Dad’s arm is on the mend, and his speech has improved so much it’s hard to imagine I had trouble understanding him a year ago. He’s joined AA and hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since his stroke.
And last but not least, I’m about to get an unhoped-for chance to hurt his archenemy—Sebastian Darcy.
We met briefly yesterday to sign the contract and iron out the details.
I tried all the powers of persuasion I’m capable of to waive the requirement of living under his roof.
But he was firm. He said his immediate circle had to believe we were consumed by mad passion.
It was crucial to the success of his scheme.
I’m deducing—clever me—that his scheme targets someone in his entourage.
I also tried to persuade him to let Chloe and Elorie in on our charade. Chloe is family and Elorie is my best friend in Paris. They know me well, especially Chloe. It would be hard to lie to them.
The answer was no way. The only person in the loop besides the two of us is his brother Raphael, but only because they hatched the plan together.
Aside from that exception, no one else must know.
Every additional person who has the info increases the risk of a leak and, consequently, the failure of his plan.
With an icy gleam in his eyes, he reminded me I had committed to secrecy by signing the nondisclosure agreement and he had every intention of holding me to it.
You do that, genius.
Whoever drafted that agreement—I suspect it was Darcy and his bro all by themselves, seeing his obsession with confidentiality—left a loophole.
The text focuses too much on the fake relationship and things around it.
But there’s nothing in it that says I must keep my lips sealed with regards to unrelated trivial secrets I might stumble upon, such as tax evasion or financial fraud.
Or less trivial ones, such as murder.
I almost drooled as I pictured myself finding proof that the senior Darcy’s death wasn’t accidental. Lo and behold, he was killed in cold blood by his oldest son, Sebastian. The golden boy will be investigated, found guilty, and sent to prison where he’ll rot for rest of his days.
Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
“Any other questions?” Darcy asked, breaking me out of my favorite fantasy.
I’d told him my biggest concern was how Dad would handle the news of our association once it reached his ears.
“He’ll get over it,” Darcy said, all dry pragmatism.
“He’ll stop talking to me.” I wrung my hands. “He’ll think I’m a traitor.”
“If it’s any consolation, my mother thinks I’m a traitor.”
Does she now? Is that why Marguerite d’Arcy has been holed up in Nepal doing charity work for over a decade? Voilà Paris called her “the French Mother Teresa” in the feature they ran about her a couple of years ago.
“Why would she think that?” I asked.
He sighed and waved my question off. “Long story.”
I made a mental note to investigate.
Before we said good-bye, Darcy informed me that our first “post-reconcilliation” outing will be a “small, informal gathering” to celebrate his brother Raphael’s twenty-ninth birthday.
I pointed out I didn’t know anyone in his circle.
He said he’d invited Jeanne and Mat. Mat is an up-and-coming politician he believes in and backs.
I’m friends with Jeanne. We can spend most of the weekend chatting with the couple.
That way, neither of us will appear stiff to anyone watching.
I nodded, dropping my head so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.
Because, honestly, who are you kidding, man?
You never smile. I’ve never seen you slump or stoop, be it in photos or in real life. Regardless of what you say or do, your body language, accent and manners scream, “Stuck-up aristocrat.”
You don’t just appear stiff—you’re Count Stiff. No, you’re King Stiff.
Brace yourself, your Majesty.
I’m here to depose you.