Chapter 8
DIANE
Earlier today, I woke up to chirping birds and murmuring waves.
Darcy was already out. Twenty minutes later, I joined the guests having a sumptuous breakfast on the patio.
Their faces showed various degrees of hangover, ranging from Genevieve’s zero to Raphael’s one hundred with everyone else in between.
I greeted Darcy with the sweetest “good morning, chéri” I was capable of and sat down next to Jeanne as the chair next to him was already occupied by Laurent.
Three cheers for the man!
A couple of hours later, we arrived in Crete—no sightseeing this time either—and boarded the co-owned jet. At around five in the afternoon, Darcy’s chauffeur dropped me off in front of my building, and I was finally home, frustrated and depressed after my luxury getaway.
I feel a lot better now, ensconced in a beauty salon with Elorie, both of us getting massages and manicures.
“So, what’s the occasion?” she asks as a nice-smelling lady in a white tunic applies red nail polish to her pinky. “Must be something big.”
I focus on my thumb, which is being painted blue. “Why do you say that?”
“You bought me a drink after you got a job offer from that online magazine. Now you’re paying ten times more.”
I smile and shake my head, still looking for the best way to deliver the bombshell. Elorie will find out about Darcy, anyway, either from a common acquaintance or a photo in a tabloid. It’s crucial that I tell her first.
“Did you win the EuroMillions jackpot?” she asks. “That must be it. How much was it?”
I smile. “I won zilch, as usual. But I did sell a few photos through an online depository, and I finally got paid for the wedding I immortalized three weeks ago.”
“All right, that explains the how of this.” Elorie narrows her eyes. “But it doesn’t explain the why.”
OK, Diane—ready, set, roll.
“I’ve been hiding something important from you,” I say. “And now I want to come clean and apologize.”
“I knew it!” She let out a smug puff. “Spill the beans.”
“I’m seeing someone. And it’s getting sort of… serious.”
Elorie’s jaw slackens. “No way! Since when? Who is he?”
“His name is Sebastian,” I say before adding under my breath, “Darcy.”
She leans in, eyes wide in disbelief. “Come again—Sebastian who?”
“Darcy.”
“Darcy as in d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the billionaire count at the helm of Parfums d’Arcy?”
I nod.
“The a-hole who ruined your father?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
She turns away and keeps her gaze on her nails for a long moment.
I know what she’s itching to say and I dread it.
“Hypocrite,” she finally spits out without looking at me.
What can I say in my defense?
Nothing at all.
Elorie pulls a face and says in a squeaky nasal voice, “I’m Saint Diane. I disapprove of your materialistic dream, Elorie. I would never date a billionaire. Money means nothing to me.”
Time for another lie. “It’s not about his money—I fancy him.”
“No kidding.” She smirks. “Why would anyone fancy a tall, dark, and handsome billionaire? Who happens to be single. And young.”
And a jerk.
But that’s beside the point.
She purses her lips. “Where did you meet him?”
“He’s a friend of Jeanne’s husband, Mat.”
Elorie blinks. “Jeanne from La Bohème?”
“The very same.” I take a fortifying breath—here goes one more lie. “It started as casual sex a few weeks ago and grew into something bigger… really fast.”
Elorie says nothing.
“Will you forgive me for keeping you in the dark?” I ask.
She keeps silent for a while and then smiles. “Still waters run deep, eh?”
I smile back.
“OK,” she says. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“Shoot.”
“Introduce me into his circle.”
I grin at Elorie’s ever pragmatic attitude. “Consider it done.”
“OK,” she says. “You’re forgiven.”
I blow her a kiss.
“Let’s rewind to where you said it was getting serious,” she says. “What did you mean by that?”
That I’m marrying him in exactly two months.
“Just that we’re not hiding anymore, which, by the way, will make it easy to bring you into the fold.”
She nods, her eyes bright. I can almost see smoke coming out of her ears as her mind spins with possibilities. Let’s hope she meets the man of her dreams through Darcy, so at least someone will have a happy ending when our farce is over.
“Wait,” Elorie says. “Will you be quitting the supermarket job?”
I look at my beautifully painted nails. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he can use his connections to get you a better job, dum-dum,” she says.
Makes sense, but that’s not why I’ll quit. I’m going to give in my notice later this week because my contract with Darcy says so.
On page five.
We leave the salon and head to the nearby movie theater for some superhero action accompanied by popcorn and gummy bears.
“Hey, maybe he’ll help you become a photographer for fashion magazines,” Elorie says with enthusiasm as we slump into our armchairs in the back of the darkened room. “That would be so cool!”
Fashion photography is cool, except it isn’t my thing. But Elorie’s comment reminds me of another matter I wanted to discuss with her.
“I hope I can make it as a photographer on my own,” I say. “One of the depositories where I upload my pics asked me for a series of artful portraits in black and white.”
She mouths, “Ooh.”
“They want tasteful feminine nudes.” I hesitate before adding, “Will you pose for me?”
She chokes on her popcorn. “You serious?”
“Yes. You’re beautiful and fit, and so much more real than those anorexic fashion models… Not that I’m in a position to ask one to sit for me, anyway.”
It’s like a lungful of fresh air to be able to say something honest. I’m going to miss that feeling. I already do.
“I’m flattered,” Elorie says. “But I have to be careful about my image. Considering my plans.”
“Not to worry!” I lean in. “I’ll make sure nothing scandalous, such as a nipple, can be seen. The series will be more about the shapes, arches, skin, light, and shadow than about the body.”
Elorie chews her lip.
I give her a pleading look. “Please, pretty please?”
“Have you done it before?”
“No,” I say honestly. “You’ll be my first nude.”
“OK,” she says. “Why not. Could be fun.”
“Thank you, Elorie, you’re the best!” I give her a quick hug. “And, by the way, I’ll split my fee.”
She grins. “Why didn’t you start with that, dum-dum?”
Elorie, you rock.
When I get home after the movie, my thoughts return to my Greek weekend. Last night, when Darcy walked into our bedroom, I was already under the covers, pretending to sleep. I even produced a loud snore or two for good measure. Because I’m an ace at fake snoring.
And because I have no class.
In reality, it took me several hours to fall asleep.
I was annoyed with my fruitless search, with Darcy’s mean comment, and with the whole fake relationship thing.
Suddenly, I was uncertain my plan would work.
What if I don’t find any incriminating evidence?
Maybe Thibaud d’Arcy wasn’t murdered. Maybe the family’s closets have been purged of all skeletons.
Maybe Parfums d’Arcy doesn’t sneak carcinogenic components into its flavors and fragrances.
Maybe Sebastian Darcy is the only billionaire in the world who doesn’t tuck his money away in offshore accounts.
Nah, I don’t believe that.
What’s more likely, though, is that the money is hidden too well for me to trace.
As our “relationship” is about to go public, some of the implications I’ve been ignoring hit me hard.
Dad will be devastated. He’ll be so disappointed he might even stop talking to me.
I’ll have to lie to him, lie to Mom, Chloe and all my friends.
I’ll spend the next four to six months pretending I love the man I hate.
And all I’ll get out of this may be two hundred grand at best and fifty at worst. If my hidden agenda fails, I won’t get any revenge or satisfaction out of this—just money.
It’s a terrifying prospect.