Chapter 9
SEBASTIAN
March is my least favorite month.
The weather is just as depressing in Paris as it is in Burgundy, London, Montreal, New York, and pretty much everywhere else in the northern hemisphere where I travel for work or leisure.
Of course, there’s always Tahiti and Australia, but those trips are notorious time eaters.
Even Raph’s paradisiac Ninossos gets too gray this time of year.
Raph doesn’t care—he’s happy to go there rain or shine, but I’d rather brood in a big city than on a rock in the middle of the sea.
Notice that I haven’t done much brooding lately.
I’ve been working my tail off, consolidating the headway Parfums d’Arcy made last quarter and overseeing the launch of three new manufacturing facilities.
Not to mention Le Big Ben. Raph and I purchased it last month, and it needs a loving hand to recover its old luster.
Thank God Octave is there—always in good health, remarkably fit and imperturbable—to manage the town house! Because whenever I have a free moment, I spend it with Diane.
That woman makes it virtually impossible to brood even when you’re determined to. Not that she makes a special effort to divert me, but she achieves that without meaning to. Sometimes, even despite herself.
Over the past few weeks, she’s accompanied me to several society galas and soirées, where we’ve held hands and smiled for cameras.
I’ve taken her to dinner at exclusive places such as La Tour d’Argent and Jules Verne and for drinks at Royal Monceau and Le Crillon.
She didn’t seem impressed. I bought a Cartier watch and Chopard earrings for her so she’d look more presentable.
She gave me a signed note, saying she’d wear those items while working for me and return them as soon as we were done.
Strange woman.
Last week she mentioned she loved musicals, so I flew her to New York to see one on Broadway. She seemed to enjoy herself. But when we returned to Paris, she demanded that I slash the extravagance of my courtship from overkill to gallant.
Because, she said, she didn’t want any perks.
The demand was made just as I was about to hire a personal shopper and a stylist for her.
Not because the things she wears are ugly or cheap—which they are, by the way—but because they don’t do her justice.
Now that I’ve had ample opportunity to watch and hold her, I know she has a delectable figure underneath her sack-like gowns and baggy pants.
And I want to see that figure in a formfitting dress that stops well above the knee.
Beats me why I want that, but I do.
“Diane,” I say as I offer my hand to help her out of the car. “You’re quitting your job and moving in with me in less than two weeks. You must allow me to upgrade your outfits.”
She takes my hand and puts a foot on the red carpet rolled out in front of the nightclub.
Her delicate foot is shod in a clunky boot, which begs this question—is that all she can afford on her salary or is it what she actually likes?
Above the boot, flaps the hem of an ample gown that reminds me of the traditional dress women wear in North Korea.
I catch a glimpse of a slim ankle between the boot and the dress, and my fingers burn to touch it.
I ignore that urge. It’ll pass, eventually. It always does.
“Define upgrade,” Diane says.
“Let me rephrase it—I’d like to buy you new clothes. And shoes.”
“What’s wrong with what I wear? Not classy enough?”
I hesitate, but only for a second. “Exactly.”
Sometimes you have to be blunt to get your message across.
I close the car door behind her and instruct Greg to go home. He argues that he doesn’t mind waiting, but I insist. Whether it’s out of decency or to avoid Diane calling me a heartless exploiter is an open question.
She’s quiet as we enter the club and join my friends partying in one of the larger booths. I decide to drop the subject of her wardrobe.
For now.
With the exception of Laurent, the rest of the company aren’t really my friends in the original, pre-Facebook sense of the word. They’re just people who entertain me enough to spend a couple of hours with them once in a while.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Laurent stands to greet us.
The others follow suit, and a few minutes later, my girlfriend and I are cozying up to each other in one of the roomy armchairs, sipping our elaborate cocktails.
Unlike the last time I hung out with this group, the conversation is dull, dominated by Jean-Francois, who can’t stop gushing about his new Ferrari.
He’s been droning on for at least fifteen minutes now, killing Laurent’s and his date Yasmina’s attempts to change the topic.
The women study their nails, and even the men look bored.
“Let’s dance,” Yasmina says suddenly.
She grabs Laurent’s hand and stands up.
“Great idea!” Laurent looks mighty pleased as he follows her to the dance floor.
One by one, the occupants of the booth follow Yasmina’s example, and before we know it, it’s just Diane, Jean-Francois, and me. I don’t usually dance, but I’ve heard enough about Ferraris to last me a lifetime. As far as I can tell, so has Diane.
I stand and offer her my hand. “A dance, chérie?”
“With pleasure.” She gives me a dazzling smile.
Considering the circumstances, she might mean it for once.
Diane isn’t a very skilled dancer, but she has a good sense of rhythm, and the way she moves is nice to look at, despite her unfortunate outfit.
Something else that’s nice to look at are her eyes.
Diane is the only person I know whose eyes always hold a private smile.
As if she could see something amusing in everything and everyone, at all times.
Even when she’s angry or sulking, that little smile is still there, illuminating her lovely face and lifting my spirits in a most unexpected way.
A flash of light draws my attention away from Diane’s eyes. Ah, paparazzi. I used to turn my back or walk away whenever I spotted one, but these days, their interests and mine are perfectly aligned. I put my hand on the small of Diane’s back and draw her closer.
“There’s a photo op at three o’clock,” I whisper in her ear. “We need to kiss.”
“Mild or medium?” she whispers back.
Diane has come up with a four-level Smooch Heat Index to help us navigate the murky waters of pretend affection.
Her scale goes from mild to extra hot. The former is a peck that we use to greet each other and say good-bye in public.
Medium involves a longer “docking” time and more pressure, but it’s still just a brush and our lips remain sealed.
I’m allowed to initiate it without asking, albeit a heads-up is always appreciated.
Hot corresponds to an openmouthed kiss, suggesting tongue play to an innocent onlooker.
That level requires a prior clearance and is reserved for special occasions. I presume our upcoming betrothal will qualify as such.
Finally, level number four—extra hot—is a passionate, shameless kiss, “tongues and all,” which she included in her index as a point of reference rather than a workable option.
Diane is adamant: Extra hot is and will remain out of bounds, unless warranted by exceptional circumstances such as an impending apocalypse or a real danger of exposure.
I cup her cheek and slide my hand to the back of her head. “Hot. We’re in a nightclub.”
I’m taking a risk here, well aware that a midnight dance can hardly be called a “special occasion.” My request isn’t justified, and I fully expect her to call my bluff and mouth “no way.”
Diane arches an eyebrow as if to say she needs justification.
I just stare at her, holding my ground.
She gives me a small nod.
Before she can change her mind, I pull her into me with my hand at her nape and press my mouth to hers.
Every time we kiss, it strikes me how much I enjoy it.
My goals, my company, the whole world becomes unimportant as her delicious scent fills my nostrils and the softness of her lips overtakes my mind.
So warm, so yielding. I’ve tried meditating with the best coaches in France and abroad to achieve the state of mindful relaxation wherein I empty my head and let go of all my worries.
I swear I have yet to find a shorter path to that coveted state than kissing Diane Petit.
She wraps her arms around my neck, melding her body to mine.
A camera clicks.
I graze her lips and tease them apart.
She lets me. Holding her tight, I stroke her back. My right hand slides to her glorious bottom and stays there, fingers splayed but not daring to squeeze. The temptation to slip my tongue between her soft lips and drink in the taste of her mouth is so strong I can barely resist it.
No tongues, I remind myself. She doesn’t want tongues. She was very clear on that point.
Diane’s hand runs up and down my nape, clutching the back of my neck as if she means it.
It’s just for show. It’s just for show. It’s just for—
She removes her hand and draws away.
“We should go,” she says.
I’m so drunk on her I need a moment to adjust.
And so does my erection.
She stands on tiptoes and whispers into my ear, “Now, Sebastian. If you grab my hand and we rush out, everyone will think we’re running off to fuck.”