Chapter 16
SEBASTIAN
Denying yourself someone you crave, and who happens to want you, too, drains your energy. Can you blame a man for wanting a break from it?
I’d been suspecting Diane had a thing for me since March, but the Burgundy trip killed the last of my doubts.
I’ll never forget our extra hot kiss, or the look on her face when she asked me to pose for her.
Even harder to forget is the giddiness in her lovely eyes when I agreed.
Not to mention the pent-up lust roughening her voice when she directed me, and the color of her cheeks when she began to take pictures.
How I managed not to knock on her door that night is beyond me.
I look out the car window as I drive to the 9th. I’m to join Diane and her gang at La Bohème tonight, where they’re watching some show on the bistro’s new TV screen. My original plan had been to take Diane to the opera, but she said she wouldn’t miss that program for the world.
Why on earth did I buy those tickets without checking with her first? I suppose I was going for a surprise. As if I didn’t already know Diane isn’t the kind of woman who’d jump for joy at two center orchestra tickets for La Traviata.
I smirk and shake my head.
She’s the exact opposite.
Setting aside the women who live in mud huts on under one dollar a day, Diane is as far from my interests and way of life as a Western female can be.
And that’s why I stayed away from her chamber in Burgundy.
Just imagine the imbroglio of having sex with the woman I’ve hired to play my fiancée.
Hired and play are the keywords here. Sleeping with her might give Diane the wrong idea.
And if there’s one thing a gentleman never does to a woman—regardless of her social background—is giving her the wrong idea.
Hang in there, man.
Just two more months of this charade and she’ll be out of my life for good.
I park the Lambo on the corner of rue Lafayette and rue Bleue and climb out.
As I walk down rue Cadet, I notice an unusually large crowd blocking the sidewalk terrace of the bistro.
It’s early May, and mild enough to sip your Kir cassis outside, but that doesn’t explain all those extra chairs, people standing in the aisles, and others sitting on their backpacks.
And everyone—everyone—has their heads turned up, staring at the wall-mounted TV.
Diane, Elorie, Jeanne, and some of the waiters are among the crowd.
My fiancée remains seated as I peck her on the forehead.
She’s wearing the perfume I gave her a few weeks ago, and this pleases me to no end.
The delicate iris- and patchouli-based fragrance blends seamlessly with the alluring scent of her skin, highlighting her tomboyishness as well as her femininity.
I wish I could bottle it and keep it in my inside pocket at all times.
When my mind clears a few seconds later, I say hello to the others. They greet me without taking their eyes off the screen.
Is there some important match underway? Why didn’t Octave or Greg tell me anything? They’re both huge sports fans and between them, they have all major sports covered. So what is it—tennis, football, or rugby?
The screen displaying country names and points isn’t helping.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“The Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says before turning to her friends. “This can’t be true! Belgium gave us nul points. How could they?”
Manon grits her teeth. “Traitors.”
“So did the UK,” Elorie says.
“Yeah, but that’s normal.” Diane looks at me. “It’s a tradition. Brits always down vote France at Eurovision. We do the same to them, by the way.”
I place my hand on her shoulder.
Diane gives me a sweet smile. “Will you stay and watch this with us?”
“I was hoping to take you to dinner—I haven’t eaten yet. Besides,”—I look around—“there are no spare chairs.”
“I can fix you a croque-monsieur or a hamburger,” Jeanne offers.
Diane stands and pats her chair. “We can share this.”
“OK.” I sit down and turn to Jeanne. “A hamburger and a beer would be great.”
She stands. “Don’t let anyone steal my chair.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.” Diane drops her purse on it.
“So, let’s see what’s this all is about,” I say to Diane, as she lowers herself onto my lap.
This song contest is clearly something she enjoys.
I’m not going to spoil her evening by insisting we go eat a proper dinner in a proper restaurant.
And I wouldn’t want to appear rude by leaving.
So my reasons for staying are just gallantry and good manners.
And perhaps curiosity about this European song contest I’ve heard about but never watched.
The prospect of having Diane’s pert little ass on my lap and my arm wrapped around her slim waist for the next hour or so has nothing to do with anything.
“Who’s the favorite?” I ask. “Are they good?”
Diane picks up her mojito. “Malta and Ukraine are number one and two, but it may change with the next country’s vote.”
“Everyone’s equally awful in this contest,” Elorie says.
“Then why watch it?”
“The point of watching the Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says, “isn’t in discovering good songs or new talent—we have The Voice for that. It’s in commenting.”
“On what?”
Diane turns to me. “Everything. The contestants and their costumes, the hosts and their bad jokes, and, of course, the songs.”
“You forgot the national commentators,” Elorie says. “We comment on them, too.” She turns to me. “This year it’s your buddy, celebrity columnist Marie-Anne Blenn.”
“She’s not my buddy.”
Elorie cocks her head. “But you’ve met her, haven’t you?”
“Everyone with a ‘de’ particle in their name has met her.”
Manon puts her index finger to her lips. “Shush! Australia is next.”
“I thought this was a European contest,” I can’t help saying.
“Didn’t you watch the news last night?” Jeanne puts my hamburger and beer on the table and takes her seat. “Australia was hauled across a couple of oceans and parked between Iceland and Scotland so they could take part in Eurovision.”
“Shush!” Manon orders again.
We watch the song that’s so resolutely and proudly tacky it deserves at least one point.
To my surprise, it gets a lot more than one, including from France.
Have my fellow citizens lost their famed good taste?
A longtime opera buff, I forget that the vast majority of the seventy million people who are just as French as I am wouldn’t set foot in an opera house even if I paid them.
The next performer has the left side of his skull shaven and the right side covered in long raven-black strands that drape his right eye like a little curtain.
“The Barber from Hell has struck again,” Marie-Anne Blenn’s voice-over informs the viewers.
“Wait till he starts singing,” Manon says. “I’ve already watched his video on YouTube. His song is called ‘Eagle.’ ”
Diane tilts her head back and looks up. “Lord, please make it so that he doesn’t have wings attached to his back.”
Manon purses her lips, struggling not to smile.
The singer opens his mouth—and spreads his eagle wings.
Diane drops her head to her chest. Manon giggles.
Next, a well-endowed female singer dressed in a long skirt and tight bodice steps out from behind a curtain. Ten seconds into her tear-jerking song, she raises her arms to the ceiling, clenches her fists and rips off her skirt.
“She has the male vote in her pocket,” Elorie says.
Diane turns to her. “She doesn’t have any pockets.”
“Fine. Tucked into her bodice.” Elorie pokes her tongue out. “Smartass.”
And so it continues. Song after cheesy song gets points following a logic I fail to grasp. One thing is clear—it has nothing to do with their artistic quality.
At some point, I realize I’m staring at the screen without seeing anything.
Nor am I listening to Marie-Anne Blenn’s and the girls’ acerbic comments.
My mind is completely overtaken by something a lot closer to home—Diane.
More specifically her back against my chest, my left hand on her tummy, and my right hand, which has somehow made its way to her thigh.
I’m sporting wood. And I’m perfectly aware there’s no way this development could’ve escaped Diane’s notice.
Right now, I’d give half of what I’m worth for everyone around us to be temporarily relocated to a parallel universe so I can do what I’m dying to do.
Cup her breasts. Fondle them. Pinch her nipples gently between my index and thumb.
Slip my hand into her panties and stroke her until she pants.
And then stroke her more until she writhes and moans. All the way to her orgasm.
God, this isn’t helping.
I must stop thinking these thoughts at once. What I should do is glance at my phone, look concerned, and say I have to go.
Diane shifts in my lap as she leans forward, peering at the screen.
Jesus. Christ.
My lids drop, and I forget what I intended to do. My breathing becomes shallow. All I can think of is my hand in her panties.
Would she be wet for me?
“My money’s on yes,” Jeanne says.
I open my eyes. What the fuck?
Jeanne passes a napkin with a two-column table drawn on it to Manon. Manon scribbles something in the first column and hands the napkin to Elorie.
“What’s that?” I ask Diane.
She looks over her shoulder. “We’re betting on the Greek contestant.”
She points to the screen where a guy in a shiny white suit is wailing yet another heartrending ballad while playing a grand piano.
“And?”
“In roughly fifty percent of performances that feature a piano—especially when the contestant is playing it himself—the instrument is set on fire at the end of the song.” She smiles. “So the bet is if the Greeks will burn their piano.”
“I see.”
I feel a little stupid for having panicked a few seconds ago.
“What’s your bet—yes or no?” Diane asks, holding the napkin.
“No,” I say.
She puts my name in the second column and hers in the first.
A minute later, the piano burns.
I hand Jeanne a fifty euro bill and a two euro coin. “I have to go now.”
She starts to rummage through the pocket of her apron.
“Keep the change,” I say. “Please.”
“OK. Thanks!”
Diane stands up.
“Please stay,” I say to her. “I don’t want to be a spoilsport.”
She shakes her head. “You aren’t.”
We stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m sure she’s asking herself the same question I am—are we going to have sex tonight?
We say good-bye to Diane’s friends and get into my car.
“You know,” she says, “I still don’t understand why you hired me knowing I had a chip on my shoulder.”
I hesitate. “I have a confession to make.”
“Go on.”
“Part of the reason I picked you was guilt. I’m not proud of what I did to Charles, and I guess I wanted to buy myself a good conscience by supporting him through you.”
“I don’t get it. Isn’t driving competitors out of business what you do all the time, what all successful businessmen do as you keep telling me. Why the sudden guilt?”
“I may have gone further with Charles than I usually do.”
“Explain.”
“I had my R and D team clone his bestsellers.” I pause, hesitating again.
The corners of her mouth drop. “And then?”
“My sales team pushed them at half of his price.” I glance at her. “He didn’t have a chance.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Diane fidgets with the three-carat rock on her ring finger as if itching to take it off. She won’t talk to me.
It doesn’t look like we’ll be having sex tonight, after all.
And that’s a good thing, right?