Chapter 24
DIANE
The round-faced pastry shop assistant gives me a bright smile. “What can I get for you, mesdemoiselles?”
“A small bag of coucougnettes, please,” I say politely.
Elorie snorts. “Did you just ask for testicles?”
“I did.” I pay and offer a soft pink sweet from my bag to Elorie. “I promise you’ll like it.”
She studies the almond paste “ball” spiced with ginger and candied in sugar and pulls a face. “Really?”
I nod to encourage her. “They’re a Southwest specialty, but I discovered them only a month ago here in Le Marais.”
Elorie puts the coucougnette in her mouth and chews it slowly.
“So?” I ask.
“Tastes better than it sounds.”
I grin. “Told ya.”
We step out and amble along the cobblestone streets of this medieval quartier until our next stop—the European House of Photography.
The exhibition space is located in an eighteenth-century h?tel particulier at 5 rue de Fourcy.
Impressive as it is, the building can’t hold a candle to the splendor of Darcy House.
It’s just an impartial observation, that’s all.
The plan is to split up for a while. While I check out the new exhibit at the photography museum, Elorie will explore the best vintage clothes shop in the capital just around the corner on rue de Rivoli.
An hour later, I leave the museum and head to the “falafel street”—rue des Rosiers. When I arrive, Elorie is already standing in the long line in front of L’As du Fallafel.
She holds up a big plastic bag filled with clothes. “Your new neighborhood rocks.”
“I know!” I grin. “Where else in Paris can you have so much fun on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Unfortunately, being so cool has a flip side.” She sighs and points at all the people ahead of us in line. “I hope you aren’t too hungry.”
“Fear not, my friend.” I pull the coucougnettes bag from my purse and wave it in front of her nose. “We have balls.”
Fifteen minutes later, the line has barely moved.
“You know,” Elorie says, helping herself to a pink bonbon, “sometimes I hate this country.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s all about égalité, but when you scratch below the surface, there’s no real equality. What we have is a sky-high fence between the rich and the poor.”
“I agree,” I say. “But I would argue it isn’t as tall as it seems.”
Elorie shakes her head. “Your Cinderella story, ma cocotte, is so improbable it’s suspicious. A man like Sebastian Darcy falling in love with a cashier? Marrying her? You have to admit it sounds fishy.”
Of course it does.
Because it is.
“Hey, what about your ‘marry-a-billionaire’ plan?” I ask. “If you don’t believe in Cinderella stories, aren’t you wasting your time plotting to snatch a prince?”
“Maybe I am.” Elorie bites her nails, her expression morose. “I haven’t had much success, even with all the opportunities you’re throwing my way.”
I give her hand a squeeze.
Suddenly, she perks up. “I know what I have to do! I need to adjust my strategy and focus on the nouveau-riche billionaires. The new money, not the old.”
“Athletes? Start-up wonder kids?”
“Yes, but also mafia bosses.” She winks. “They’ll be less picky.”
What can I say to that?
If anything, my fake Cinderella story only proves she’s right.
Best to change the topic. “Remember I told you about Belle Auxbois and how she didn’t want to credit Dad for his work?”
“Yup.”
“You won’t believe it, but she changed her mind.”
Elorie holds her thumbs up while chewing another coucougnette.
“Dad sent me a link to the talk show that aired on TF1 last Saturday.”
Elorie widens her eyes. “She went on TV with it?”
“Yes, she did.” I beam. “Prime time. The show host asked her about the perfume, which is selling really well, and she said she hadn’t done it alone. She admitted she’d had precious help from Charles Petit, one of the country’s best parfumiers.”
“She said that?”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t wipe the grin off my face. “Isn’t it fantabulous? I have no idea what triggered her sudden confession, though. Maybe she just woke up one morning and realized that acknowledging Dad’s work was the right thing to do.”
At last, we enter the eatery. Just as I’m about to order a falafel plate with a side of grilled eggplant, Elorie claps her hand to her forehead. “I know why she caved in.”
I stare at her expectantly.
“It’s your husband.”
“What?”
“When I stayed over at the castle, I overheard him talking on the phone with someone. He sounded stern, even a little scary.”
“What did he say?”
“He mentioned the perfume, some other stuff I didn’t understand, and said things like ‘I have proof’ and ‘it’s in your best interest to announce it yourself.’ ”
“Anything else?”
Elorie furrows her brow, trying to recall. “Oh yeah, he also said ‘I’m giving you a month, and then I’m suing the pants off you.’ ”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I didn’t make the connection.” She gives me an apologetic look. “It’s only now that everything clicked into place.”
I can’t think of much else for the rest of our girls’ day about town.
We say good-bye at République, and I take the métro to my apartment in the 14th, which Sebastian has been paying for since I chucked the supermarket job.
My head throbs as I struggle to adjust to Elorie’s revelation about Sebastian.
And to how I can possibly reconcile it with what I intend to do.