3. Once Upon a Late Night
ONCE UPON A LATE NIGHT
G enevieve Courtenay was tired, out of breath, and run ragged.
Her plans for showing up for the family dinner at the penthouse were evaporating before her eyes.
Not that she really wanted to go. But she knew that, just this once—because he had been this weirdly insistent she take the job—her father would be curious about how her first week had gone.
And while Vi might have, at one time, had some delusions that he’d be interested for her sake, she’d abandoned that fantasy long ago.
No, Charles Courtenay would want to know if she’d embarrassed him with any of the important people. Or whether she had done the family name proud. Or if they’d asked about her connections to the royal family of Savoy. All of which felt like lead in her stomach.
It wasn’t like her being the niece of King Aleric or cousin to Princess Allegra was a secret.
The Courtenay’s line and the Savoy line had intersected when Charles had married King Aleric’s younger sister.
But since her mother’s death at Vi’s birth, the Savoys hadn’t exactly been close or in any way present in her life.
That her father still traded on their name—including in this particular case—had Vi mystified.
It also made her apprehensive that, at any moment, Aoife or Frankie or Chiara might ask her about them.
So far, no one had. Aoife teased her about her royal connections, calling her jokingly Lady Rae , but clearly couldn’t care less.
Frankie might as well have been nonexistent for all the time she spent at the Haus and had never mentioned them.
And Chiara… Well, Chiara… Vi tried very hard not to think about her.
Out of self-preservation, if nothing else.
Somebody’s wife, somebody’s wife.
She rounded the corner of the Rue Saint-Honoré opposite the immense Longchamps store and paid no mind to the sparkling displays of beautiful watches.
Her mind returned to her father, who had an impressive collection of timepieces.
And kept acquiring new ones. Vi didn’t know how. Or why, for that matter.
Well, the why probably had a lot to do with the Savoys, who no longer received the Courtenays. And the Courtenays—who held the English Earldom of Rae—still played at being someones . Vi rolled her eyes at the shallowness.
Living so far beyond their means that it should be criminal was the Courtenay’s forte. If anyone knew how to get into every ballroom and party and be invited to all the major events of the year in New York, London or Paris, it was her family.
Vi really couldn’t quite complain, since her current employment situation was entirely due to her last name. Yet, she still went home to her shoebox attic of an apartment in Montmartre, whereas the rest of her family lived large on the Place Dauphine, a stone’s throw away from Lilien Haus.
Vi sped up her tired steps and decided that pondering their irresponsible behavior was really not her problem. If her father wanted to take on more debt than was perhaps legal, and if he kept lying to all those people latching on to him for his name and titles, they deserved what they got.
None of her business…
She took the stairs up to Aoife’s floor two at a time.
The call from the production house had come just as she’d been debating how to start her lunch—with the fries or the sandwich—and thus she’d had to forgo both as she spent her afternoon running around the 3 rd arrondissement, tracking down various pieces for Aoife’s crew of seamstresses.
“I heard you moved mountains, kid!” Her supervisor was sewing cheerfully, and her voice was muffled by her face being almost level with the needle going in and out of what looked like Mulberry Silk.
The things one learned on this job.
“I think it’s all straightened out now, boss.” Vi longingly looked around the various surfaces to locate the food she’d left behind earlier. None was to be seen.
“Well then, Courtenay, you’re not just a good gopher, but also a magician.
Because almost half of those women are lesbians, and I have no idea how you managed to straighten them out, but kudos to you.
” The cheerful cackling that followed was already so endearing and familiar, although Vi had only been there a week.
“Also, I may joke about these magical powers of yours, but let me tell you, in my years of working with that crew, I am yet to resolve matters in the speedy and efficient way you have today. And really all week. Are you after my job, kid?”
It had been a running joke ever since Vi had managed to get into the seamstresses’ good graces. Every day, she returned buoyed by successfully fulfilling her assignments, even if she was tired after hours of herding cats over at the atelier.
Still, she was nice to everyone there, and they did what she needed them to do. Everyone was happy and, judging by the grin on Aoife’s face, so was she. Vi returned a smile and dug around the little fridge, but came up empty-handed.
“Yes, yes, love, the locusts from the upper floor raided it earlier. I have some of my fries left, though.” Aoife pushed the little paper bag her way, and Vi decided that beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Thanks Aoife, you’re the best. I saw another container in there, though. Did Chiara not eat?” Vi wanted to add ‘again’ to her question but stopped herself. Nobody needed to know that she paid close attention to how many meals Chiara missed.
“I think she spent her morning at the vet with that chocolate spawn of the devil. And you know nobody touches Chiara’s food.”
“Well, that’s swell. What am I supposed to tell Zizou tomorrow? He always asks how the food was, and especially how Madame C enjoyed her…” She searched her mind for whatever it was Zizou had packed for Chiara earlier that day. Was it falafel or tuna?
Vi dipped a fry into the mayo and grimaced in disgust. Who chose to have mayo with their fries? “…falafel.” She finished the sentence with a forced conviction despite not being at all certain. Then she grinned around a full mouth and raised a hopeful eyebrow, and Aoife just shook her head.
“You can’t have Chiara’s sandwich. It’s sacrosanct and you know it.” Vi’s head drooped. She didn’t want all of it. And the thought of Chiara going hungry again did not sit well with her at all.
However, the few fries she’d gobbled down hadn’t even come close to filling the hole in her stomach.
“I’ll do you one better though, Cinderella.
Why don’t you deliver that takeout box to Madame C yourself and beg her for scraps?
” Aoife shooed Vi, already burying her head back in the ivory fabric, and Vi didn’t get a chance to ask her about the re-emergence of the nickname.
On the other hand, every day people around this place called her something new. Kid, Courtenay, gopher, you there.
The last appellation—if you could call it that—was from Frankie. She had yet to use Vi’s first name. Or her last name, for that matter.
In fact, every time Vi saw her—which was preciously rare—Frankie was either busy doing something completely fashion-unrelated or talking to some model.
Hence, the face of Lilien Haus had very little time for the intern who supposedly had been hired to learn from her, if Vi was to believe her father.
* * *
With Chiara’s lunch in hand, Vi climbed to the fifth floor, then simply stood at the entrance. Just for one moment. She told herself it was to catch her breath after the three flights of stairs, but she knew she was lying.
The open floor plan allowed her a second or two to bask in the glory that was a barefoot Chiara Conti bent over a workbench with scissors, singing something vaguely resembling an aria, one Vi couldn’t pinpoint.
Her foot was tapping to her own, completely out-of-tune rhythm, and the pencil stuck in her bun was on the verge of falling out and spilling all those masses of dark, wavy hair onto the sun-kissed shoulders.
A decidedly disgruntled—which, with an ordinary cat, could be explained by a vet visit, but wasn’t unusual with this one—Binoche was lounging on a cushion on the windowsill. She looked directly at Vi, probably judging her for the interruption as well as for creepily staring at her mistress.
In the week since Vi had rescued the chocolate feline from the rainstorm and the gutters of Saint-Honoré, Binoche had become a fixture at Lilien Haus.
Well, mostly on the fifth floor. Since, it turned out, Frankie was allergic to cats, and Binoche was somehow even more disdainful of Frankie than of other, lesser mortals.
The vet had set Binoche up with a splint on her broken paw and she limped around the place as if she owned it.
Vi had assumed Chiara would find another home for the feline after she healed up—after all, Frankie’s allergies were rather severe—but the cat would be staying, despite Vi’s assumptions and despite Frankie’s cursing.
Binoche tolerated Chiara, ignored Aoife, and had silent contempt for Vi.
Vi could, however, understand all of the above. Everyone adored Chiara, most enjoyed Aoife, and even more people would be annoyed with someone who called them names. Which Vi did with a perverse kind of regularity. Every time she crossed paths with the little chocolate ball of fluff, in fact.
She mouthed ‘Brioche’ and grinned at the cat, who demonstratively turned away from her. Yes, Vi almost took pleasure in teasing the feline. Mostly because it got an equal rise out of both the cat and her mistress.
Said mistress, who was still singing—if one could call it that because carrying a tune was not one of Chiara’s many talents—and was an absolute sight for sore eyes.
Since she’d started at Lilien Haus, Vi had only really seen Chiara twice.
Maybe three times, but who was counting?
Okay, who was she kidding? She’d spoken to her four times and was on constant lookout for more.