Two Germaine
Two
Germaine
2006
Germaine very carefully adjusts the edge of her pink lapel with her thumb and frowns, again.
The presenter is still going on, directing the boardroom’s attention to a list of bullet points, but all Germaine can focus on is the bold serif title at the top of the slide.
“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, and she feels all eyes turn to her. The presenter pauses midsentence, a bland smile frozen on his face. “But what exactly is the issue with the original brand proposal?”
The title should say Scent Germaine , referring to Germaine’s brainchild, her million-dollar idea to launch a new line of signature room scents at the most upmarket of her family’s hotels all over the world. She’s devoted a lot of time to it, many long hours in her office thinking aloud to Milano and Tivoli. So why does the proprietary font read Saint Scents , and why is everyone in the room acting like this was the name all along?
“No issue at all!” the presenter replies. “You’ll see we have a robust brand strategy that aligns with your proposal, and—”
“The name,” Germaine clarifies, a little sharply. “I meant, what is wrong with Scent Germaine?”
The tension that began to hum at her interruption intensifies by a margin. Germaine squares her shoulders and keeps her gaze steady on the presenter, though she knows what they all think of her. Spoiled brat. Princess. Hit with the lucky stick. A former child star who’s still just an attention-seeking kid, desperate for her parents’ approval, with no actual business acumen or knowledge of the real world. No credentials besides a degree that she didn’t really earn—and a whole heap of nepotism.
“Ah.” The syllable comes out like a cough, and the man glances at the VP of marketing, who gives the slightest of shrugs as if to say, You’re on your own. The presenter looks back at Germaine and smiles again. “Just a bit of a pivot, at the request of the seventh floor.”
The seventh floor is company slang for Germaine’s father’s office, situated at the top of the oldest, most historic St. Germaine hotel in Manhattan.
“Did the seventh floor provide a reason for the pivot?” Germaine presses, keeping her voice as level as possible.
The presenter is still smiling, but a slight slick of perspiration forms on his brow. “Just to—well, they wanted to remove a direct tie to any one person, or personality, to give it more of a timeless feeling, you know?”
Germaine continues to stare him down.
“Just to avoid”—he licks his lips and presses his palms together—“if there was to be a scenario where public images of a certain person or persons may be—well, tarnished. They knew that could undermine the brand’s integrity.”
Undermine the brand. Germaine knows those words came directly from her father; it’s a phrase both he and her mother have repeated ever since Germaine began having a little more fun in LA. The St. Germaine-Chang reputation—and international brand—was meant to be highly sophisticated, classic, refined, intellectual, blah blah blah, Germaine could rattle off a thousand adjectives like a thesaurus with the number of times one of her parents has given her a lecture. Essentially, the point was always brought home: the brand should be everything that Germaine isn’t .
And yet it is they who are undermining Germaine, and not for the first time. It’s a pattern of theirs: give her a responsibility or encourage one of her initiatives, only to devalue—or completely torpedo—it. They’ve never done this with her brothers. But with Germaine, their only daughter? Oh, you’d better believe it.
Germaine gives a frosty smile and a very small nod. “I understand,” she says, lacing her fingers together and feeling the boardroom hesitantly relax.
Germaine wishes her parents did not have doormen so she could slam the thick oaken panels when she arrives for dinner that night. She tosses her Chanel clutch onto the Hepplewhite table in the foyer, hoping the latch will snag the weaving of the Raphael tapestry hanging above it.
Gregoire and Giles are already seated at the wide mahogany table in the dining room, deep in discussion about some rugby player they’re both obsessed with. They don’t even glance at Germaine when she comes into the room. Her father, Terence, is reclining in after-work mode at the head of the table, suit jacket removed and tailored shirtsleeves rolled up as he sips bourbon from a crystal rocks glass. He’s watching the boys with only the slightest look of disdain on his face, hand under his chin. When he sees Germaine arrive, he smiles at her.
Germaine does not smile back. She drops gracelessly into her chair as her mother, Céline, enters the room in tailored navy slacks and a cashmere sweater, a glass of claret already in her hand, the soft light of the dining room making her high cheekbones only more dramatic. She is the only one whose gaze immediately rests on Germaine—and, as always, it’s calculating. Germaine looks sullenly back, knowing her mother is noticing her posture, the smudge of mascara in the corner of her left eye, the millimeters of space between her nail beds and nail polish, where she’s let her manicure grow out just a bit too long.
“Sit up straight, darling,” Céline chirps as she takes a seat. “What’s that look for?”
Germaine doesn’t waste time with small talk. “Why didn’t you tell me we were changing Scent Germaine?”
Terence makes a sympathetic face as the house staff bring the salads, frisée with fennel, pear, and dates. “We thought you might be unhappy. But unfortunately it’s necessary.”
Germaine picks up her salad fork and sets it back down, worried she’ll be tempted to do something violent with it.
“What’s the point?” she asks. “I got this degree, I did what you wanted, I came up with a great idea—but if you’re not going to trust me to actually participate in the business, why am I even here?”
Céline rolls her eyes. “For god’s sake, Germaine, it’s just a name.”
“It was my name. Mine. That you didn’t want. And if you don’t want me here, I don’t see why I shouldn’t just go back to LA, where I was actually happy. Where people do want me.”
“Oh, don’t kid yourself.” Céline waves her hand. “It’s not talent they want you for. It’s the sleazy paparazzi shots and brand sponsorships. There’s more to life than that, Gigi.”
Germaine picks the fork back up.
“Sweetheart, we want to see you mature a little, prove that you’ve grown up,” says Terence. “You’re not going back to LA. Stay here and do what we need you to do. LA doesn’t have the bachelors New York does. Start thinking about picking one of them out, eh? A beautiful wedding, a few grandchildren— that’s grown up, all right.”
Germaine stabs at the airy greens, hitting all the way down to the fine china plate. “I’m not going to have this conversation again. I’m way too young to get married.”
Céline snorts into her wine, a most refined, delicate noise that somehow makes her appear even more charming. “Well, you’re not getting any younger.”
Céline was a nineteen-year-old French-Vietnamese model when she married Terence, a Taiwanese-born self-made billionaire with a massive property empire. She’s always held that over Germaine, cracking down on her only daughter. Miranda Montana had the acting talent, Céline told her, and Sicily Bell was the one who could sing. Germaine was lucky to get on Kidz Klub at all, perhaps only because of the influence of her father, who wanted to give his sweet little pet the chance to be on her favorite show. And because the studio needed a cute Asian face for a diversity hire. Terence had friends in high places, and they did favors for each other.
Germaine has always scoffed at this. I was the best dancer! she says each time they start the same tired routine. I won Audience Favorite for the hand jive!
But somewhere, deep inside herself, she’s terrified that everything Terence and Céline say is true. Miranda got movie roles after their Blast Off! contract was up. Sicily got a record deal. What did Germaine get, apart from publicity?
She’d been excited by the prospect of going to business school, one mandate of her parents’ that Germaine surprisingly didn’t hate. Cornell, nonetheless. Sure, the family name opened doors, but people who went to Cornell did things.
And yet, just when Germaine was beginning to see herself as Ivy League material, her parents sabotaged that, too. She should have realized the Dyson School program was meant to be superficial. Just another little token to adorn her with. When Germaine wanted to study, Terence and Céline insisted she travel overseas for ski trips and hotel launches instead of taking finals. And after a generous donation to Cornell’s Nestlé Library from the St. Germaine-Changs, the degree was conferred upon Germaine anyway. It demonstrated, once again, that whatever she did mattered very little.
She can have more clothes than she can wear, as many Yorkies as can fit into cute purses, as many face-whitening treatments and mani-pedis and massages as she wants. She can vacation in Hawaii and Ibiza and Mauritius whenever she likes.
But work? She apparently doesn’t need to do that. Her role in life, as far as Germaine can see, is to look perfect and marry well. Which means someone else rich and Asian, preferably in the hotel business so the conglomerate can keep on growing.
Her family is still eating their salads as if nothing is wrong. Her brothers have picked up their conversation again—whether Jonah Lomu or Richie McCaw is the greatest rugby player of all time. Céline is signaling to the porter to bring more wine.
“I need to have some purpose in my life!” Germaine bursts out, throwing her fork onto her plate a little harder than she means to.
But her family doesn’t miss a beat.
“Like the ‘purpose’ you had in LA, falling out of limos?” Terence asks with a smirk. Céline and the boys laugh, and Germaine looks in disgust at the half-chewed mouthfuls of salad that Gregoire and Giles don’t bother to hide. Soon the entrées of pheasant paillard will be brought out, and they’ll be able to inhale it without scrutiny. They’ve never had their weight monitored or their choices criticized, even when they were drunk frat boys about to fail out of school. They both got into Dartmouth after Terence and Céline paid for a business-school annex there. To them, Germaine is just an airhead who used to jump around on TV.
And then she made a fool of herself jumping around bars and clubs.
“Heard your alkie friend was in trouble again,” Giles says.
Gregoire snorts. “Yeah, Joe had a copy of Star , and she was right on the front page. She is looking loco , man. Big sunglasses, middle finger to the paps as she’s walking into rehab ...”
“What was the headline again?” Giles asks him. “It was something hilarious. ‘Miranda Made’—no—”
“‘Miranda’s Mandated Miami’—” starts Gregoire.
“‘Miranda’s Mandated Miami Meltdown.’”
They both fall over themselves laughing.
“Hell yes , dude!” Giles howls. “So stupid, I love it.”
Germaine feels heat boiling at her collarbone, her temple, just like it did in the boardroom. This is nothing new; her family has always disparaged her friends.
“Some people have to work in entertainment,” Terence says pityingly, wiping his mouth as the salad plates are cleared and the staff set dishes of tender roast pheasant with shallot-lemon cream sauce before them. “Their families need the money.”
This is nothing new. But Germaine is dead sick of it.
With her two slender hands, she lifts the heavy, hot plate in front of her. She makes a ninety-degree turn to her right and lets it go, antique Royal Copenhagen porcelain shattering over the Tibetan rug. Butter and oil seep into the handwoven fibers.
“ Germaine! ” Terence bellows.
Germaine grasps the end of the French-linen tablecloth, taking handfuls of the fabric in her fists and pulling.
“What the hell!” Gregoire shouts. He grabs at his plate, but Giles is too slow; so is Céline. The dishes, the silverware, the Kangxi porcelain vase of lilies, everything is clattering and crashing and spilling to the floor. Terence and Gregoire are roaring at her; Giles has flung himself on the tablecloth to try to stop her, toppling the stemware into Céline’s lap.
But Germaine has the upper hand, and she doesn’t care. If they think she’s nothing but a spoiled brat, she’ll act like one. If they expect her to make a scene anyway, she’ll do it. They don’t see a grown woman when they look at her. They see a child.
So she’ll throw a tantrum.
Céline is the only one who doesn’t react. She stares straight ahead, stonily, crossing her arms and ignoring the dark stain of wine spreading across her trousers.
“Just ignore her,” Céline says, almost casually. “She’s acting out, as usual. Probably premenstrual—no wonder she looks so bloated tonight. I have Midol, Gigi, if you need it.”
With a cry of frustration, Germaine throws her hands in the air and storms out of the room, breathing so hard she imagines palpitations in her chest.
She may have all the money in the world, but what’s the point if her family treats her like an accessory? The message is loud and clear.
You’re lucky we tolerate you. You’re nothing without us.
That’s the part that hurts the most—because Germaine knows it’s true.