Eight Germaine
2008
Germaine frowns down at her phone, sipping rose bandung through a straw. She sets the drink down on the marble table of the sidewalk café, then composes a text to Miranda.
Just saw the news. I’m so sorry, hun. Call me whenever, don’t worry about time difference.
Germaine is in Singapore—not because she’s there to play any sort of professional role in the opening of her family’s glossy new hotel, but to serve as eye candy. Although, after a knock-down, drag-out fight, they did allow her to help book the music. Because no matter how much her parents would have preferred string quartets, they’re trying to appeal to a wealthy younger generation with this location, the children of Singapore’s elite—the earlier you hook them, the longer the profit potential, Terence likes to say.
“I suppose you’re more familiar with the rowdy pop bands than we are, given your ... entertainment background,” Céline said dryly.
Germaine had rolled her eyes to disguise her excitement, but she relished the work of compiling lists of candidates. Which group had enough of a presence in Southeast Asia to garner attention? Which was up-and-coming—or, conversely, a nostalgic get? Who would have the crowd on the floor all night? She dug her teeth into it, staying up late with Shibuya napping in the crook of her arm while she compared recent releases, media coverage, and Billboard charts.
But then she came across No Exit. And she decided to do Sicily a little favor.
“Marie,” she had said, looking up from her laptop as the family’s stylist laid out clothes from Germaine’s closet for the upcoming trip. “How would you get revenge on someone who had wronged a close friend of yours?”
Marie froze in her task of draping a dress bag over a silk hanger. She’s older than Germaine, or maybe younger—Germaine isn’t really sure. She was the apprentice of the family’s last stylist and recently took over the position, but they’ve barely spoken. That’s the case with all the St. Germaine-Chang staff, though.
“Miss?” Marie had said. “Revenge, you say?”
“Oui, madame.”
“On whom?” The stylist cocked an eyebrow. “A man?”
Germaine decided in that moment that she liked Marie. “Isn’t it always?”
“How bad is it?”
“Abandoned-her-after-an-unplanned-pregnancy bad,” Germaine said. “And basking in all the media attention while the same outlets call her a train wreck.”
“Mmm. So the very worst, then.” The stylist narrowed her eyes. “Well, in that case, I would stop at nothing to make sure he finally faced some consequences for his actions. To balance the scales for him, so to speak.”
“Murder?”
This would have sent the other house staff running, but Marie shrugged as she expertly folded a pair of capris over her arm. “Vous êtes le chef, miss. It’s your call to make,” she said. “But I would stick to something legal so you don’t get implicated. Something to embarrass him, perhaps—men can’t stand being embarrassed.”
“ Framing him for murder,” Germaine tried, and in spite of her blasé exterior, Marie cracked a smile.
Germaine doesn’t know Hugo Smythe personally, but she knows his type. Somehow it’s always the gross heartthrob men that Sicily goes for, the kind to sweep you off your feet in the name of “romance” and then hang you out to dry when you get knocked up. It was only a matter of time before that happened. Germaine never dated seriously in her Hollywood days—much to the chagrin of the tabloids and to Sicily and Miranda, who constantly tried to set her up—and she has zero interest in commitment now. Celebrity guys have always seemed kind of scummy to her. And she knows too well how many men in the world will stab you in the back once you’ve been at your most vulnerable with them.
Hugo Smythe is no different. The press gushes about how he wants to be involved in his child’s life—how fantastic, the bare minimum, let’s get him a trophy, Germaine thinks. She knows better, anyway, from many a tearful call from Sicily. Hugo wants nothing to do with their child. He tried to talk her into getting an abortion, in fact, when Sicily first broke the news to him.
So Germaine booked No Exit. And tonight, after they’ve begun their Singapore debut, Germaine will pluck something of value from the hotel—one of the Finnish statuettes from the ballroom, maybe, or a bottle of fifty-five-year Yamazaki single malt from behind the bar—and plant it in the greenroom. Preferably in Hugo’s bag, if she can figure out which is his. Nothing expensive enough to get them thrown in the Changi Prison Complex, but enough to insult her parents and ensure that No Exit is banned from ever playing at a St. Germaine-Chang hotel again—or any of the many subsidiaries over which they have influence. She’ll be sure to send out a neat little press statement about it, too.
The embarrassment and indignation he’ll feel will be the tiniest taste of the shame he’s brought to Sicily.
Until then, Germaine has zilch to do. She’s on her third day of boredom.
She had told Miranda that she was busy with company business on their last call, but the reality is much more mundane. Like most tourists, she’s spending the time either shopping in the air-conditioned bliss of the Orchard Road malls or lying by the hotel pool with iced Milo, bubble teas, and bandung in the swampy heat. Her work with the bands was handed off to some lackey once the contracts were signed. So far she’s appeared in one family photograph at the ribbon cutting and a celebratory brunch this morning.
Asking to be excused from these public appearances is a mistake, but Germaine had to try at least once.
“You know what you are?” Greg had spoken up. “Selfish. If you’re not in the photos, people will ask why. You never support the cause.”
“It’s like you don’t even want to be part of this family,” Giles added.
Germaine wanted to tell him what she really thought of this family , but her No Exit plan had already been put into place, and it wasn’t worth the breath. Plus, she doesn’t want to risk financial banishment again—not here in Singapore. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to strand her in a Four Asian Tiger country with nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a handful of dollars, not after the last stunt. Germaine knows it sounds like an exaggeration, but her possessions are all she has.
So she’s keeping her mouth shut.
Germaine must smile for the photos if she wants to spend. And she really, really wants to spend. She’s already hit Louis Vuitton twice today—the chairs adjacent to her table are stacked with bags, and her limo driver is waiting with more in the car. She wants to buy every single thing in Singapore and surround herself with beauty, so when she’s back home and staring down another ugly, empty week of nothing before she can go to her next dance class, she’ll be able to distract herself with genuine silks and tortoiseshell sunglasses and soft top-grain leather.
They’ll never love her back like she loves them. But she can’t help herself.
Germaine sighs, taking one more sip through her straw as it hits ice in the bottom of the cup. She’s goddamn lonely is what she is. People cast interested glances as they walk past the sidewalk café, but it’s only because she’s a spectacle with all her bags. Maybe they recognize her, but if they do, they care only about her family name and celebrity reputation. They don’t really know Germaine. The only two people in the world who do—who should be sitting in the chairs across from her rather than these totes and boxes—are many time zones away, probably fast asleep. Maybe she does need to have a fling.
Germaine checks the time on her phone and pushes the thought aside. It’s now time to do what she’s come to consider a job.
She gathers up her things and returns by limo to the sparkling new St. Germaine-Chang hotel, strutting across the marbled lobby floors past the three-tiered contemporary-art fountain and taking the glass elevator to the suite on the top floor. The chauffeur and bellhops follow with her purchases of the day, wheeling them in by the luggage cartful and stacking them alongside yesterday’s many items.
Germaine knows it’s a lot, but the piles make her feel secure. She also can’t be expected to wear any old thing from home for all these splashy publicity events.
“You’ve had a busy day, miss,” Marie remarks when she arrives in the suite, looking around at the consumerist carnage.
“I can’t have you calling me miss if we’re in cahoots together,” Germaine says. “My name is fine.”
“Cahoots?” Marie raises her eyebrows as she lays out her tools. “I know nothing of the sort, Miss Germaine. You have no evidence on me.”
Germaine frowns, but in the mirror she catches Marie’s wink.
They put on Sicily’s newest album, Carnivale , and get to work considering Versace, Dior, and Prada as they examine each look in the mirror. Could Marie be a friend, Germaine wonders, as she watches the woman’s hands fly? It’s tricky. At this stage of life, every relationship feels transactional.
Thankfully Céline is busy with her own preparations and doesn’t interfere with the process this time. So Germaine settles on something she actually likes—a Givenchy, the palest robin’s-egg blue. It hugs her figure to create a striking silhouette, finished with glossy satin twill that wraps around her throat and waist before falling at the sides to create an asymmetrical hem.
The stylist wraps Germaine’s hair in a soft, low bun, curling the pieces that fall from it, and bringing her a pair of Graff pendant earrings that drip with diamonds.
“Thank you, Marie,” Germaine tries, the note of gratitude feeling unnatural and yet necessary.
“Voilà. Parfait,” Marie says as she adjusts the strap of Germaine’s dress. “Good luck tonight, Miss Germaine. I hope all goes according to plan.”
In a moment of madness, Germaine wants to ask Marie to come with her, or even just stay and talk for a while. But the stylist is already gathering up her things.
“What will you do tonight, Marie?” Germaine asks. What does she or any of the house staff do, Germaine suddenly wonders, when they’re not waiting on her family hand and foot?
“If you would believe it,” Marie says, a mischievous look in her eye, “I have a date.”
“Good for you!” Germaine laughs as Marie scurries out of the room. But then the door closes, and Germaine is alone again. Even Marie, with her absurd working hours and erratic travel, has someone. A life independent of the St. Germaine-Changs.
Germaine fiddles with her fingernail, then catches her reflection in the mirror and checks to make sure the look is complete. She smiles approvingly, allowing her eyes to take in the spectacle for a moment, and then quickly fixes her gaze elsewhere. The first glance at a new haute fashion outfit is always a rush. But if she looks too long, she will get so, so bored. Excitement fades quickly.
Germaine dons a winning smile when she arrives at the opening gala downstairs, posing with her father, mother, and brothers for pictures that would fool anyone into thinking they were the happiest and most functional of families. The five of them, mercifully, are seated at the head tables on the ballroom stage, facing outward. She won’t have to make conversation with anybody. She’s still onstage, still has to perform for the cameras that flash incessantly, but Germaine can fall back on an old trick she’s beginning to rely on more and more.
There’s not much to it—she just makes her mind go completely blank. She lets her body run on autopilot, smiling and raising her eyebrows, taking the daintiest bites of food. Outwardly, she’s having the time of her life and celebrating the unstoppable success of her family. Inwardly, she withdraws, imagining herself shrinking down so small that she can curl up somewhere hidden and wait this out. If she isn’t present in the moment, she’s learned, it will go by quickly.
But after dinner, when the guests mingle at the adjacent rooftop bar while the ballroom is turned over for dancing, a familiar face catches her eye and breaks her trance.
Hugo Smythe.
She glances around as he approaches, evidently coming in her direction. Does he know about her relationship to Sicily? Could he have guessed her plan? Of course not, she chides herself, but she’s surprised to see him out here—and, yes, definitely headed for her. He looks very different from the grainy tabloid photos. Terence and Céline stipulated that the band should be a bit more dressed up than their typical ripped jeans and leather, but Hugo is still managing to make pressed dress pants and a white button-down look positively obscene. He’s got the top few buttons open, the sleeves rolled up, tousled hair, and a devilish grin. No wonder Sicily fell so hard for him.
“Evening,” he says, setting his whiskey down next to her flute at the edge of the balcony. He wipes his brow. “I thought the heat would get better once the sun went down. Shows what I know.”
In spite of herself, Germaine cracks a smile. “Very—what is that accent?—British of you,” she says.
He laughs. “You nailed me. I couldn’t be more out of my element.”
“Are you with the band?” Germaine can’t help playing coy. Any man overconfident enough to invade her space at a party deserves to be taken down a peg.
But he takes it in stride. “Hugo Smythe, No Exit.” He puts his hand out to shake, which Germaine finds refreshing. His palm is cool from holding his icy glass, welcome in the oppressive humidity.
“Germaine St. Germaine-Chang,” she says.
“Oh, you need no introduction.” Hugo smiles. “I thought I should come over and thank you and your family personally for inviting us to play tonight. It’s quite a gig.”
Germaine shrugs. The gratitude would make a lesser person feel guilty about how Hugo’s night is going to go, but she is steadfast. “Shouldn’t you be setting up?”
He sips his whiskey. “Did setup and sound check this afternoon, so there’s nothing left to do but wait for them to change over. The rest of the guys are hiding in the greenroom—you might be surprised to learn that high-society functions aren’t really their thing. I’m sure you love it, though.”
He doesn’t know anything about her.
“They’re all right,” Germaine says vaguely, sipping her own drink. Champagne, as usual.
“It’s truly something,” he says, and she looks at him to find that he’s gazing at the glittering city that sprawls before them, stretching out into the vast hazy darkness of the sea. “I haven’t gotten sick of traveling with the band—not just yet. I keep discovering new things that take my breath away.”
This time he’s looking at her, and Germaine raises her eyebrows. She’s surprised by the pleasant warm prickle at the back of her neck. Hugo isn’t her type, but she doesn’t mind being flirted with. It doesn’t happen very often.
“I guess it depends on who you’re with,” she says, thinking how much more fun it sounds to travel the world with a group of friends than with her family, in particular.
“The guys are great,” he agrees. “Still. It can get lonely sometimes.”
That one hits Germaine in a slightly more uncomfortable way. Like her own vulnerabilities are being recognized. It sounds like another half-baked line, but Hugo’s looking away again, and Germaine wonders whether he’s thinking of someone else.
She doesn’t like what she’s feeling, and it makes her want to punish him, just a little. Just an appetizer before tonight’s main event. “So,” she says slowly. “I do know Sicily Bell.”
He looks at her, face falling. Germaine gets a thrill from it.
“Oh,” he says, the easy confidence dropping from his voice. “Then you must not like me very much.”
Germaine isn’t quite sure what she’s doing; this conversation wasn’t part of the plan. She had no intention of meeting Hugo, ever, and it isn’t helpful that he’s more charming, more self-aware than she expected. Germaine had built him up in her mind as a villain based on her conversations with Sicily and Miranda—a boorish, joint-smoking rock star who was as dumb as the next pretty face.
But now she’s confronted with the fact that he’s a real person. And he’s interested in her, thankful to her.
Germaine waves her hand like it’s nothing. “We worked together on a TV show.” She drinks again, stalling. “When we were kids.”
She feels an odd, delicate contradiction of wanting to push Hugo away but wanting his attention at the same time. It’s something she rarely experiences—being flustered. Just a little bit.
“Oh my god.” He laughs. “ You were on Kidz Klub ? How did I not know that?”
Germaine smiles sheepishly and rolls her eyes. “My parents would be thrilled that you don’t know. I’m pretty sure they’d like to erase that chapter from the family legacy.”
Among others, she thinks. Among most of the things I’ve ever done.
“Does that mean you’re a singer, too?” Hugo asks, halfway between teasing her and sounding sincere.
“God, no.” Germaine shakes her head. “Acting and dancing for me. I mean, they made us all sing—but I was never close to Sicily’s league.”
“You’ve stayed in the industry, though?” Hugo asks. “I’m sorry I’m not more familiar with your work. Seems all you Blast Off! folks have enjoyed more or less thriving careers since then.”
“Oh.” Germaine lightly touches the back of her neck. She decides a bit of fibbing won’t hurt. “Um, here and there. I still dance a little. But it’s mostly handling the music for events like these—which I’d like to do a lot more of.”
“Very nice.” Hugo nods. “You know, we’re looking for a new booking agent, if you’re ever interested.”
Germaine feels everything in her lurch forward. The sounds of the party seem muted around her as all her focus zeroes in on Hugo’s words.