Chapter 3 #2
When Taylor and Jason got on that first private plane, they kissed till they were giddy, then looked out the window, watching as Mexico came closer and closer.
When they landed, they took a private car straight to the beach, where they drank margaritas and talked about the future babies they would have.
Now, more than twenty years after that first private plane, Taylor sat in the sky and drank wine by herself.
She considered what would happen when she landed in Paris.
She imagined that Jason had already tried to call her, that he was rabid with fear about what had befallen her.
After all, she hadn’t told anyone about her plane, save for her travel agent.
She wondered what her marketing think tank was up to—the Australian and the American and the Japanese man.
Had they solved her make-believe problems yet?
She laughed at them and at herself. None of it meant anything.
And maybe it was better that she was off the movie, at this rate.
Maybe it was good that people saw her as a writing snob!
Maybe a better indie director would reach out to her.
It wasn’t that money was an issue for her.
She’d made all her money in the late nineties and early to mid-’00s, and she’d invested wisely and would never have to struggle again.
It wasn’t about money. It was about making something that mattered.
It was about showing off and using her talent.
When the flight landed in Paris, it was raining.
Taylor sat glumly, waiting for the pilot to tell her it was time to disembark.
Apparently, they had a long time to wait.
She turned on her phone, fully expecting numerous texts and calls from Jason, but there were none.
A sour feeling overtook her stomach. She probably should have put more into it than white wine and crackers.
“Enjoy Paris!” the pilot said as she walked down the little staircase, drawing an umbrella over her head.
The rain pattered gently on the fabric. The temperature was maybe sixty-two, nowhere near as hot as it had been in Tokyo, and a shiver went through her.
She couldn’t wait to snuggle into Jason’s bed.
She couldn’t wait to watch bad films with him, to laugh with him about all the things they couldn’t change.
“We never had kids,” she’d say, trying to laugh, “but we’ve had so many good times.
We’ve had the best and most loving marriage. ”
With her suitcases in front of her outside the airport, Taylor waved down a taxi, then watched as the driver slid her things into the back.
He didn’t seem to recognize her. That, or he didn’t care.
She gave him the address of Jason’s hotel, which was a swanky one not far from the Louvre, and he gave her a look that meant, Oh, you’re one of those ritzy people.
But she just smiled back. She was one of those ritzy people.
She hadn’t been as a kid. But she’d become one.
She’d worked hard. She’d given away her heart and mind and spirit.
At the hotel, the taxi driver removed her suitcases and took her cash, thanking her in both French and English.
Taylor had had to learn French for a role, and she brought a smile to his face with a simple joke.
The rain picked up, and she pulled her suitcases under the overhang and watched the driver pull out and turn the corner.
For some reason, although she knew Jason was either upstairs or coming home after set, panic laced her heart.
A problem she had, of course, was that she didn’t know Jason’s hotel number and therefore couldn’t surprise him properly.
She’d have to bribe someone at the front desk.
Smiling like the movie star she was (okay, television star), she walked up to the concierge and said, “Good evening. My name is Taylor Charron, and I’m here to surprise my husband Jason Clapton.
The only problem is, I don’t know his room number.
Could you help me?” She reached into her wallet and pulled out a fifty-euro bill.
The concierge was a woman in her fifties wearing a form-fitting suit. She sniffed and looked at the fifty-euro bill as if it were beneath her.
“Married to Jason Clapton?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s right.” Taylor had the idiotic idea of showing numerous online photographs of herself and her husband together, including those from their wedding day. But that was beneath her.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you his room number. It is an invasion of privacy, and we do not do that to our guests. It’s our policy,” the woman said.
Taylor let out a sparkling laugh. “I understand that,” she said. “But Jason and I have been married a long time. We celebrated twenty years last year. I can show you photographs.”
“I do not need to see any photographs,” the woman said. “This is our policy. Please, call him if you like. Surprise him from here. But I cannot send you to his room.”
She then turned to the man working at the front desk beside her. She switched to French, presumably because she didn’t know that Taylor also spoke French. And she said, “That’s the American with the mistress, non? The Spanish mistress?”
Taylor kept her voice bright and chipper. In English, she said, “No, he’s married.” But even as she said it, she remembered that Jason’s costar was Spanish, that she was young and pretty and funny and alive, a rising star in all the ways Taylor never had been.
The concierge blinked at her, surprised that she understood French. “Ma’am, if you would please sit down and wait for your husband,” she said finally, pointing at the sofa to her right. “I am sure he will be with you soon.”
Taylor rolled her eyes and walked over to the waiting area, feeling miffed.
“I can’t believe you won’t let me surprise my husband,” she muttered under her breath, folding her ankles beneath her.
And like this, she resolved to wait for Jason to return from wherever he was.
She knew that when he saw her, he would leap to her aid.
He would wrap her in a hug, cover her with kisses, and make her understand that nothing was lost. It was all going to be all right.