ERICA
Chapter playlist:
In Vogue — Daniel Pemberton
Sparkling Diamonds (From "Moulin Rouge") — Nicole Kidman
The district manager of the Four Seasons hotel has personally driven in from Bethesda past his bedtime to grovel, and I am so here for it.
Ivy made one phone call yesterday, which resulted in arranging the VIP treatment for one Miss Capucine de Montfleury, sole heiress to Maison Montfleury, a very French, very luxurious, and very iconic perfume house.
She owns three chateaux, a nose insured for billions, and absolutely zero patience for anyone who wastes her time. She also has a half brother named Laurent, an ongoing inheritance dispute, and a well-documented allergy to synthetic musk.
She is also not a real person.
The identity Tanya built for Ginger comes with a complete backstory, a rift with a fictional sibling, and a briefcase so valuable that Capucine de Montfleury insists it can only be safe inside the hotel’s private vault.
Cue her very tiny but capable bodyguard… Suri… and her personal handler and concierge… Me. We are also very French, by the way, and wearing matching itchy suits.
Zoe snickered when I put mine on, and I told her to zip it before I did something like cover her mouth in duct tape. She countered with, “What are besties for if not to make fun of one another?”
I just rolled my eyes and got into the rented limo that brought us exactly one block to the Four Seasons front entrance.
Ginger sweeps through the revolving door of the hotel in a cream trench coat she does not need in July, sunglasses she does not need at eleven at night, and an attitude that should win her an Oscar.
It didn’t take much to convince her to play this part.
Also, she’s the only one of us who speaks a passable amount of French.
Suri and I follow directly behind her like minions.
Twenty-four hours ago, this hotel didn't have a spare broom closet. Every floor is blocked off for the tournament, reserved for players, league officials, and anyone with a lanyard that says Association on it. The penthouse suite was occupied by the hockey commissioner himself.
But Ivy pulled a few strings, made a few phone calls, and now the commissioner is halfway to Geneva thinking he's up for a spot on the international federation's board. He'll be gone through the gala.
That leaves the penthouse empty, and the hotel with a problem. The suite is contractually off-limits to anyone outside the tournament unless the VP of hockey operations signs off, in writing.
Which is where Miss Capucine de Montfleury comes in.
Ivy called in a favor to get the suite reclassified as a VIP comp instead of a booking, which is apparently a different contract entirely.
That's also, I'm guessing, why the district manager drove all this way to run this himself instead of some nineteen-year-old at the front desk.
Corporate doesn't leave a celebrity check-in to chance.
“Miss Furry,” the district manager says, striding out from behind the concierge desk so fast his loafers squeak against the marble. “Miss Furry, welcome, welcome, we are honored. My name is Clive Halloran. Whatever you need during your stay is yours.”
Ginger, resplendent in a black dress that’s giving Audrey Hepburn, does not acknowledge Clive Halloran, or that he mangled her fake name. She looks past him. Past the lobby.
He produces a gold-embossed key fob, holds it out to Ginger with both hands.
She looks at it the way most people look at gum on their seat.
“We’ve held the Penthouse Suite for you,” Clive continues. “Champagne on ice, the Steinway’s been tuned twice just in case you’d like to—”
“I do not touch key cards,” she says, and ticks her head in my direction.
Girlfriend! Not even a bonjour. She’s really committing.
There’s a beat where Halloran’s brain visibly recalibrates, and then he says, “Oh.” He pivots to hand it to me instead.
“You must be with Miss Furry’s people.”
“Montfleury,” I say, hitting each syllable. Mont. Fleur. Ee. I even brought my own fake French vowels for the occasion.
He nods so fast his neck might fall off. “Right. Of course. Miss Flurry.”
That’s somehow worse. Like a McFlurry. From McDonald’s. I want to laugh so bad my ribs ache holding it in. I settle for pretend French disdain for “stupid Americans” and make sure it shows on my face. Poor Clive.
His smile flickers. “I will personally escort you to your room, Miss Flurry.”
“La chambre forte,” she says. “I do not fly for hours to sit in a room.”
“La chambre forte,” I supply. “It means the vault.” I subtly shift my eyes to the case handcuffed to my wrist. As far as Clive is concerned, I’m carrying a locked formulary case containing Maison Montfleury’s founder’s original handwritten formula pages, a vial claimed to be real ambergris, a grand cru rose absolute in a stopper bottle so old the glass has gone faintly purple.
And a discontinued tuberose extrait, with an aged typed card claiming it to be irreplaceable and priceless.
Tanya spent hours on every one of those props, even distressing the leather case with a heat gun and a bag of gravel to make it look vintage.
Tanya, you beautiful maniac, I think. I owe you a fruit basket the size of a Buick.
Clive blinks, recovers fast. “Right, of course, of course. The vault, of course. Right this way.”
We follow him as he power walks down the marble hallway ahead of us, through double doors the public is not allowed through.
Ginger sets a pace that suggests the rest of us are furniture she’s graciously allowing in her presence.
Suri trails a half step behind her, a tiny, silent bodyguard.
(Silent because she really couldn’t do a convincing French accent.)
The corridor gets progressively less marble and more concrete, and we pass a wall of black-and-white photographs of the hotel’s opening gala in 1979, down a service elevator, and finally arrive at a door with a brass plate that reads PRIVATE VAULT ACCESS.
I catalog the keypad underneath and the biometric palm scan and notice Suri is doing the same.
Clive stops in front of it, bless his heart, with a hand pressed flat to his chest like he’s about to deliver a eulogy.
“Miss Flurry, I have to apologize in advance. Hotel policy limits vault access to two guests per visit, for security purposes. I know that’s terribly inconvenient given the hour, but I’m afraid all three of you can’t…”
“Fine,” Ginger says, before he finishes the sentence. “She waits.” She points a single manicured finger, aimed at me.
It’s fine. We allowed for this contingency. We agreed beforehand that if it came down to me or Suri, it had to be Suri inside that vault.
Suri makes a show of elegantly producing a key from her inside breast pocket, and unlocks the handcuffs. I pass the case over to her, and she nods, indicating the case is securely in her small, capable hands.
Clive opens the vault, and sweeps his arm out in front of him. “After you, ladies.”
Suri and Ginger step through together, and the door swings most of the way shut behind them, leaving a gap of maybe eight inches, enough that I can hear muffled voices and can see slices of movement if I stand exactly where the district manager isn’t currently hovering.
I stand there and catch maybe two full seconds of Suri’s face through the gap, angled toward a specific metal case. She gives me a sideways glance and winks.
A few minutes later the door swings open, and Ginger emerges first, Suri a step behind her. Clive brings up the rear, sweating through his collar, visibly relieved to be alive, and seals the vault behind them.
“I can personally guarantee, Miss Flurry, your priceless possessions will be kept with the greatest of care. We at the Four Seasons pride ourse—”
“We are finished with you,” she interrupts, and flicks her fingers at him in a gesture that somehow manages to be both French and extremely rude.
Then, without missing a beat, to me and Suri she announces, “I am hungry. Find me a restaurant. Somewhere that does not serve bread that has been touched by American hands.”
There it is, I think, and step forward on cue.
Except Halloran, God bless his overachieving little heart, steps forward first.
“I’d be delighted to handle that personally, Miss Flurry. I can have something arranged within the hour.”
No. No, no, absolutely not, because this was supposed to be our exit strategy. The plan was to leave quietly, before anyone downstairs got a good look at the three of us together for longer than necessary.
Ginger turns toward me with panic on her face. I can barely catch her wide eyes behind those sunglasses.
“Actually,” I say, stepping in smooth as anything, “Miss de Montfleury’s had a very long flight. She shouldn’t have to stand around a lobby. I will coordinate with you directly, Mr. Halloran.”
I lift one eyebrow and give Ginger the look.
The wide, deliberate, play along, I am begging you eyes.
There’s a beat. One single beat where I truly do not know if she’s going to blow the whole thing out of pure diva momentum.
Then something shifts behind the sunglasses, and Ginger exhales through her nose like the concept of waiting personally exhausts her.
“Yes,” she says, already turning, bored again. “I will wait in the penthouse. My concierge will secure the table.”
And then she’s gone, Suri falling into step beside her.
Clive directs me in a different direction, a shortcut to the front desk, I suppose. As we step into the elevator, he clears his throat next to me, hands clasped, rocking slightly on his heels, and I realize with a small internal groan that I am now expected to make conversation.
“She travels light,” I say. “For an heiress.”
“Understandably,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else.