Chapter 26
Champagne Problems
The dining hall at the Ritz had turned into a smorgasbord of pearl coloured napkins, sparkling silverware, and tiers upon tiers of confectionery for Celine’s birthday soirée.
The Marie Antoinette theme was doing better than she had expected; the place looked enchanted under the glow of candles, burning in the centre of each table, and the pink rose petals scattered aimlessly over the mint tablecloth.
The guests Madame LeBeau had invited, though, were taking their sweet time showing up.
The dinner was droning on endlessly. Celine had done her best to greet those who had already arrived, plastering on a dazzling smile and holding it until her cheeks had turned numb.
She had chatted with aunts and uncles she hadn’t seen in a while and who only showed up for parties, including cousins so far down the line they were practically strangers to her.
She had accepted birthday gifts, clinked glasses over excited congratulations, dripped champagne all over the floor, arranged trips over the summer, which she wished her friends would forget about the second they were back in their cars, driving away.
And even though the ballroom was almost full, the evening seemed to have just started.
The watch on Jacques’s wrist seemed to tick the seconds at a slower pace than was phenomenally possible.
Celine had fastened her eyes on it for the last ten minutes, until Jacques abruptly lowered his hand, disrupting her moment of reverie.
“Celine?” His fingers pressed tightly on the small of her back. Their warmth seeped through the fabric, bringing her attention to him even as she continued to stare ahead blankly. “I think I lost you just there.”
“Forgive me,” she said, wrestling her eyes away from the jazz band. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed tonight.”
Jacques moved his hand up and down her spine soothingly. There was a slight, nervous tremble to his fingertips. “Look at the bright side, you are surrounded by your beloved cake. Not to mention, that table of gifts by the door will resemble a tower by the end of the night.”
Producing a joyless chuckle, Celine fidgeted in place, smoothing down her dress, then pinching the beads on her bracelet, rolling them between her fingers. She didn’t care about the presents. She had no appetite for cake, either. The only thing Celine wanted from this party was for it to be over.
Jacques, fortunately, didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.
“Are any of them from you?” she asked, if only to ease the tension that was brewing in the air between them, around them, everywhere.
“A couple. But the main surprise I have for you isn’t on that table.”
“Is it going to get on the table?”
“If you ask nicely. You will see what I mean soon.”
Celine forced out another chuckle. All night, she had been entertaining the idea of tugging him away, somewhere no one would overhear.
Then she would let everything spill from her chest like she was a broken fountain of confessions.
Jacques would hate her by the end of it, of course he would, but it would be better than lying to him for the rest of her life.
What was stopping her were the words she expected to hear afterwards.
She had probably drank too much champagne.
The room was hot—too hot. That had certainly muddled her thoughts.
She can’t possibly mean it. Jacques is perfect; he is kind, and generous, and sweet, and handsome.
She is a fool for saying no to him.
Celine gazed around the room as if she was a ghost. Everyone and everything had blurred at the edges and they were floating around her in slow-motion. And then her stare snagged on her mother, approaching them like a dragonfly in her green evening gown, and everything sharpened once more.
“Oh God,” Celine muttered, snapping out of the daze. At her side, Jacques sucked in a sharp breath. For all the apprehension she felt, Celine cast him an amused look. “What do you have to worry about? She looooves you.”
“Right,” he said, relaxing slightly. “I guess I tense by proxy. Your mother is a scary woman.”
He wasn’t wrong. Even as she was making her way to them by pausing at every table to greet the guests with a radiant smile, that smile was also exceptionally sharp. Celine levelled a flat look at him.
“We do look awfully alike,” she mused, “my mother and I. You are not terrified of me too, are you?”
Jacques shook his head without missing a beat. “Of course not, ma jolie.”
Celine tsked, and was about to shove at him when her mother’s fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“Jacques,” Madame LeBeau said sweetly, dragging Celine to the side. “Your grandfather was looking for you.”
A polite way of saying make yourself scarce.
“I’ll leave you two,” Jacques said, getting the hint. He seemed more than relieved not to be dealing with Madame LeBeau’s hysterics.
Celine gaped at him. “But—”
Catching the rest of her words with a quick kiss, Jacques dipped into the crowd. Celine was left alone with her mother. “Traitor,” she called after him.
“Celine,” her mother hissed. She dug her nails into Celine’s back, the smile of pretence widening on her face as she silently urged her daughter to straighten up. “Do look more alive. How is everything going?”
The jewels around her mother’s neck had doubled in size tonight.
She had let out a deafening shriek when she had discovered that a second wrinkle had manifested itself upon her neck.
Celine had hoped the situation was dire enough—by her mother’s standards, at least—that she would postpone the party.
Alas, here they were.
“Superbly,” Celine replied drily. “You made sure of it.”
“You ought to thank me. You’ve been gone all week, where to, only God knows. I nearly sent out a search party yesterday.”
Nearly. Celine rolled her eyes. Any other day Madame LeBeau would have hardly cared.
“I was just out, maman.” Irritably, she tried to pry herself away, but her mother’s grip only tightened. “I am here now.”
Madame LeBeau jerked her closer. “Do not start with me tonight, Celine.” Even as she scowled, her smile never shifted.
It was stitched on her face with pink thread, totally unmoving, barely showing the white of her teeth.
“It is bad enough that you’ve been standing here, frowning all night.
These guests are here to enjoy themselves, not wonder about your moods.
” Madame LeBeau clicked her tongue, her expression softening a little.
“At least the dress turned out beautiful.” She touched the fabric, a hint of awe shining in her eyes.
“Remind me to send Madame Chanel a thank you card tomorrow.”
“I sure will,” Celine said through her teeth, taking a brief moment to bask in the praise. She had done her best to please both her mother and herself with the dress, taking some of the least lewd suggestions Bastien had offered. If only her mother knew…
Somewhere by the door a crowd of guests was laughing loudly.
“It’s your cousins from the south.” Madame LeBeau sighed. “Do greet them later, hmm?” She pushed her shoulders back, forcing Celine to do the same. “And smile, darling. Smile.”
Celine bared her teeth obediently, and held the expression until her mother departed waving at their cousins.
How many other events would she have to fake smiles for and create another version of herself to please everyone?
The obedient daughter for her parents, the loving fiancée for Jacques, the cheerful relative for the rest of her family, the rebellious Glamour Girl for the magazines. She couldn’t keep up with all of them.
When would it ever be enough for her to be just Celine?
Once her mother was out of view, Celine dropped the illusive smile.
All this pretence was becoming exhausting.
Her cheeks hurt from trying to appear elated, her spine hurt from standing like a rod, her mind had turned numb from rotating between the same three phrases: Thank you for coming, and Oh, you didn’t have to bring a gift, and her favourite, Let’s talk more later.
Even so, she remained where she stood: trapped in the middle of the room, grinning, simpering, beaming, no better than a boudoir doll inside a glass case.
· · ·
Bastien leaned outside the balcony door, arms folded over his chest as he followed Celine sashay around the ballroom.
She was wearing the dress he had seen her try on at the old house, except tonight it looked different—better, he thought.
She was a sliver of midnight among all the flowers and the frill.
A small smile appeared on his lips. He had thought his heart’s brief malfunction would have fixed itself by now.
But there had been seconds—miserable seconds—when Celine had disappeared among the throng of guests and Bastien had felt his heart drop—until he had spotted her again and the room had turned bright once more.
Bastien checked himself.
He was being pathetic. It was all placebo. Juliana had said he was in love with Celine and he had run with it. For a little while, at least. He wasn’t as far gone as to not recognise all the scenarios that could play out tonight and how likely each of them were to happen. For example:
1. Celine would choose Jacques, only. Probability to happen: without a doubt.
2. Celine would choose Jacques and the studio. Probability to happen: signs point to yes.
3. Celine would choose Bastien. Probability to happen: do not count on it.
Even so, he refused to go in and influence her decision. If Celine wanted to reopen the studio with him, it had to be entirely on her own volition.
His eyes latched onto her again. And it seemed that Celine didn’t have only one admirer. For the past ten minutes, it had taken Bastien everything in his will power to keep ignoring the annoying presence of someone breathing too close to his ear.
He could sense Ana?s squinting at him. The party had yet to start properly and she was already up to mischief-making.