32
The new year finally begins. By some miracle, Vadim is excused from his community service group until the end of the break. We have a whole week just for the two of us. I’ve been dreaming of this.
But my happiness isn’t complete, because my mother has decided to return to France for a few days, on a whim.
She’s seemed distracted lately. Occasionally sad.
Of course, it’s understandable. My father is as absent as he is distant, she misses her French friends, and she’s dealing with her own mother’s declining health—she has every reason to feel low.
Lily insisted on going with her, eager to see the grandmother she adores again, as well as the group of friends she left behind last summer.
I dream of seeing Paris again, too. The night falling early in January, the store windows lit up in the dark, the crowded shops and icy streets, the hurried passersby, and the macarons you buy one at a time because they are so expensive but so good.
Wearing gloves and a warm hat, hearing French spoken all around me, along with impatient sighs from behind because I’m not walking fast enough.
Stepping into a café blazing with warmth, sitting by the window, and watching people drift by. I’d like to do all that again.
If Vadim came with me, he would invent tragic or fantastical lives for them, and I’d laugh. I’d try to teach him a few words of French, which he’d butcher, and we’d laugh again.
What if it were possible…?
“Mom? What are you doing?”
I flop onto her bed while she wrestles with two stubborn hangers at the entrance of her massive walk-in closet.
“I’m starting to pack. We’re leaving tomorrow night.”
“Actually, I was wondering…”
“What, you want to come too? Couldn’t you have said so earlier?” Kneeling in front of two large, still-empty Louis Vuitton suitcases, she presses her index fingers to her temples.
The timing seems bad, but it’s now or never.
“I was thinking that maybe… Well, if you’d let me… I could come… and, um…”
“Alma, honey, did you hit your head or something?”
“And perhaps I could invite a friend to come, too…”
“A friend? Which friend?”
“Vadim?” I whisper, feeling all my courage slip away.
“Excuse me?” She opens her eyes so wide that her mascara nearly touches her eyebrows.
“It’s his dream to see France, Mom. I know you and Dad don’t particularly like him, but… you could get to know him. And it would be great for our short film project! To be able to film there…”
“I don’t know, Alma. This is all a bit last minute.”
“Yeah, sorry, forget it,” I say, coming to sit next to her. “Besides, Dad would never agree.”
“He doesn’t have to know. He’s never here anyway!” she replies bitterly.
If my mother is keeping secrets from my father, things must be serious. But it’s also my best card to play.
“We could tell him we’re going on a girls’ trip, just the three of us,” I suggest, folding one of her cashmere turtlenecks.
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt Basile to spend some alone time with his father. They’ve drifted apart lately.”
“Vadim will keep a low profile. You won’t have to look after him.”
“I’m warning you, he’s sleeping in the guest room.”
“Really? So, it’s a yes?”
She nods, and I let out a cry of joy as I throw my arms around her neck.
“I’ll ask Georgia to handle the plane tickets. Pack warm clothes, Alma.”
“You’re the best, Mom! Thank you!”
“And tell your Vadim to buy himself a proper coat!”
I laugh, hugging her even tighter. She falls backward onto the pristine carpet, swearing that I’ll pay for it if I dare mess up her hair. Seeing her smile again swells my heart, but not as much as the news I’m about to tell the guy I love.
He won’t believe it.
Me, Alma Lancaster—the reasonable one, the predictable one—suddenly whisking him across the Atlantic. Who would have thought?
Alma_from_paris: Arcadius! Are you there?
Arcadius: Hey, Koala. Yeah, I’m trying to work on this damn film. I’ve got zero inspiration. It’s driving me crazy…
Alma_from_paris: I have a solution for you. What are you doing tomorrow night?
Arcadius: Nothing planned.
Alma_from_paris: And for the next six days?
Arcadius: Nothing planned for those either.
Arcadius: Well actually, there’s this girl I was supposed to see…
Jerk.
Alma_from_paris: Who, Cheyenne? She called me, by the way. Told me to tell you not to come within one hundred feet of her.
Arcadius: No, not her. The girl I have to meet doesn’t have hair as nice as Cheyenne’s…
Alma_from_paris: Watch yourself, Arcadi.
Arcadius: Alba, Alda, something like that. A rich kid who’s a bit annoying, always whining about something.
Alma_from_paris: I see. Annoying and whiney? So why do you put up with her?
Arcadius: I’m kind of forced to. She fell in love with me, and I can’t get rid of her.
His little taunts make me smile.
Alma_from_paris: Shit… So, if she invites you to Paris with her, you won’t go, I imagine?
Arcadius: Umm, where?
Alma_from_paris: Paris, France. You know where I mean? “Bonjour,” “Merci,” “Je t’aime,” “Petit con”… I won’t tell you what that last one means. Warm croissants, good bread, steaming coffee, Notre-Dame, the Champs-élysées, Montmartre…
Arcadius: Alma, are you serious?
Alma_from_paris: We leave tomorrow night.
Arcadius: Who’s “we”?
Alma_from_paris: You, me, my mom, and my little sister. It’s thirty-five degrees colder over there, so we need to buy you a coat before we leave. Do you have a passport?
Arcadius: Yes, Keith made me get one last year. Alma, is this for real?
Alma_from_paris: It is, unless you want me to back off a little…
Arcadius: Who said that? Nobody said that! We’re going to fucking Paris!”
***
Of course, Vadim refuses to wear his brand-new black puffer jacket when we get off the plane in the early morning.
It isn’t quite light out yet. Sitting in the taxi taking the four of us to the 17th arrondissement of Paris, where my parents have kept their apartment, I feel him shivering next to me.
The wannabe rebel keeps telling my mother that he isn’t cold, his eyes fixed on the car window even though the scenery outside remains, for now, completely uninteresting.
There isn’t much to see: no great monuments, no street performances, not much life at all this early in the morning, but Vadim doesn’t want to miss any of it.
He turns to me from time to time, just to smile, then drifts back into his quiet observation.
My mother is half asleep, while Lily keeps up a steady stream of chatter, counting on her fingers the friends she has to call when we arrive and listing aloud everything she absolutely has to eat before we leave.
I feel good, surrounded by this little gang I never thought I’d end up bringing together.
The taxi finally drops us off in the middle of Rue Jouffroy-d’Abbans, in front of the Haussmann-style building I know so well.
My sister rushes to the front door and takes advantage of a resident leaving to block it with her foot.
Vadim takes care of getting the three large suitcases out, along with the crammed backpack that serves as his luggage.
Lily and my mother step into the tiny elevator, which creaks as it takes them up to the third floor.
In the old, dimly lit stairwell, I find myself alone with Vadim.
Finally.
I don’t even have time to ask him how he feels before he grabs me by the waist, pins me against the nearest wall, and kisses me. Like the ultimate bad boy.
“I’ve been waiting for this since last night,” he breathes, pulling his lips away from mine.
I find him dangerously good-looking in the half-light.
“You do remember that we aren’t supposed to kiss in front of my mother, right?”
“Alma, I’m sure she suspects we do all kinds of things together when she’s not around…”
His eyebrows arch playfully, and the smirk tugging at his lips makes me want to bite him.
“You promised, Vadim.”
“No contact, no scandal. Politeness, good manners, and discretion,” he recites. “Is that right, Princess? Oh, and I also need to slip into your bed every night to teach you about real life…”
He murmurs those last words, sending shivers through me. I go to give him a playful smack on the shoulder, but he dodges it and steals another kiss. Upstairs, I think I hear my mother’s voice.
“The elevator has come back down. Should we go?” Vadim asks. “Our chaperone seems to be getting impatient.”
We slide the suitcases inside, and as there’s no room for us, we send them up in the elevator and take the stairs instead.
“You certainly took your time! I can’t get the door open!” My mother sighs, somewhat exasperated.
“Can I try?” Vadim offers.
One bump of his shoulder, two turns of the key, and he finds himself standing in the middle of the entryway.
He stays there, captivated, taking in the high ceilings, the moldings, and farther inside, the antique furniture, the fireplaces, and the double glass doors.
Lily runs past him, letting out shrill squeals, and then Mom comes in too, rolling her suitcase across the polished hardwood floor.
I take my prince by the hand. “You’ll get used to it. Shall I give you a tour?”
“This isn’t an apartment, it’s a museum!”
“La décoration, à la francaise,” I say to him, amused.
“No idea what you mean.”
“The guest bedroom has its own bathroom. So, there’s no need for you to be walking around naked when you get out of the shower.”
He grins at me, and I don’t feel reassured.
“You did bring pajamas, didn’t you?”
“Boxers and a T-shirt, Will that do?”
“Vadim Arcadi, what am I going to do with you?”
“If I’m naked, absolutely anything you want,” he whispers in my ear.
“Stop that. If my mother hears you, you’ll end up in the tiny attic room on the sixth floor, under the roof. We call it the chambre de bonne—the maid’s room. Mom, we’re going for a walk!”
“Alright, but drop Lily off at her friend Jeanne’s on the way. It’s only two blocks from here. And be back for dinner!”
“I promise!”
“Au revoir, Madame Lancaster,” Vadim attempts in French.
“Oui, à tout à l’heure!”