Chapter 17
Waking up in one country and deciding to travel to another on a whim isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.
I barely slept, my head felt like a jackhammer was pounding inside it, and I’d just spent an entire hour sparring with a flight attendant who didn’t believe my trip to Bordeaux was so urgent.
They wanted to bump me to a later flight, but when it comes to stubbornness, I’m in a league of my own.
I landed in the French city at three in the afternoon.
Despite my exhaustion, a small flicker of satisfaction made my chest jump, but it didn’t last long.
I still had no concrete plan for confronting Laurent Dubois.
The Palais des Rois was nearly forty minutes by car from where I had stopped for lunch on the outskirts of the city, which left me with less than two hours to buy a dress and shoes, get ready, and catch a taxi to the stadium.
I also needed to learn something about basketball on the way to the game, just in case.
I was running down a busy street when I got a message from Enzo.
Then he asked what my plans were for the afternoon.
Oh no. What if he wanted to take me somewhere else?
What if he wanted to pick up right where we left off yesterday, with my lips just inches from his?
Then I’d have to explain that I was in France, and that I would love nothing more than to spend more time with him, but it would really, really have to wait.
But explaining things felt complicated. I was running through Bordeaux looking for a boutique that accepted foreign currency.
If there was something the French liked less than a foreigner, it was a foreigner with a thick accent asking if they could pay in cash.
I could have opted for option B, which was to tell Enzo that I was in France because of the money.
I didn’t do that. I offered no explanation.
First, because I don’t like justifying my actions to anyone.
Second, because I was afraid Enzo would think it was just an excuse not to see him.
Oh, sorry, I took a last-minute flight. But as soon as I’m back, we’ll meet up!
When will that be? Well, I don’t know… I’ll keep you posted, okay?
Soon, I found a store where the saleswoman accepted my money. I pulled out my phone and Facetimed him.
Enzo picked up almost immediately. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead like he’d just rolled out of bed. Meanwhile, I felt like I’d aged three lifetimes since waking up this morning.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No, don’t worry about it. Are you shopping?” he asked, squinting at the screen.
I nodded and pivoted the camera to show him the store’s interior. “I need a dress for tonight.”
“I see you’re going out again.” A laugh accompanied his words. “Back to Club Montari?”
I rushed to a section filled with a range of pink hues. Fabrics in pale pink, fuchsia, and flamingo pink lined the racks. Some had beading or glitter, while others featured tulle sleeves, V-necklines, and different lengths.
“Not this time,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m off to… an event.”
“Looking for elegance, then?”
“That’s right.”
Enzo chuckled, the sound warm and slightly teasing. “I don’t know what that says about you that you didn’t have a single nice dress in your wardrobe.”
“Hey! I do have elegant clothes,” I shot back. “But remember, I’m on a mission.”
“True, forgive me.” He rubbed his hands together. “Spending money. I like that kind of mission, I won’t lie.”
I picked out three dresses that seemed to be my size and asked about the fitting room. The store owner directed me to a wide hallway surrounded by mirrors. I entered one of the cubicles, drew the curtain, and turned off my phone camera.
“Private. Sorry, Enzo.”
“Too bad, I was ready to enjoy the show.”
The Vera Rodríguez from a few years ago would have flushed crimson at that comment. But I just smiled and slipped into the first dress. It was a floor-length number with a thigh-high slit and delicate, pale tulle sleeves.
“What’s the event for, if you don’t mind me asking?” Enzo asked.
This one was too tight; the zipper wouldn’t go up all the way.
My late grandmother would have patted me on the back and said, “Sweetheart, you could end world hunger with those thighs.” My mother, laughing instead of giving me a pat on the back, would have said, “Darling, you have the body of a 50s model,” which I liked.
I was proud of my body, no matter what.
“I’m not quite sure,” I replied, my voice faltering as I struggled with the zipper. As unbelievable as it may seem, not everything that goes up comes back down. “I think it’s a fundraiser of some sort.”
“For what? Research? Private cause? Don’t tell me. Saidi has gone bankrupt since you were hired.”
“Hey! Saidi is doing great. Sorry, they picked me for the program instead of you, pretty face.”
“I didn’t even apply for the Chance program, Vera.”
Sure, he didn’t. Come on! Everyone in the course had tried their luck. It wasn’t my fault that Enzo couldn’t admit defeat.
“Oh, really? You didn’t?”
“I just didn’t want to jump into a job right away. I needed some time for myself, you know?”
I grunted. I had always wanted some time for myself, too, but I could never have afforded not working.
I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand instead.
I turned the camera around and stepped back, showing Enzo my second dress.
It was a brighter shade than the first, knee-length, satin, with a band around my neck holding it up.
“What do you think of this one?”
I did a full turn. Enzo gave me his best smile.
“Perfect.”
Perfect wasn’t enough for me. There was no one else in the store, so I left my phone there and went back to the fitting room.
The last dress was pale, almost the same colour as my skin tone, and made of thin fabric.
When I put it on, I realized it was a bit sheer, though not enough to be revealing.
It fit me well, and Enzo’s reaction—no words, just a look from top to bottom—told me it was the right one.
“I’ll call you back soon,” I said. “Give me a second.”
The store owner helped me find a pair of simple black shoes that matched; then, I paid and grabbed the outfit and stepped into a café across the street.
I ordered a latte and asked for the bathroom.
The coffee was just an excuse; I needed to use the mirror.
I pulled my makeup bag from my backpack and started getting ready. Thank God for concealer.
Afterward, I called a taxi. About halfway to the Palais des Rois, I called Enzo again. He had combed his hair and gotten out of bed and was taking bites of an apple as he spoke.
“Vera!” he exclaimed as soon as he answered the call. “I’ve missed you.”
“Very funny.”
“Did you get everything you wanted?” he asked.
His voice was steady this time, and he had shaved clean. He took another bite of the apple, his plump lips wetting as he ate.
“Yes, I think. Didn’t think you were the type to have fruit for breakfast.”
He swallowed before answering.
“It’s almost…” He glanced at the top of the screen. “Shit, it’s nearly six. I guess this can’t really be called breakfast at this hour, but I should make room for dinner.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have plans?”
“I’m just heading to see my family. Mum organises family dinners about twice a year.”
His words reminded me that I hadn’t called my mother.
We have a similar tradition; it’s just the two of us, so I visit her every Sunday.
I bring food and keep her company, and she always makes me butter cookies.
Given how my weekend was going, I doubted I’d make it this Sunday.
I didn’t plan to tell her I was in France or that I was tangled up in a mess involving half a million pounds.
But at least I’d let her know I was thinking of her.
“I need one last thing,” I told Enzo.
“What is it?”
Help me not look like an idiot, I almost said.
“Do you know anything about basketball?”
“Basketball?” Enzo set down his apple, a crease forming on his forehead. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m headed to a game,” I said with a chuckle. “It’s part of tonight’s party. I’ve never been to one before.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Dressed like that? You’re going to steal the spotlight from the game.”
“Hey! It’s not a crime to stand out,” I shot back. “But can you help me with some basics? I’m pretty clueless about basketball.”
“Alright, I’ll shoot you some tips later,” Enzo said, glancing at his watch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Thanks a ton,” I replied, and dashed out of the car.
The Twitter user BordeauxBsqtFTW was a kid who couldn’t have been older than 13. He had a buzz cut and was wearing skater pants with a blazer that had safety pins instead of buttons. He shoved my money in his pocket as if he feared it would disappear and handed me the tickets for the party.
“Where’s your husband?” he asked, glancing around.
The area where the Palais des Rois was located was filled with groups of people dressed in the colours of both teams—green and orange, cyan blue—crowding around food stalls and merchandise shops.
The sun was starting to set, and the crowd filled the open air with lively shouts and songs I didn’t recognize.
Loud music pulsed through the stadium, a French rap song I didn’t recognize.
I felt completely out of place. To make matters worse, every few minutes, some grimy person who looked like they hadn’t showered in days would stop to eye me up and down or shout random nonsense.
Enzo was right; my dress was drawing too much attention.
At least the party was private. Not like that did much to reassure me.
“What?” I replied, distracted, thinking about the party.
“Your husband,” the kid repeated in French. “Didn’t you say you wanted both tickets?”
I couldn’t just explain to a kid that I wanted to get rid of my money without sounding completely bonkers.
“He’s waiting in the car.”
I searched for Entrance A, my eyes darting around. The sign indicated it was reserved for party attendees and provided direct access to the VIP area.
“Are you looking for the entrance?”
I nodded, feeling panic rising up my throat, like when you must speak in front of an audience and you’re not prepared, or when that annoying family member asks a question you hoped would never come up in front of your mother at the Christmas dinner.
In this case, panic mode meant that the gravity of the situation was finally sinking in.
I had travelled alone to another country with the hope of speaking to a billionaire about money that someone, possibly, had stolen from his club and given to me, a member of the law firm defending the alleged killer of his ex-wife.
The kid must have sensed my anxiety. It oozed from my pores in the form of sweat, and I had begun to feel my makeup turning into a sticky paste on my skin.
To my relief, he said, “Don’t worry, I know where it is. I’ll walk you there, Miss.”
That wasn’t my biggest concern, but it was a start. I trailed behind him to the quieter side of the stadium, away from the bustling crowd. Once we reached a small, white porch that offered a bit of shelter, I thanked the kid and started walking towards the entrance.
“Wait!” he shouted. “Aren’t you going to get your husband?”
For the love of God. I turned around.
“Thanks for your concern, really. But I’ll call him from inside.”
“He won’t be able to get in without his ticket.”
I had to summon all my strength not to shout at him to go back to his damn house and leave me alone. Did he really think I was married? I hadn’t even finished school yet!
It was anxiety talking, not me. And I felt sorry for the kid, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t shout. Just as the words were about to slip out of my mouth and make me look like a lunatic, someone interrupted us.
“Vera?”
Bastian stood right there, looking damn handsome in his black suit and glasses and watching me with narrow eyes, Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore hanging off his arm.
“Isn’t this the girl from last night?” she sneered, looking over Bastian’s shoulder.
I was shocked into silence. I knew Elo?se would be there, but I didn’t imagine she would bring Bastian as her plus-one.
“Yes,” said my coworker. “Elo?se, this is Vera.”
“I remember you,” she said, showing a crooked smile. “The foreigner. What happened to your friend? Is she around here, too?”
I cleared my throat.
“No, I…”
Bastian stepped forward, releasing his arm from Elo?se’s. His gaze, clear of the shiny makeup from the previous night, had darkened.
“Can I know what you’re doing here?” he murmured in a harsh tone. “Who did you come with?”
Of course, there was no better moment for the skater kid to make his appearance.
“Don’t talk to her like that! She came with her…”
I pulled him towards me and put a hand over his shoulders.
“With my friend! Here he is! He had an extra ticket and called me,” I said. “It was all very last-minute, right?”
I hoped he would play along, and the kid seemed to realize there was no husband involved, because he nodded and straightened his blazer with his hand. Bastian’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. Eventually, he extended his hand towards him and said, switching back to French:
“You look very young. Since Vera isn’t introducing you, I’m Bastian Saidi. You are…?”
The kid shook his hand.
“Alex, eh. Alex Craimant.”
No amount of makeup in the world could have hidden my expression, or Bastian’s, or Elo?se’s.
“It’s better to go in soon, mate,” said the kid.
We followed them to the porch. A suited man scanned our tickets, and we arrived at an area with tables full of flags, giant felt hands, green caps, and other overpriced fan items. Charity party.
Right. Most people were buying flags, ignoring the hot dog stand, and going straight for the champagne.
Fancy alcohol and basketball. What better way to spend a Saturday night?
Pierre dragged me to our seats without giving me a chance to examine the other guests.
While Bastian was mingling at the private party with THE (in capital letters) famous Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore, I had come accompanied by My Skater Pre-Teen Friend Named After Poo. It had to be a fucking joke.