Chapter 17 Cassie
Cassie
Now
“Remember how I made plans to catch up with some of my ex-colleagues while I’m in town?” Olivier says, slowly swirling his glass by the stem and bringing it to his nose. “Well, I thought maybe you’d like a night to yourself. I feel like you could use some space.”
“Oh.” I do remember, vaguely, though I’ve lost track of the days since we got here. “Thursday, you’d said,” I say more to myself.
He takes it as a question. “Yes! I wouldn’t be out late, just for a drink or two—”
“You should go! I mean, definitely go.”
“Unless you want to come—” He takes a sip, his Adam’s apple bulging in his throat as the liquid goes down.
“No!” I say a little too loudly. “I mean, I’m feeling kind of tired anyway.”
This is perfect. Even more perfect: my phone rings. It must be the airline, calling back early.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” I say with a coy smile, getting up.
I walk toward the back of the café, out of earshot from Olivier, who keeps glancing at me as the customer service agent asks how he can help me.
I explain my situation—I want to fly home early, no big deal!
—but he tells me that I didn’t book changeable flights.
If I want to fly back on a different date, I’ll have to pay for a whole new one-way ticket.
“I can do this right now for you,” the agent announces gaily, like he’s being so helpful.
“I already paid for that flight. What does it matter if I go back earlier?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t make changes to your current ticket, but it will only take a few minutes to book a new one. When would you like to fly?”
I’d have to go get my wallet; Olivier might ask questions. He keeps biting his lower lip as he tries to discreetly look in my direction. I still can’t tell if he bought my lie about speaking to Taylor earlier on the phone, and I shouldn’t push my luck.
“I’ll do it online. Thanks for nothing.”
I hang up and return to our table, downing the rest of my wine without sitting down.
“Taylor again?” Olivier says, an eyebrow raised.
I nod, then place my empty glass on the table a little too forcefully. “We should go, no? You don’t want to keep your friends waiting.”
That’s when I notice that the shiny strap is no longer dangling from the back of my chair.
“My Chanel!” I say, my mouth going dry.
“What’s wrong?” Olivier says.
“My bag’s gone.”
“I’m sure it’s somewhere around here.”
He gets up, then starts looking around on the floor.
“I can’t believe this. Someone stole my bag!” I raise my voice, commanding attention.
“Um, excusez-moi?” the man at the next table says a moment later. “You’re looking for this?” He lifts his hand to show us what he’s holding: my Chanel.
I let out a huge sigh of relief as I snag it from him. I can’t believe I almost lost it right before going home. It’s got to be a sign: time for me to leave. I never should have come here.
The man points at his feet. His own satchel is resting against the table’s leg. “Il était là.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Olivier says. Then to me, “It probably fell when you got up. The tables are so tight. If one person moves, everything shifts.”
My jaw is still clenched as I hook the strap over my shoulder.
I could make a bigger fuss, but I want to get out of here more.
Unfortunately, Olivier says he’ll walk back to the hotel with me before going out.
He wants to get changed, even after I assure him that he looks great as he is.
I force a smile all the way down the street, through the lobby, up the elevator, and as we enter our suite.
I’m so close to being rid of him. So close.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Olivier says as he kicks off his shoes and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“Not at all. Go! Come back as late as you’d like.”
I nestle into one of the armchairs and study him.
He pulls another shirt from the closet. “How about I order you some room service? And then maybe run you a bath. You could have a little self-care night, and then we’ll do something fun tomorrow.”
“Sounds great! Thank you, Husband.”
Can he hear how fake I sound? Of course I don’t plan on being around tomorrow, but this suite is amazing and I’ve barely enjoyed it. It’s probably too late to leave tonight anyway. I’ll book the first flight out in the morning and slip out while Olivier recovers from his hangover.
“It’s the least I can do,” Olivier says, retrieving the iron and board from the closet. His voice is sickeningly sweet.
“Aww, you’re the best.”
He walks over to his side of the bed, grabbing the room phone. “They make a really good burger here. And how about a nice bottle of wine? You liked the one from earlier, right? I’ll ask if they have the same red.”
“Um, sure. But how do you know the burger is good here? We never ate at the restaurant.”
Olivier’s hand grips tighter around the phone, and it takes him a moment to respond. But when he does, he’s all smiles. “I read the reviews online.”
“Right. Yeah, a burger is great,” I say, getting up.
I go out onto the balcony while Olivier places the order and finishes getting ready, ironing his shirt and spraying himself with his woodsy fragrance.
Meanwhile, I get to enjoy this view for a little while longer.
Paris really is pretty in that old, antiquated way.
I don’t know much about its history, but you can feel it in all of the old monuments, the churches everywhere you look.
Maybe Darren and I will come back here on our own honeymoon.
Or will he think that’s weird? Obviously we’ll get married now.
I’ve shown him proof that I do pretty well as a wife.
But first, I should focus on going home.
Olivier can’t stop me if he doesn’t know.
When I get back inside, he’s wearing his freshly ironed shirt and lacing up his dress leather shoes.
A tray of food has appeared on the bed. The bottle of wine has been uncorked, some of it poured into a big, round glass, and the plate is covered by a metal bell.
I lift it up to find a cheeseburger and fries, all juicy and crispy, with a side of ketchup.
It makes my mouth water. I never got to have lunch.
“You have a good time, okay?” Olivier says, giving me a peck on the forehead. “I ran you a bath.”
A delicate scent of lavender escapes from the bathroom and, peeking inside, I notice that the tub is covered in a thick layer of bubbly foam.
“Can’t wait!” I say, walking him to the door and waving goodbye before slamming it shut.
Finally, he’s gone.
First things first: I need to book that flight.
But when I look inside my bag, my wallet is not in there.
I topple its contents onto the bed to be sure, but only my passport, my lipstick, and crumpled receipts fall out.
Shit. I look everywhere around the room, under the bed, on the nightstand, in the bathroom, and even on the balcony, stopping only to take sips of my wine to calm my nerves.
It’s the same wine we drank at Café de Flore, where my bag went missing for a short while. I never thought to check inside.
No wallet means no credit card; I can’t book a new flight.
Shit shit shit shit.
Reaching for my phone, I fire off a text to Darren. Hey
Hey babe, he responds right away. Babe. It’s like we’re back to our old selves already. It’s all working out perfectly. Well, almost.
Just want to let u know Im leaving. Coming home tmrw
For real? U told him?
Yep
Hes okay with it?
Dont worry about him
I take another sip, trying to focus on the fruity taste of the wine. Darren hates lies, but he wouldn’t understand the truth.
Wow! Sorry but can’t talk rn. At work
I just told him I’m leaving my husband for him and that’s all I get?
Wait a second
I need u
Something happened
Boss calling me into his office, Darren replies.
Please!
But I can’t bring myself to say why I need help, because I know how Darren will react.
There I am, asking for money again. I should have paid more attention.
I should have been more careful. It’s my fault.
A seven-thousand-dollar bag? What was I thinking?
I’m a grown-up now. I need to sort myself out.
Sorry babe
Text me what time u arrive at the airport. Will try to come pick u up
I pour myself another glass of wine, waiting for more, but nothing comes. Fuck.
I gulp down my drink as I scroll through my recently called numbers.
“Hello?” Taylor says as soon as she picks up. “Cassie?”
Like earlier she sounds funny, awkward.
“I need your help.”
I’ll give Taylor that: she can be helpful.
When we were younger, she’d do my homework better than I could do it myself, and so fast, too.
One time, I got caught shoplifting at Walmart and the security guard held me hostage, saying I had to have a parent pick me up or else he’d call the police.
I texted Taylor and she arrived fifteen minutes later, armed with a bunch of reasons why he should let me go.
I’d never do it again; she’d make sure of it.
Of course I did it again.
“What’s going on?” she says.
There’s a forced breeziness to her tone.
Taylor is all nerves, always watching her back, watching me.
From her point of view, I’m having the most fabulous time in Paris with my most fabulous husband, while she never got to come here.
Never found her father. Never even learned what Mom told me about him.
So why is she trying so hard to sound cheerful?
What am I not getting? But I have more important things on my mind.
“I lost my credit card,” I say casually.
“Oh gosh, Cassie! I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“I was having too much fun. These French wines are good…” I take another sip, as if to prove my own point.
“I’m sure they’re amazing!” Her voice sounds shrill, like she’s drunk. Maybe that’s it. She’s seeing me, the amazing life I have now. And she’s drinking to numb the pain.
“Can you give me your credit card details? I need to book something.” There’s a pause at the other end. Maybe I was a little harsh with her earlier. I do that sometimes. “I’ll pay you back.”
Seeing the good times I was having with Olivier in the city, my friends assumed I’d hit the jackpot.
It sure looked like it on the pictures I posted on social.
Olivier was handsome, polished, and he was taking me to the greatest spots around the city.
He had to be rich, right? I mean, that’s what I thought when I first met him; everything I wanted to do, he agreed to.
In the end I didn’t need to correct my friends.
I was coming home a brand-new person. Loved up and loaded.
I liked that version so much better, that a man like Olivier wanted to take care of me.
And then, when the money came through weeks later and I started spoiling myself, no one batted an eyelash.
“Right, you’ll pay me back,” Taylor says.
“I promise I will. And I didn’t really mean it about you having to leave the house right away. There’s no rush.”
“Um,” she says softly. “But it makes sense, right? You and Olivier are married now. You want your own space. Maybe you’ll have kids soon…”
Here’s the thing: I don’t actually have to play that game with her anymore.
I’ll be home tomorrow, without Olivier. She’ll find out soon enough that we’re over.
But I’m not ready to explain to her that I’m getting divorced.
I’m not ready to sound like a failure, like I couldn’t keep up with this, either.
“Hmm, I’m more focused on enjoying the honeymoon right now,” I say, lifting the cover over the plate to grab a french fry. It’s salty and crisp.
“So why do you need my credit card details then? Can’t Olivier help you?”
Nosy little cow. It was easier when Mom was alive. Taylor always felt stuck in the middle. I would ask and she would obey, no questions asked.
“He’s out with friends. I don’t want to disturb him.
” And then, realizing how that must sound, I add, “We decided to do this fun thing I read about online. Spending a night apart every now and then is meant to spice things up in a couple. So he’s seeing his Parisian friends and I’m having a decadent night in: expensive wine, room service, and Olivier ran me the bubbliest bath you’ve ever seen. ”
She doesn’t respond. Maybe I overdid it. I think the wine is starting to get to my head. I’m feeling woozy, like I can’t quite focus.
“Taylor? I need that credit card number. Seriously, okay?”
“And Olivier is gone. All night?”
I let out an angry sigh. “Yes.”
There’s only silence for a while, and I’m about to ask again when she says, “I’ll text it to you.”
She hangs up before I can tell her to hurry up already.
I bring the tray of food over to the bathroom, along with my refilled glass of wine, and set everything down on the stool by the tub. Come on, Taylor! When she doesn’t text right away, I try to call her again, but she doesn’t pick up. And she doesn’t answer the text I send her, either.
I’m feeling sweaty now, my heart pumping.
It’s been a rough day. The bath is starting to cool down, so I turn on the hot water tap as I take my clothes off.
Pulling my dress up overhead is a struggle—my arms are cramping.
Even my screen looks blurry. Stepping into the tub, I knock the tray of food, and the metal dome falls to the floor with a loud thump.
The fries go everywhere and the burger lands by the toilet.
Great. My mouth feels pasty; I’m not sure I could eat anyway.
The water soothes me instantly. As I sink in deeper, everything starts to feel good and right. I pour in more of the bath salts and watch as the lavender flakes dissolve over my legs.
Still no text from Taylor. Flicking over to the Instagram app, I hit Record, making sure to capture everything.
Self-care night! I caption the Story. How about this cloud of happiness!?
Taylor better be watching. But of course she is. That’s why she sounded funny on the phone. She can’t stand it. I picture her at home, in the dark and dreary room she hardly leaves when she’s not working.
Alone.
Lonely.
So very lonely.
She hasn’t had a boyfriend since that guy who took her away somewhere up north when she was twenty-six.
Over a year later, she heard Mom was sick and came home, and it was like she’d shrunk even further, her head almost always bowed down.
As far as I know, there hasn’t been anyone else since. Poor Taylor. No one ever wanted her.
I rest my head on the edge of the tub. All I can think is that I have everything. Everything. Especially everything she’ll never have.