Page 48 of Charming Like Us
Jack slips me a quick glance, not the first one I’ve noticed when I’ve spoken French.
As we move further into the playhouse, I tip my head back and whisper, “Holding in a question, are you coming down with a fever?” I rest the back of my hand to his forehead. Just in a flash of a second.
His smile grows, bending closer to me. “You have a lot of friends in Paris?” That’s not the question I expected.
We pass dressing room doors. “They’re acquaintances, not friends.” I only talk to these people if I need something. Same goes for them. And if they’re in New York or Philly, I’m only a phone call away to help them out.
His voice is hushed as he says, “Looks like your phone is bloated too.”
I told Jack his phone must be bloated with the numbers offriends.It feels like he’s telling me his catalogue of friends aren’t as close to him as I thought. Can’t read his features well in the dark, and we don’t have time for a longer conversation.
We follow Gaspard quietly, and Jack leans closer to me, whispering against my ear, “You’re fluent in French?”There’s the question.
His warm breath tingles my skin.
“Yeah,” I whisper, “and it’s not the only language I’m fluent in. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, Long Beach.” I have to face forward more as we roll to a stop. Gaspard led us to a heavy black curtain, which merges to a side aisle in the audience.
Before he leaves, Gaspard tells me that if we find Charlie, we can’t stay. Packed house, after all.
This is a mess.
I don’t even know if I want to find him. I can’t yell at him in public, and I’m going to. Client or not. He’s going to hear it from me.
I push aside the heavy curtain to a wonderland of velvet, lace, and 19thcentury glamour. Champagne soaks in ice buckets on candle-lit tables, chandeliers glinting overhead. Patrons puff on cigars and cigarettes, and under red-tinted lights, they watch artists dance with belle-epoque style feather headdresses that are taller than the women who wear them.
Jewels dangle from costumes and ears. Music thumps the floor as they twirl, melodic voices billowing around the playhouse.
No matter how many times I’ve been here, it’s easy to be swept inside the magic. But I disentangle from the glitz and drama. Le Chat Rouge is a small playhouse, and despite the darkness, I have a good vantage.
My eyes flit from the dancers to the back of the room.
Sitting at his usual table, with a cigarette between two fingers, is Charlie Keating Cobalt. “There he is,” I say hushed to Jack.
He follows my gaze. “Should we wait. That way we don’t cause a scene.” He’s thinking from a producer vantage. How would this look to the public?
But I’m not about to wait for the show to end and have a massive group of people in my wayagain. From security’s standpoint, I need to be closer, and he needs to know I’m here.
“No,” I say. “We’re doing this now.”
Letting the curtain fall behind us, we make our way to the back of the room. Waiters stroll around the tables, refilling champagne flutes, the atmosphere casual. So I don’t feel conspicuous walking to Charlie.
When I’m inches from his table, he leans forward and smashes a cigarette in the ashtray. He stands without hesitation. “I’m ready.”
I almost expel a breath of relief. Quickly, I skim his body.No signs of injury.I nod once. “You can go ahead.” I don’t trust him to follow me tonight.
The three of us exit the cabaret. Stars blanket the night sky, a crescent moon and old streetlamps adding light. With Jack walking beside me, I’d call the settingromantic.
But the walk home is strained. Quiet.
Silent.
Leftover frustration and ire is bubbling up inside me.
No one says a damn thing, and Charlie casts glances back at me every two minutes like he’s worriedI’mnot following him. So by the time we reach the middle of a bridge, I’m not shocked when he stops dead in his tracks and spins to me.
His golden, sandy-brown hair whips around with the warm July wind, a striped button-down half untucked from his pants.
Confusion laces his yellow-green eyes. “I’m fine,” he says through his teeth. “Nothing happened. You don’t need to give me the silent treatment like I’m five-years-old.”
