Page 16 of The Devil Wears Orange
“I’d like for you to help me retrieve the painting. You see, this is the second time it has been stolen.”
“Hmmm, you’d think the French would have learned from their mistake the first time around.”
“Ten years ago, it was stolen from a museum in Montréal.”
“Ah, French Canadian then.”
“Yes.”
“Still French.”
“Technically.” Jack mutters.
My eyes hover over him. “Anyway, I don’t need your help.”
Jack smiles at me, casts a steady, assured gaze, and says, “It’s late, Ms. Milton. I’m exhausted, and I have a briefcase full of tests to mark at the office. Still, I believe we can help one another. I’d like to ask you some questions, maybe something will be remembered, something you neglected to tell–”
“–Where is it?”
“The painting?”
“Your rental,” I snap. I strain my eyes shut, nod, then look at him. “Sorry, I’m exhausted, and I shouldn’t take it out on you,” I say in an attempt to eclipse my inelegance.
“Being knackered gets to the best of us. It’s nearby.”
Jack leads the way down one street, then left to another where little European cars are sandwiched one behind the other on both sides of the road. I tramp past him before I realize he’s opened the door to a red Peugeot.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” I groan.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. I love Peugeots. Very roomy in the back. And the shock absorption is marvelous.” I slide into the passenger seat and bump my head on the way in.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. The Ritz, please,” I say, sounding as though I’m speaking to my personal driver. I dig into my purse, fingers run across my notepad and graze the curled edge of that condom wrapper, and finally I pull out my phone.
“Do you have a car phone charger? I need to see if my phone works.”
Jack points to the glove compartment where I find it and set it up for my phone. I’m relieved when the charging symbol displays. Immediately, I dial Pierre’s number, but it goes to voicemail.
“Pierre, it’s Charlotte.” My voice comes on strong and happy though I feel neither. “I’m on my way to my hotel. Let’s talk in the morning. I can explain…” I laugh, but it sounds hollow and not at all like my own… “and it’s quite funny, really, you’ll laugh when I tell you about the ordeal and ineptitude of the police. Anyway, I’ll be ready to jump right back into work tomorrow morning. Good night.” I disconnect. Perhaps my message will have him forget he fired me.
Next, I call my parents. Mom answers, and Dad gets on the extension. Both speak over the other and ask questions without giving me time to respond, like when they caught me smoking weed with a friend, and they took turns hammering their disappointment. They beg me to come home, and already arranged a meeting with a high-powered lawyer (my father repeats “high-powered lawyer” several times), but I swear one isn’t necessary. Besides, knowing my parents, they’d remortgage their home to pay for legal bills if need be. I’m not about to become a financial burden on them at my age. I’m spent, but after ending the call, I contemplate making others to friends. To say what exactly? Everyone will want an explanation, and that will take too long. Besides, it’s the middle of the night.
I settle into my seat, and we drive through the dark, narrow streets in silence. I glance at the French apartment buildings that whiz past, the ones that house French people living their French lives and eating freshly baked bread, sipping lattes, and reading good books. The truth is I envy the Europeanlaissez-fairelifestyle, something that could never survive in a place like New York.
Watching Jack thump his index finger on the steering wheel, I can tell that the silence unnerves him. He motions to the radio and turns the knob. It blares, forcing him to lower the volume in a hurried movement. A late-night talk show fills the car, a caller speaks passionately and eloquently about freedom and novels and the beauty of art. And then the name Charlotte Milton spills from the radio, and my blood runs cold. They speak about me as though I’m a criminal. Of course, the police offered me as a scapegoat to the people of France.
Jack snaps the radio off.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft.
The Peugeot rounds a corner to the Ritz, where we see a crowd of paparazzi. I strain my neck for a better view and wonder if the press has mistaken Harriett for Naomi. Again. As we edge closer, a photographer glances our way and peers inside the car. His facial expression gives way to recognition, and he snaps photos, though I can’t understand what has him so enraptured. His frenetic clicks with his camera garner the crowd’s attention and, in no time, all the paparazzi descend on us. Flashes blind us. Some scream my name and, in all the chaos that surrounds us, I realize they are here for me. Something has been happening, has been growing during those long hours I was locked away at the police station. In that absence, I became a celebrity for doing a very bad thing.
“Drive. Drive,” I sputter.
Jack throws the car in gear, beeps for people to get out of the way. Panic-stricken, I hide my face from the flashes, pull at my top, and stretch it over my head. Jack reassures me that he will get us out. Sirens appear and grow louder. According to his play-by-play, the police arrive and take over the scene, moving the paparazzi out of the way and waving Jack out.
