Page 5 of The Devil Wears Orange
Pierre loudly clears his throat, and I glance his way. He taps his chin, sends his own telepathic message.Come away with me. I want you to run my publishing empire.
To my dismay, I finally feel the coldness on my chin – the cocktail sauce. Sheepishly, I dab a napkin at the mess on my face, then rub it obsessively until I’m sure the spot is as raw and pink as the shrimp, or perhaps as red as my face.
I studied French in high school, but my command of the language pales next to the fluidity spoken between Pierre and Rashid. I stare at them with nervous concentration, engage in laughter when Pierre bellows at a joke, then, later, inject reflection when the conversation turns serious. I’m unable tograsp their rapid-fire conversation apart from “gallery” and “Monet” and “Lumière show.”
“You will make yourself available, Charlotte?” Pierre says in English.
“Ohsi, ahh oui. Je suis célibataire.”
Confusion crosses Pierre’s face.“Excusez-moi?”
Did I just say I’m single when I meant to say available?
“Oh, I mean,” I stumble. “Je suis disponible…and je vais à la galerie…duma.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’une ‘duma’?” says Pierre.
“What?” My eyes bounce between a quizzical Rashid and a bewildered Pierre. “What?”I repeat, rather unintelligibly when I meant to convey that I’ll be at the gallerydemain. Tomorrow.
“Yes. Exactly. What?”
Both men stare at me in anticipation.Say something witty and intelligent and knowledgeable about fashion or politics or climate change. Speak, woman, speak!I open my mouth to comment on the Lumière show when Pierre interrupts.
“Charlotte, we’re booked to meet privately with Prince Rashid tomorrow at 3PM.” Pierre’s phone beeps with a text, and he pauses to read it. “Ah, my husband has just arrived. I promised him introductions with Prince Rashid.Au revoir, Charlotte.” Pierre takes the earliest opportunity to guide Rashid elsewhere.
“Au revoir,” I say in haste. Automatically, my brain skips through the loop in my head, replaying the conversation in its entirety. There’s no way to soften the blow. I came across as a bumbling idiot. I’ll need to be prepared and informed for tomorrow’s business meeting. But, informed about what exactly? Pierre has left me in the dark, which, to be honest, is typical of him.
At midnight, I sit in the town car with Harriet and Anne, heading back to the hotel. I lower the window, tilt my headagainst the glass, gulp in fresh, cool air while Anne chatters eagerly next to me.
“And I met the Prince. I couldn’t believe it when Pierre introduced me to him. He’s more beautiful up close and speaks French perfectly. I never thought my French was all that wonderful, but the words just poured out of me.”
“Did you bore him with talk of yourbébé?” Harriet bothers to ask.
“I don’t talk incessantly about my baby,” Anne says in a tight tone, and her eyes flick to Harriet.
Eyebrow raised, I scowl at Harriet. She’s always starting something with Anne.
“I mentioned Chase briefly,” Anne confesses, “and the Prince was kind to ask so many questions about him. He said something lovely about the West being backward, stripping a woman of her child to return to work for Corporate America. It sounded poetic in French.”
To Harriet, I say, “And how were things with Mr. Fassbender?”
Harriet rolls her eyes. “God, I spent part of the evening standing beside Sasha. She doesn’t wear a bra. Her perky titties are like beacons for their penises. How can I compete with that?”
Silence fills the limo. Harriet closes her eyes and sinks into the leather of her seat. I’m sure Harriet is dreaming of Fassbender. Meanwhile, I’m envisioning a game of Blind Man’s Buff with my Prince Charming for tomorrow’s meeting. Hmmm, but who will blindfold whom?
Chapter 4
Terrible things are happeningin the alleys of the Jardin des Tuileries.
Sunglasses resting low on my nose and head tilted forward, I inspect a marbled Theseus slaying the Minotaur. It’s a travesty that the Minotaur is defeated for being born a monster, punished for his mother’s sin of sleeping with a bull. He never stood a chance in life. And up ahead, a tiger takes pleasure crushing a crocodile; his staunch posture and protruding teeth exhibit a sense of righteousness in the heroic killer. And who best to decide who plays hero, who plays foe, than the storyteller? If it was up to me, I’d turn every myth, every fairytale on its head, give everyone a chance at a happy ending.
Here is where Marie-Antoinette would take her afternoon strolls. Forever immortalized as the wicked Let-Them-Eat-Cake-Queen, I’m sure she’d sue for defamation and probably win if she was alive today.
An overnight rain leaves a heavy scent in the early morning air – of soil and lilacs and grass, the kind of green that smells good after a winter spent hibernating. Life returns to the garden, tricked with the hint of an early spring. Little children, sticks in hand, prod miniature boats along the perimeter of a fountain. Nearby is the tent erected in the Jardin for the Lumière show, a special gallery viewing co-hosted by Musée du Louvre andCatwalk Style Magazine.
“This is such a lovely day for falling in love,” I say.
“I hate when you’re happy,” says Harriet, pulling the cigarette from her lips, and adjusting the black Chanel sunglasses that are so big they practically devour her face.
