Page 34 of The Devil Wears Orange
He stares hard at the manager, hoping he won’t call his bluff. Archibald E. Lambert, III, ‘Baldie’ to his friends, won’t be happy about his former professor pretending to be a relative.
The manager apologizes profusely and just as they’re about to let him in, they find his sweater vest, along with the invitation and passport. Finally, he’s let in and approaches the casino table. But Charlotte is gone.
Flustered and agitated, Jack’s unsure how much time passes before he recognizes a gentleman who had been at the same table as Charlotte.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for a woman who was at your table. Dark hair, blush-colored dress with these metallic…I suppose metallic isn’t quite the accurate description, though they do shine.”
“The Versace,” the man says.
Jack barely registers his statement. He would never have pegged this guy as a labels man.
“My wife wouldn’t stop talking about that Versace dress, and now she wants to go shopping tomorrow instead of visiting Josephine Baker’s grave. Can you believe that?”
Jack satisfies him with a “wow” and shakes his head in solidarity. With the New Jersey accent and overcompensation of gold jewelry, this man exudes a lack of finesse. New money, Jack determines. “Do you know where she is?”
“Josephine Baker?”
“The Versace woman.”
“Last time I saw her, she was looking pretty intimate with His Royal Highness at the bar.”
“How—what?” says Jack in a high-pitched voice, and swallows this inexplicable lump in his throat. He sounds like Hugh Grant playing the Bumbling Idiot in just about all Hugh Grant romantic comedies.
The man winks. “Let’s just say it looks like they were getting to know one another. They left together.” The stranger pats him on his back before leaving.
The room spins uncontrollably, and it takes a few seconds for Jack to realize it’s him that’s whirling, glancing at every table, his ears pricked by the shrill laughter of a woman at the bar, his eyes inspecting hidden corners looking for Charlotte. The Josephine Baker man has to be wrong. Once their plan began to unravel, surely she would have remained until Jack showed. He would have thought of something in the spur of the moment to introduce himself to them, and they could pick up from their plan to infiltrate Rashid’s circle. Jack is perfectly capable of spontaneity, and he’d love an opportunity to show Charlotte that side of him. And what was it about Charlotte with the Prince that looked intimate? Jack is perfectly capable of intimacy, too.
Finally, Jack pulls out his phone.Missed callpings at him on the screen. He hadn’t bothered checking it earlier when they found his sweater vest because all he thought about was getting into that room. Dialing into his voicemail, Jack listens to Charlotte’s somewhat anxious, somewhat accusatory message. He rubs his eyes, listening further to the disheartening – for having let her down – message until he arrives at the end, which he replays, having convinced himself he misunderstood the context.
“I’m in with Prince Rashid and leaving you–”
There is no mistaking Charlotte’s jarring message. Jack agonizes over the tone of her voice, which soundshappy? Relieved? Triumphant?That’s it. Charlotte Milton is triumphant for putting one over him. He’d applaud her if he wasn’t so stunned by her betrayal. Jack admits he hadn’t been forthright about why he is helping her or that he’s there on behalf of Favreau. Up until now, he thought her a pawn in this game. Now, he realizes he may have been the pawn all along.
Overwrought by this newfound realization, Jack sprints towards their hotel, still wearing the casino’s blazer. Running down the hotel’s long drive, he doesn’t get far before he’s out of breath and hails a taxi. Did he really think he could run all the way to the hotel? Exiting the cab, he catches a glimpse of Charlotte stepping into a black limousine with tinted windows.
“Charlotte!”
She hesitates for a moment, then proceeds into the limo. He’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe that she hadn’t heard him before the limousine sped off. Jack even chases after them down the street, dodging oncoming traffic, and calls out to her. Exhausted and out of breath, he stops, hunches over, hands on his knees, and his breath comes in hard. He groans in frustration. He’s a fool to let her out of his sight and a bigger fool for liking her. Damn that barely-there Versace.
***
Not long after Charlotte disappears into the limousine, Jack commits his own act of treason – the sign of a desperate man – and notifies Favreau. Leaning against the doorway of Charlotte’s hotel room four hours later, he finds himself an outcast from a plan he put into action. He wonders how he could have been so blind, then remembers he let his guard down the night they spent at the vineyard. It felt good to have Charlotte there, and he liked how she got on with him as though they have a long history together. Jack pushes the thought from his mind.
Around him, Capitaine Favreau and the local police survey the scene, search the closet, turn drawers out and upside down, and strip the bedsheets, simultaneously displaying signs of disappointment towards Jack, their eyes continually flick towards him, their lips pursed. Favreau, Jack assumes, must have told them plenty about the British fellow who fancies himself a spy, omitting how Favreau left him with no choice.
The uniformed unit manages to attract the attention of a small band of tourists, some with the audacity to approach the scene, peek inside and ask, “what happened?”
“Américains,” mutters one of the officers before pushing Jack out of the way to close the door on the tourists. Jack’s been asked to step aside by four different officers, all of whom expressed their disdain as though he’s contaminating their investigation. Yes, he’s in the way. He gets it. Yes, he was supposed to keep an eye on Charlotte and lost her. He gets that, too. No one is more disappointed in Jack than he is, yet Favreau’s presence has a way of magnifying his failure.
“You can search which limousine service had a pick-up here at the hotel, can’t you?” Jack says to no one in particular. Silence. “Have you checked the train station?” More silence. “The airport?”
Favreau looks at him with haggard eyes, beneath which are dark circles, and grey stubble sprouts from his weary face. He, too, appears to be keeping himself out of the way of the local police, having no jurisdiction, though, out of respect, they seem to accommodate him. “You watch too much American television. Professor, what exactly are you andMademoiselleMilton doing in Monaco?” says Favreau in a gravelly voice.
Jack knew that by calling Favreau, he’d have a great deal of explaining to do, but being forthcoming isn’t an option. If Favreau knew the truth, he’d accuse Jack of obstruction and send him back to England. It’s impossible to abandon hisMistress, not now, when he still has much to prove. Besides, Favreau would think Jack has lost his mind if he knew they were suspicious of Prince Rashid. The diplomatic fallout of an accusation would terrify Favreau.
“Keeping an eye on her, as you suggested, Captain.” Good answer, Jack thinks to himself, but Favreau apparently feels otherwise and rolls his eyes.
“And why did she come here? Surely, she must have said something to you.”
