Page 4 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Was it?–“
“–yes.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“If your mouth was open the entire time he was looking at you. The answer is yes.”
The models and designers continue down the runway for their last turn, while I wait for the Prince to resurface.
Chapter 3
Music pounds my eardrums.Maddening strobe lights trigger a headache, and the DJ massacres my favorite Beyoncé song, deconstructs it to some sacrilegious beat. God, I feel much older than my thirty-three years. When did I stop being that fun person who’d party into the wee hours?
The time on my phone reads 9:40PM, and I’m daunted by the prospect of staying until midnight. I’ve already made the required introductions, snapped photos for my social media, booked several interviews, and learned about a rival magazine, a new startup with big money from unknown players. Still, I haven’t connected with Pierre, though his plane arrived hours ago.
Beside me, Harriet tips a vodka martini towards her lips. Earlier, she snubbed “The Tease,” the martini created for tonight’s event. It’s a Cosmo. Same ingredients. Different name. Harriet doesn’t do cosmos. Her eyes gaze out at the room. “How dull.”
Catwalk Style Magazine’s parties end with scandalous write-ups the next morning. The guest list always includes one member of the British Royal Family and a string of Hollywood starlets, who always pair up together – or triple up – depending on the royal. Yet all this salaciousness is too boring for Harriet.
Harriet glances at me, sneering. “What? What’s that look for? You act as though everything I say is wrong,” says Harriet, sounding like the aggrieved party.
“I’m afraid someone will hear you,” I say, looking to see who’s within earshot. ACatwalkemployee besmirching our own event is the kind of thing that will land Harriet on the gossip column and her head on the chopping block for Pierre’s guillotine, but the blank expression on Harriet’s face reads to me as‘And?’
Harriet places her empty glass on a passing tray, gives a once-over look at the waiter wearing a Venetian costume of a larva mask, black cape, and three-cornered hat. Harriet says, “Look at the tawdry purple sofas and red carpet of this manse. Isn’t our party’s theme sex? Where’s the sex? Ugh, this party is moreEyes Wide ShutthanEmmanuelle.”
“I think we’ve achieved an atmosphere of dirty hedonism.”
Harriet gives me a side stare. “You must have an unexceptional sex life.”
“What’s the word most associated with Britain and sex?” I say, placing an index finger to my chin in mock contemplation. “Oh, I remember. Uptight. At least it’s not a porn-chic travesty likeCaligula.”
Harriet arches an eyebrow. “Great idea. This party could use some ’70s porn projected on the walls.”
“That’s not what I said,” I mumble, but Harriet talks over me.
“We missed out on an entire generation of hairy men. Imagine being balls deep–”
Imagine being silent for just five minutes.My head throbs. My stomach growls. My new, high-heeled shoes are killingme, a sacrifice I’m willing to make trading comfort for style when representing the magazine. Plus, there’s the added bonus of my calves lookingsexy AF, as Harriet often reminds me. Surreptitiously, I slide my foot out to stretch my toes. Slipping my foot back into the torture device, I peer through the semidarkness at a male figure surrounded by women.
Interrupting Harriet’s drone, I say, “Is that Michael Fassbender?”
“Where?” Harriet whips her head and, sadly for Mr. Fassbender, she spots him. Seconds later, Harriet steps into the circle, towers over the other women and places a hand on the actor’s shoulder.
The one glass of wine on an empty stomach makes me tipsy, and I desperately need to diffuse its power with food. At the seafood and caviar end of the table, I swipe a fresh pink shrimp, dip it into the sauce, and take a bite. Before moving on to the caviar, I grab two more shrimp, and scoop up a dollop of cocktail sauce.
“Charlotte.”
Pierre’s voice calls from close behind me. Getting caught with my hands full of food won’t make the right impression on him. He’s a proponent of the fashion fat police who believe you should never eat at work functions. An archaic misogynist mindset still intact. I search the table for a spot to rest the shrimp and caviar-smeared cracker I’m holding, but it’s annoyingly crowded with full platters and abandoned Venetian masks. Finally, I cram the tiny hors d’oeuvre into my mouth and chew quickly.
Turning around, I’m startled by the piercing blue eyes staring back at me. The sight of the Prince renders me speechless and motionless. He smiles slightly and brings his hand up to his face, taps his chin, like he’s sending me a secret message in some kind of telepathic language.Come away with me. I want you as my wife.
Pierre’s voice disrupts our intimacy. “Charlotte, I’d like you to meet Prince Rashid Mohammed Salah al-Zayed, whom I hope will join the Papineau Publishing family soon.”
“Enchanté.”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I swear my heart is pumping out of my chest like in a cartoon.Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Rashid reaches out, his eyes fiercely on me. In a stupor, I place my hand in his, draw it up to his face, dirty napkin and all. The perplexed look on Rashid’s face reveals my mistake. Obviously, he only meant to shake my hand, but there’s a playful flicker in his eyes, and he tilts his head forward, kisses the top of my hand.
Pierre breaks the intimate moment by clearing his throat. Speaking in French, Pierre introduces me as his editor-in-chief extraordinaire atCatwalk Style Magazinein New York City. Is that who I am? Is that where I live? I’m oblivious to everyone except the man who belongs to those eyes. Besides, the fluency of the French is too quick for me, and I’m lucky to understand every third word. Why do I feel so tongue-tied around the Prince? I’ve met royalty before, even made out with one but he held an Italian title and, well, those don’t really count anymore.
