Page 6 of The Devil Wears Orange
My indescribable bliss in anticipation of my meeting with Prince Rashid, can’t be deflated. Not even by Harriet.
“Where is that Anne?” Puff. “She’s late, again.” Puff. “Oh no, she didn’t!” Harriet pushes her sunglasses down her nose, revealing bloodshot eyes.
I follow Harriet’s sharp glare and spot Anne beyond a low bush, strolling with a baby carriage, all smiles and laughter until she looks up at us.
Anne recoils. “I can explain,” she starts. “I just couldn’t leave him today of all days. It’s so beautiful outside, and I thought there wouldn’t be many events for me to bring him to.”
“There are zero events to bring a baby, Anne,” Harriet hisses impatiently.
It’s tiring to keep up with Anne’s erratic behavior, especially when I’m the single remaining thread between Anne and her job. If it was up to me, every day would be bring-your-baby-and-dog-to-work day, but the world has other harsher ideas. And Pierre wants me in charge of enforcinghisrules.
Harriet continues. “There should be a law about babies in public spaces.” Puff. “The Mommy Mafia has overtaken everytrendy restaurant in my neighborhood. Now I can’t enjoy a meal without some brat slapping his mother.” Puff.
Anne covers Chase’s ears. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she says in a sing-song voice. “The mean lady isn’t talking about you. She has unresolved issues from her cold British upbringing.” A stream of cigarette smoke waltzes toward the baby, and Anne fans it away. “Nasty habit.”
“What? Little Parisian babies are born with cigarettes in their mouths. No harm done,” Harriet says.
Anne looks at her coolly.
Harriet huffs. “For God’s sake, I’m going in.” She stubs out the remainder of her cigarette and disappears behind the tent’s front entrance’s white sails.
Anne is about to follow when an attendant stops her.
“Pardon moi, sorry, but is crowded. No room for a stroller,” the uniformed man says in a thick French accent.
Turning to me, Anne says, “They’re so antifamily in Europe.”
“Madame, in Europe we haveun, deux, sometimestroisyears maternity,” he says, holding up his fingers to illustrate. “Amérique? Un jour.One day only.”
“Well, that’s not true,” says Anne, before mumbling, “Not quite, anyway.”
“You go in. Stroller outside.”
I hold my breath.Please don’t go in and risk Pierre seeing you because then he’ll make me fire you and I’ll refuse then he’ll fire me instead.“He’s too heavy to carry for the duration of the event,” I point out.
Frowning, Anne turns to me. “You’re right. We’ll stay outside and enjoy the weather and the birds and the flowers,” Anne coos, bends over, and tickles Chase under his chin.
Masking my gleeful relief, I say, “If you think that’s best.”
“We’ll be around when you’re done. Won’t we? Won’t we? Yes, that’s right. We will,” Anne says in baby-speak and pushes the carriage away.
For a while, I watch Anne stroll down the avenue with Chase, listen to the soothing sounds Anne makes until she’s out of earshot. It’s a loving moment, but Pierre will think otherwise if he catches her. Pierre is the reason I have Becky on speed dial, and I immediately text her to meet us here. Though it’ll take her an hour, Becky should arrive with plenty of time for Anne to make an appearance at the Lumière show before she needs to set off for her meeting.
“Charlotte!”
I turn in the caller’s direction. Jane sprints towards me, a garment bag flung over her arm.
“I’m so glad I caught you before you went in,” she huffs, struggling to catch her breath. “Well, here it is. Try it on.”
“Try what on where?” I scan the public garden for a private sanctuary to change, and the event’s Port-o-Potty, though luxurious, is out of the question.
“We don’t even know if it will fit properly,” I say, doing my best to prepare Jane for disappointment.
A smile springs to Jane’s face. “That’s the beauty of it. One size fits all.”
***
My head pops through the tent’s opening, and I scope out the venue. Swaths of grey fabric drape from the center peak to the cathedral windows, and every twenty feet along the perimeter, a lighted tree shimmers. Crystal chandeliers hang like raindrops. Hordes of guests circulate, lips pressed to cheeks, hands on shoulders, and a cacophony of their conversation carries back to me.
