Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (10 page)

I cringed some more. “Someone who
is unwanted or a fool. I’m so sorry.”

He took it well. With a glint in
his eye, he sat back in his chair with his elbows perched on the padded armrests.
Looking at Marian, he said, “Given the reason you are here, Fashion Week, I
think it is easy to say that the French know more about fashion than most. Gay?
No. As for being a tool…” He paused, smiled at me, and said, “I am neither a
fool nor unwanted. Fortunately, there is someone for everyone. You, mademoiselle,
have you ever been to Eastern Europe?” She looked confused, so he persisted. “I
believe that what you need is a much more durable, assertive sort of man.
Someone who expects hardship and has a great deal of patience.”

As his implication washed over the
group, tittering grew to robust laughter. Sébastien had successfully merged
into our group.

Liam raised his glass and proposed
a toast. “
To all the poor bastards who have yet to meet Marian
!”

Everyone clinked glasses except
for her. She was oddly quiet, staring down into her lap.

Sébastien immediately looked
contrite. “Mademoiselle, I apologize if I have offended you.”

When she still didn’t look up,
Hillary demanded, “Difficult to be on the receiving end?”

Placing her cell phone on the
table, Marian looked up and replied without missing a beat, “I’m looking for a
flight to Belarus!” Everyone burst out laughing again.

***

Over
coffee and dessert, we pored over the schedule for the next day.

Wednesday, 30 September

Lagerfeld / Chloe
/ Andrew GN / Carven / Akris / Ann
Demeulesmeester / Paco Rabon / Balmain / AF Vandevoorst / Barbara Bui / Rick
Owens / Lanvin / Christian Lacroix
/Sonia
Rykiel

“Chérie, which shows will you
attend?” Sébastien’s endearment caused goosebumps to rise up on my skin. He was
sitting so close that his warm breath blew across my cheek, tickling me. If I
turned to face him, we’d be lip to lip, so I kept my eyes trained on the paper.
Breathing became harder. I suddenly felt very warm.

“Lagerfeld, Balmain, Rykiel, and
Akris. Possibly
Christian Lacroix
.” When the
others protested my plan to miss some of the other designers’ shows, I reminded
them I wasn’t on vacation. “How about lunch, instead? I have a ton of work to
juggle this week.”

Tiziana asked Sébastien if he had
to work tomorrow, as well. “I do.” He trailed his finger down the list of
names. “I will be at Lagerfeld, Akris, Balmain, and Lanvin.”

Marian sat back and drew in a deep
breath, seeming offended. “Not Sonia Rykiel?”

He chuckled at her reaction. “I
have a business dinner. My apologies.”

She informed him, “She is
Kathleen’s favorite designer.”

I quickly protested, “
One
of my favorites. I have many favorites.”
What the hell is she doing?

Before he could respond, Charlotte
gasped suddenly.

“What?” Liam was alarmed.

“Oh my god!” Charlotte’s face
contorted in a grimace.

Marian panicked. “Are you in
labor?”

Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Liam!”

He looked equal measures
frightened and excited. “Charlotte?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “The
baby just flipped around and moved an organ from one side to the other.”

“What?” Hillary
almost
shouted as she glanced around the restaurant.

I pressed my hand to my mouth as I
gasped. Tiziana and Marian were already dissolving into giggles. Charlotte
managed to give us all a well-deserved sneer. “Just wait, when it’s your turn
and you want my help. Fuck all ya’ll.”

“Oh boy!” I looked at Sébastien.
“I think the evening is over.”

In unspoken agreement, the bill
was sorted out quickly, and we were tugging on our coats on the sidewalk
outside.

“Taxi?” Sébastien asked me.

“Oh yeah!”

The towpath was strangely empty.
There were no distractions, just me and
Sébastien
strolling along, still laughing at Charlotte’s mood swings. “It’s awful that I
laughed at her.”

“No! It was funny. Strange things
happen to pregnant women. These things are real life. The rest of this…” He
swept his hand over his Armani suit. “…This is theatre.”

My cue. “Do you mind if we sit
down?”

He led me to the closest bench and
waited for me to get comfortable before settling beside me. He put his arm
around me and pulled me in close. “Warm enough?”

I was; my nerves were keeping me
warm. “Yes.” We sat quietly, watching ducks glide by on the water. I was trying
to figure out how to lead into what I wanted to say.

“Tiziana told you about Gisella,
no?”

His question startled me.
Hesitatingly, I answered, “She did. I hope you don’t mind.” I looked into his
eyes, searching for clues as to what he was feeling.

“No, I don’t. I would have liked
to do it, but I wasn’t sure how or when.”

I nodded, understanding
completely. “I’m really sorry about your wife. I can’t imagine.”

“I think you can, chérie.”

“Well, better than some. But,
while I lost Mikkel, I know there is a huge difference between losing a fiancé
and losing a wife… and the mother of your child.”

We talked for quite some time
about how Sébastien had survived the loss of Gisella, how his parents had
helped him raise his daughter. “My parents, I loved them before, obviously. But
later, when Chantal was older and I had time to breathe, I realized that I love
them in a much different way. I will always be grateful.”

I thought back to how my mother
had stayed by my side for as long as I’d needed her. I’d never taken her for
granted after that.

Conversation turned to my life
after Mikkel’s death.

“My mother wanted me to take time
off from school, to grieve and figure out what the next step needed to be. It
was really hard to tell her that I wanted to go back and finish school. The
only thing I knew was that I needed to finish graduate school and be able to
take care of myself. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I knew I had to
move forward.”

“The rest of the time I was in Seattle,
I felt her worried eyes following me everywhere. It was one of the hardest
things I’ve ever done, leaving the safety of our home and board the plane back
to London. I returned to the life that had been made of good friends, dreams,
and hard work. I studied, found a part-time job, and
never
mentioned
Mikkel. I couldn’t. To survive was to keep the two worlds distinct.”

“You never told them?” Surprise flooded
his face.

I squeezed his hand. “I finally
told them last night.”

“
Ah
!”

“What?”

“That was the reason they would
not criticize you today. You are in a fragile state.”

I looked at him in surprise. I was
indeed the only one at dinner who had escaped being ridiculed. I nodded. “I
suppose so.”

He pulled me closer. “Perhaps poor
timing, but may I kiss you? Just to comfort you, of course.”

Sadness, tenderness, kindness,
affection, humor, and desire. I could see all those emotions in his eyes. I
nodded. We held each other’s gaze until our lips met. It was a different kind
of kiss. Not one filled with passion or regret. Not even compassion. I think it
was a kiss filled with promise.

IT HAS BEEN
said by many in
the fashion industry that no one shows a collection like Karl Lagerfeld.
Wednesday morning began with a bang! Inside the Grand Palais, which had been
transformed into an airport terminal, I sat wedged between Hillary and Marian.
I was broiling, and it wasn’t just because of the black Chanel jacket with
ostrich trim that I wore. The crowd was massive. Everyone used their programs
to fan themselves.

“If you’re so bloody hot, why
don’t you take your jacket off?” Marian asked. She looked exquisitely
comfortable in a sleeveless Sonia Rykiel dress. The white-lace fitted bodice
accented her fine-knit black skirt She looked beautiful. And cool.

Not that I cared. I answered through gritted teeth, “Because
the effing jacket is my top. Don’t make me regret sitting next to you. I could
be sitting next to my boss, fanning myself without having to put up with the
two of you arguing.” This was the real reason I was grumpy. I had endured
Hillary and Marian bicker over who was the more fashionable WAG, Claudine
Palmer or Colleen Rooney! That I even knew that WAG stood for Wives and
Girlfriends of famous athletes made me more irritated.

“
She
,” Marian said, pointing at Hillary, “doesn’t
even watch football, so her vote doesn’t count. How she can possibly think that
Colleen Rooney knows more about fashion than the winner of the VIP Style Award
for Most Stylish Woman is beyond me. Plus, Claudine was runner-up to Miss
Ireland
and
she’s married to Robbie Keane. My god, that man should be
served on a platter with a bib.”

Hillary snorted. “Perv!”

After snickering for a solid minute, Marian managed to gasp
a breath before claiming, “You
are
wound tight, you know that?”
Hillary’s withering look only won her a more complete explanation. “Have you,
by any chance, eaten lobster, a whole one, that you, not a servant, takes
apart? You wear a bib so you don’t get messy.”

Unfortunately, Hillary’s expression was blank, as though not
able to paint the image for herself. Marian scoffed, “You need to watch some
porn.”

At this point, I lost it. “Would you shut up? What is wrong
with you?”

Marian gave me a dramatic glance
over the rim of her rectangular, black, wire-frame glasses and drolly inquired,
“Didn’t get any last night?”

Mind-meltingly angry, I chose a
ridiculous way to retaliate. “Where did you get those ridiculous glasses?”

“At Saks last year. They’re
Chanel, not ridiculous. Once again, didn’t you get laid last night?”

Hillary hushed her. I glared at
Hillary. “Now you’re shushing her? You couldn’t do that five minutes ago?” Just
as both of them opened their mouths to speak, I reprimanded them further. “Stop
it! My co-workers and friends are here. What’s wrong with you? Fighting over
which WAG is prettier? For god’s sake, they are arm candy. Let. It. Go. I
haven’t seen you bicker this much since the Debate of ‘99—whether or not Queen
Elizabeth should reign over Ireland.’”

Something I said made a dent,
because they looked contrite and offered in unison, “Sorry.”

Thank god!
The show commenced. This year’s theme was the colors of
Air France: red, blue, and white, punctuated with silver that mimicked the
chrome and glossiness of airplanes. The mood lightened as models began
zig-zagging across the room, mimicking travelers searching for departure gates
cleverly titled Moscow, Rome, New York, and Shanghai.

***

All fans
of Lagerfeld, we extolled the bouclé jackets, hip-yoked, pleated silk skirts, and
lightly ruffled and feathered chiffon party dresses as we hustled as quickly as
possible to Le Carrousel du Louvre to see Akris and
Christian Lacroix
. Given that Charlotte had decided to teeter her and her
baby atop four-inch heels, our hustle was more like a life-risking saunter.

Finally, seated in Salle Delorme
to see the Akris collection, we watched the creations of Albert Kreimler glide
down the runway. These pieces were in complete contrast to Lagerfeld’s. They
were calm, monochromatic, billowing, draped, and utterly feminine.

We decided to skip the Costume
National and find something to eat before the
Christian Lacroix
show at 4:00
.

“Anything around here?” Marian wondered,
while Charlotte looked about, ravenous.

I rolled my eyes. “There are about
a million ‘things’ around here. What sounds good?”

Hillary clucked her tongue. “Don’t
ask a question like that. She’ll want to go to McDonald’s!” I gave her a look
that told her not to test my patience. “Sorry,” she quickly responded.

I squinted my eyes against the
bright sunlight and glanced around for inspiration. Remembering one of the
first restaurants I had eaten in right after moving to Paris, I suggested,
“There’s a restaurant where local artists hang their pieces up on the wall. The
food is good. What do you think?”

“Well, I’m willing to try any
place where a man hangs his piece on the wall!” Marian snickered.

We laughed at her quick wit and decided
to try it. Enjoying the crisp autumn weather, we walked across the Pont du
Carrousel and along the Quai Voltaire. The trees that flanked either side of
the walkway were beginning to turn color; the yellow and orange leaves
fluttered gently in the breeze against the bright blue sky. The view across the
river to the Jardin de Tuileries echoed the colorful trees on our side.

When we arrived, it was clear from
their expressions that my friends were pleased with our dining option. Inside
the Salle Gainsbourg, we were seated at a long wooden table in dark leather
chairs. I read them their choices and fumbled through the wine list.

“Well, you mustn’t have botched
it. The waiter didn’t burst into tears or look at us with utter despair,”
Marian offered as a backhanded compliment before turning to gawk at the art-covered
walls.

She trained her focus on a collage
just behind Hillary’s head, while Charlotte sighed happily. “We’re in Paris, at
a lovely restaurant, during fashion week. Let’s stop and reflect on the
perfectness of it all.” Indulging her, we were silent.

It
lasted for all of two seconds. “Okay, so tell us about
Sébastien. Is it me or does he remind you of someone famous? An actor?” Marian
mused, as Charlotte nodded.

“I think he looks like that male
model from Argentina… I cannot remember his name,” Hillary offered.

“Oh my god. That’s it!” I said
excitedly. Since the night Sébastien and I met, he had reminded me of someone.
I looked at Marian. “Remember that movie you were in love with? The one we
watched over and over? You were convinced one of the actresses was your
kidnapped twin.”

“
The Wedding Date,
”
Charlotte answered for her. She was a movie trivia aficionado.

Marian got sidetracked. “I really
should look up Sarah Parish—the actress. I still think it’s possible.” I
frowned at her for going off topic. She resumed, “What does the movie have to
do with anything?”

“Michael Buble! When Debra Messing
and Dermot Mulroney are dancing…”

I got that far before Charlotte
jumped in. “They were dancing to his song, ‘Sway.’”

“And…” I prompted her.

Charlotte muttered under her
breath, puzzling out the pieces. Then, excitedly, she pulled it all together.
“Michael Buble is married to Argentine actress Luisana Lopilato, who starred
with Rodrigo Guiaro Diaz in his first Argentinian telenovela after he quit
modeling.” She had become obsessed with all things Michael Buble, including his
wife.

“Rodrigo Guiaro Diaz,” I declared.

Tiziana, who had been silent
throughout this, changed the subject. “Things seem to be going well with Sébastien.”

My instinct was to say as little
as possible. Our relationship was early days, and, given everything, I wanted
to keep the details to myself. I attempted to change the subject, hoping my
story would distract them. “So, this room is dedicated to Serge Gainsbourg. He
was a painter, musician, and actor. Very significant celebrity amongst the
French. I think he was married once or twice. Supposedly had tons of
illegitimate children and an affair with Bridget Bardot. His song, ‘
Je
t’aime… moi non plus
,’ was written for her, though he performed it with
Jane Birkin, the woman he lived with for many years.”

“You know, if she doesn’t ask, I
will,” Marian said, proving my efforts had failed.

Clearly, I hadn’t chosen the
correct path for distraction. I appealed to Marian’s base sense of humor and
upped the ante, hoping she could be redirected. “Once appearing together on a
talk show, Gainsbourg told Whitney Houston, in French, that he wanted to fuck
her. As the translator explained what Serge had said, the audience went wild.
Apparently Whitney was left quite speechless.”

“And asking,” Marian continued,
strumming her fingers on the blond wood table. Tiziana, sitting beside her,
nodded her head.

Amused by their determination, I
held my course, wondering if they’d give up. “The man was a raging alcoholic,
apparently quite revolting at times. He died of a heart attack when he was in
his early sixties, I believe.” I paused, and when she went to speak, I
continued, “Petula Clark wrote a song for him. I don’t know the title.”

“Serge or Sébastien?” Hillary
said, joining in and winning a smile from Marian.

“He became quite a folk hero in
France,” I continued.

“Sébastien?” Marian asked.

“Serge,” I responded, laughing.

Our wine arrived. If it hadn’t
been for that, I would have caved in. After filling our glasses, the waiter
left the bottle in the center of the table, and Marian proposed a toast. “To
Kathleen, for her fine taste in cities, restaurants, and men. May we someday
know as much about Sébastien as we do Serge.”

She caught me off-guard. I
sputtered my wine and had to dab at a dribble on my chin. I caught a stern look
of disapproval from the waiter delivering lunch, so I quickly rattled off
praise and delight, which seemed to satisfy him. He politely smiled and, with a
“bon appetit,” quit the table.

After we discussed Lagerfeld and
Akris, Hillary asked, “Will we see Yvette and Anaïs again before heading back
to London?” They’d all met a few years ago, at the unveiling of my first
apartment.

“Actually, they’ll be at Bethany
Halvorsen’s show tomorrow.”

Charlotte gasped. “Kathleen,
seriously, I can’t thank you enough for helping her out. I’m so sorry I didn’t
thank you before. Honestly, I don’t know where you found the time to be a
translator, let alone be on-site and help. Are you nervous? Is everything ready
for tomorrow?”

Uh, yeah!
While I wanted to let loose my nerves, I feigned calm. “A
little, but we’ve worked hard, practiced everything a thousand times. It’ll be
fine.”
I hope!

“Will
Sébastien be there?” Marian poked her finger back into the
beehive.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought
about it.” I hadn’t.
Crap
. I could feel nerves ping-ponging throughout
my body. Giving in, I finally relented, out of a desire to distract myself.
“Obviously, I enjoy his company. But—and there’s a big but—we’ve only just met.
I have no idea what’s going on. Maybe he just wants sex.”

“What’s wrong with that? If he
looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t be sitting here eating with
you lot,” Marian stated candidly.

“Yes, well…” I could not exactly find
a witty retort. I was lost, contemplating just a physical relationship.
Honestly, I couldn’t see myself saying no to him, but my heart squeezing
painfully told me I wanted him to want more than that.

“So tell me about the new house,”
I prodded Charlotte, needing to talk about something else.

Charlotte and Liam had recently
purchased a house in a borough of London called Sutton. From Hillary’s facial
expression, I assumed it wasn’t on par with Chelsea, where Hillary lived. “Why
Sutton?”

“It reminds Liam of the area in
Dublin where he grew up. The schools are supposedly excellent. Most
importantly, we could afford it.” Charlotte looked pointedly at Hillary. “Not
everyone gets
given
a house in Chelsea.”

“Well, those sound like good
reasons to me,” I offered, trying to keep peace.

“State school?” Hillary
half-asked, half-stated.

“Well, lest we forget, many of us ignoramuses
attended government-funded schools. Even Alexander McQueen!” I hastily reminded
her.