Finding It (12 page)

Text from Poppy Worthington:

Trust me, I am on it. You just focus on fixing things with your handsome Frenchmen. Leave the rest to me.

I haven’t known Poppy that long, but my gut tells me when she says she is on it, she is on it.

Text from Travis Trunnell:

It was hard enough for me to wrap my mind around you being with a French bike guide, but Bishop Raine? Really, Vivia? You are trying my patience, woman.

I grit my teeth. Stupid old Travis Trunnell knows Luc is a Professor of Literature at the University of Montpellier and acts as a bike guide for his brother’s tour company only on occasion, but he insists on demeaning him just to piss me off.

Sweet San Antonio! I ain’t got time to play with the Texan. Not now. Not when Luc is moments from waking up and finding out his “sexy redhead” is a shameless hussy, a brazen flirt who swapped spit with a Rock Man.

Maybe he won’t find out. Maybe…

My phone blings again, alerting me to an incoming text.

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

Let’s get together.

Text to 44 20 7834 6600:

Who is this?

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

Your favorite hypocritical, elephant renting, peanut eating, French kisser.

Poppy must have given Bishop Raine my phone number.

Text to 44 20 7834 6600:

Wait a minute! I thought you didn’t eat peanuts?

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

(Insert laughter) Very good, California Girl. You were paying attention. This probably isn’t the best time, but if you still want that interview.

Text to 44 20 7834 6600:

Now? Seriously? I am in bed with my boyfriend—soon to be ex-boyfriend after he sees the photo of us kissing.

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

Relax, luv. It was just a kiss. Do you do yoga? You should.

I sneak a peek at Luc. It was just a kiss. A stupid, unexpected, though not wholly unappreciated, kiss. I don’t think Luc will see it as just another kiss, though.

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

Let me know when you want to do that interview. I know this great place that plays electropop. I’ll bring the lime-water. You bring those sexy shoes. Kidding.

Text from 44 20 7834 6600:

Not really.

I am about to power off my iPhone when I get another text.

Text from Louanne Collins-London:

Congratulations! Thanks to your latest stunt Vivia Grant and GoGirl! Magazine are trending on Twitter. Huge circulation increase. #Raise #Bonus P.S. Need 2000 words by COB Friday. Next assignment & travel details to follow.

Luc reaches over, takes my phone, slides the mute button to silent, and tosses it on the floor.

“Forget that ’orrible phone.” He pulls me onto his naked chest. “Nothing on Twitter is as important as what is happening in this moment.”

He pronounces Twitter the French way—Twee-ter—which usually makes me giggle, but not this time.

Luc frowns.

“What is it?”

“What?” I ask, stalling. “What is what?”

“You are frowning,
mon cœur
.”

I stare into his green-brown eyes, eyes I have lost myself in dozens of times in the last year, eyes looking at me with concern and limitless love.

What have I done?

Tears spill down my cheeks and onto Luc’s chest. He sits up quickly. I sit up, crossing my arms over my naked breasts. I’ve never felt more vulnerable.

“Vivia, what is it? Tell me, please.”

I try to speak, but the words evaporate in my throat before reaching my mouth. Shifting emotions play across Luc’s handsome face. Concern. Confusion. Fear.

How do you tell your boyfriend you kissed another man? What is the proper way to break such news? I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve being naked and in bed.

“I need to tell you something.”

I snatch Luc’s shirt off the floor, stick my arms in the holes, secure a few buttons, and begin pacing the length of the room. Luc watches me, one eyebrow raised, lips pressed in a grim line. His stoic expression reminds me of Detective Inspector Mangina, and soon I am blabbering like a stool house pigeon.

“It was only one stupid kiss. One kiss. I wouldn’t even mention it, because it’s no big deal, but someone took a photo and now it’s on the Internet, and it’s becoming, like, a big freaking deal.”

I stop pacing and face Luc. I am waiting for him to laugh and tell me it’s no big deal, but he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t exonerate me. He just stares at me standing at the end of the bed, wrapped in his shirt, my hair hanging in tangles.

“You kissed Bishop Raine?”

“No.”

“You let him kiss you, though?”

I shrug, letting my arms dangle beside me, Luc’s long sleeves hiding my hands.

“Let me see it, Vivia.”

“See what?”

“The photo.”

I dart a guilty glance at my iPhone on the floor beside the bed. Resistance is futile, really. The photograph, uploaded last night, has gone “epidemic,” spreading to blogs, e-zines, and all manner of social media. I am beaten.

I bend down and retrieve my traitorous iPhone. Opening the Twitter app, I find a tweet of the photo with the least offensive hashtags and hand the iPhone to Luc. He stares at the image on the screen, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

He chuckles, but the sound isn’t easy or natural.

“No big deal.”

He drops my iPhone on the bed, stands, and shoves his legs into his trousers.

“Luc,” I plead, resting my hand on his tanned, muscular forearm. “Let me explain, please.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I didn’t cheat on you, Luc.” My voice cracks. “You have to believe me!”

Luc makes an indignant noise in his throat.

“Is that why you think I am upset? Do you truly believe I am worried you cheated on me with that…that…” Luc runs his fingers through his hair. It’s a Luc-ism I love. “…self-impressed, mediocre actor who is famous for his marriage to…”

He stops speaking and shakes his head slowly. The gesture conveys just how pathetic he finds me.

“What then? What is it, Luc?”

“You’re a smart girl, Vivia. You’ll figure it out.”

He narrows his gaze on my face. When he finally speaks again, bewilderment laces his voice.

“What are you doing, Vivia?”

“What do you mean?”

“Going to nightclubs. Getting drunk. Letting a stranger kiss you. Wearing skimpy mini-dresses and designer shoes. This is not you, Vivia.”

“It’s my job, Luc.” I cross my arms over my breasts because his words make me feel like a big, fat fake. “And as I recall, you didn’t mind the skimpy dress and shoes last night!”

Luc’s mouth drops open. He doesn’t need to say, “Really, Vivia? That’s your response?” His expression says it…and more.

“What happened to settling down and committing yourself to serious writing?”

“What are you saying? My
GoGirl!
articles aren’t serious?”

Luc stares at me and shakes his head.

“For the last six months, you’ve been telling me you looked forward to the day when you could settle down somewhere and work on your Mary Shelley novel. What was that? More romantic fiction?”

Ouch!

“I do want to settle down and write my novel. I am sick of living out of a suitcase, washing my clothes in bathroom sinks, sleeping on lumpy hotel beds…”

I don’t totally hate my
GoGirl!
gig. Sure, some aspects of my job suck, but it comes with some pretty incredible bennies, too. Meeting new people, eating in swanky restaurants, learning about different cultures. How many people can say they’ve attended the Geisha Academy in Kyoto, Japan or been on a private tour of the Palace of Versailles’s hidden rooms?

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. What happened to keeping it real? What do you really want, Vivia? The truth.”

“The truth is...the truth is...”

Shit! I am so used to telling people what they want to hear, spinning colorful stories to entertain; I don’t even know the truth.

The truth is: I love wearing ripped jeans and Ugg boots, but I also love how I feel when I am wearing skimpy designer dresses and sexy, red-heeled Louboutins. I want to write serious literary fiction, but writing light, breezy travel articles is a blast. I love Luc and miss him terribly when we are not together, but I am not ready to settle down yet. I always thought I would have a gaggle of kids, but now...not so much.

Luc clenches his jaw. “Maybe we should take a break.”

“A break? What does that mean?”

In the history of relationships, the phrase “on a break” is surely the most ridiculous sentiment ever uttered. Either you are together or you're not…no in-between. I feel confident about only a few things in this world: a handbag doesn’t need a Prada tag to make you feel good, Ronnie Radke is the sexiest rocker alive today—next to old-school Bret Michaels— spicy noodles and Red Beach champagne cocktails can ease the pain of a broken heart, and “on a break” is synonymous with over,
finis
,
finito
,
terminado
.

Luc is wearing his socks and shoes, has retrieved his coat and tie, and is standing across from me with an expectant look on his face.

I’m slow on the uptake. I think he is searching for the words to explain what he meant when he said we should take a break. Finally, I realize what he wants: his shirt.

Removing your boyfriend’s shirt and standing naked before him as he bids you
adieu
is about the most humiliating experience.

Ever.

Covering my breasts with my cupped hands, I watch Luc walk out the door and out of my life.

Forever.

Dirty Tweeter

Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel

How to get 15 Minutes of Fame: Write intelligent articles? Nope. Do the dirty with #BishopRaine? Score. #GoGroupie

Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel

Busted! @PerpetuallyViv was engaged to handsome Frenchman when caught macking #BishopRaine. #AdieuFidelité

Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel

#BishopRaine spotted in London jewelry store buying gaudy baubles. Prezzies for his sexy redhead? #GoGirl

Steven Schpiel @TheWholeSchpiel

Yikes! Paps snap @PerpetuallyViv leaving London hotel wearing loose top. #BabyBump #Cravings (Click for pic)

I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. Slapping one hand over my eyes, I splay my fingers enough to see my MacBook screen, and click on Steven “Muckraker” Schpiel’s link.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Pulitzer!

Schpiel’s pap snap is a grainy photograph taken only a few hours ago, when I ducked around the corner for a big-ass bottle of Thatchers Hard Cider and some fish and chips. I am wearing black leggings and an old gray fisherman’s sweater pilfered from Luc’s closet. My snarly hair is hanging loose around my shoulders, and I am clutching the big, greasy white fish and chips bag to my chest like a homeless waif—or a woman trying to disguise a burgeoning baby bump.

Damn Steven Schpiel! Damn, damn, damn him to the deepest, darkest, smelliest bowels of Hell. A rancid little turd like him deserves to spend eternity inhaling noxious fumes and suffering the agony of having his flesh slowly singed from his rotten bones.

The bitchy little gossip hound would dig up dirt on his own mother if he thought it would get him a trended tweet.

Mothers. Mum.

Oh, shit! What is my mum going to say when nosy old Anna Johnson posts that picture of me on Facebook? What will Luc say? And Fanny? And my dad?

I drop my head to the desk and try not to think of what my dad, a Professor of Theology at UC Davis, will say when he discovers his daughter might be carrying Bishop Raine’s lovechild.

Well, Pops best step off.

He has nothing to say. Nothing. Not after he left my mum and shacked up with a kooky vegan who collects creepy porcelain dolls with soulless eyes. She tries to foist her carob and bean-paste brownies off on me, but I’d rather bust a move with mom in Hip Hop Abs than eat one of those bricks. I wonder how long before Meadow, the kooky vegan, mails me bean-paste brownies laced with folic acid?

I still can’t wrap my mind around my fire-and-brimstone father forsaking his marriage vows to live in sin.

This is serious. Really serious.

I grab the hotel phone receiver, jab the button for room service, and order two more bottles of Thatchers and a carton of Häagen Dazs Chocolate Raspberry Truffle.

“Will that be all, Miss Grant?”

“Yes—” I am about to hang up when I remember the pap snap. What if another pap follows the waiter to my door? “No. Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Just leave the tray outside my door.”

“Outside your door, Miss Grant?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates, and I imagine him gesturing to a pack of camera-toting paparazzi huddled nearby.

“As you wish.”

Ten minutes later, a soft rap on the door lets me know my baby-bump inspired binge-fest has arrived. I creep over to the door and peer through the peephole in time to see the waiter walking away.

I wait until he disappears around the corner before whipping the door open, pulling the tray into my room, and slamming the door shut again.

I am six songs into my “When I Am Blue” playlist and halfway through my second bottle of Thatchers when my iPhone starts ringing. Which of my curious friends is calling to get the 4-1-1 on my scandal
du jour
? Maybe I should just send the call to voicemail.

I flip the phone over and look at the caller ID flashing on the screen.

Louanne Collins-London.

Oh, shit! Could this day get any worse?

That’s rhetorical. No, no it couldn’t.

I take another swig of Thatchers for strength and answer the call.

“Cheers, Ms. Collins-London.”

“Vivia, dear”—she laughs—“it’s Louanne, remember?”

No, I don’t remember. Calling Big Boss Lady by her first name feels as wrong as French-kissing Steven “Rancid Turd” Schpiel.