Hotelles (34 page)

“You're the host of
Culture Mix
, aren't you?” he greeted me in a playful tone, a champagne bottle in hand.

I kept my guard up from my corner of the room, maintaining a respectable distance from his voice and especially his hands.

“Umm . . . It would seem.”

He filled two glasses and stepped toward me, the two delicate flutes between his fingertips. He handed me one, smiling.

“In that case, drink with me, Mademoiselle . . . Something tells me you deserve it.”

“Some . . . something?” I stammered, speechless.

“ . . . And that I was right to push you a little. Listen to this,” he trumpeted, grabbing a table of figures behind him. “Five point two percent market share!”

“Is that good?” I played innocent.

“Are you kidding? Do you know what the best score for a DTT channel was last year, news and general channels combined?”

“No.”

“Seven point eight. And on a major Hollywood film! Five point two percent on a news magazine program and for a launch . . . It's a miracle!”

“Really?”

“Do you realize we're at the bottom of the top twenty? From the get-go!”

His figures mostly eluded me, but faced with his disarming joy and after a few sips of bubbly, I let myself give in to the feeling of triumph.

My premature and catastrophic debut had been pardoned. My beginner's awkwardness: forgotten. The fear of being unmasked by Louie's report: gone. The bitterness I'd assumed I'd harbor for Sophia for the rest of my life: vanished.

All that remained was an unexpected number that transformed my failure into a breakthrough, my defeat into victory. It was a blessing for my future appearances. I was so relieved that, suddenly, I wanted to laugh and celebrate the event with him. To thank him for this extraordinary opportunity that I, ingrate that I was, had tarnished.

“So . . . next time, we'll be in the middle of the top twenty!” I cried, stupidly overconfident.

“It's such a hit that all of Paris has been calling me since last night. Everybody wants a piece of it, honey.”

That justified his night on the sofa, I thought, glancing at the rumpled sheet and blanket. It wasn't anger that had kept him awake but excitement. That also explained his silence and the fact that Chloe, not he himself, had summoned me.

“Even that idiot Haynes came groveling to be put back on the show!” He laughed.

When he hugged me with unusual ardor, I abandoned myself to it entirely. I was enthralled by that energy and fire that had enchanted me since the first time we'd met. Napoleon-David had just conquered new territory—in large part thanks to me—and, being the good Josephine that I was, I thought I should reward him. At least that was how his hand, which had just slipped into my panties, saw things.

The telephone rang, and his hand quickly dislodged.

“We're never alone! Yes?” he barked into the receiver after a couple nervous steps.

“It's Louie,” he mouthed, pointing to the phone. Then he wagged his finger in a way that suggested,
Go to your office, I'll join you there.

Louie? Where was that animal hiding at the moment of my triumph? And what had he ever done for me that could compare with what David had given me in one day of hard work? It was completely childish, but I could not suppress images of me being featured all over television. Stolen moments in the society pages. Evenings when I would rub shoulders with France's high society, and not as arm candy but as an equal. My teenage fantasies flashed across my mind, and I was the heroine.

Louie confined me to the role of a courtesan. A precious butterfly, to be sure, but for his eyes only. Meanwhile, David was putting the world at my feet and fulfilling all my dreams. He shared me with everyone. I wasn't his thing; I was a masterpiece in his museum, and those who wanted to see me would have to pay.

I had barely closed the door to his office when I heard the first boom of his voice:

“You don't speak to me like that! Do you hear? I forbid you to . . . I forbid you! . . .”

I stood for a moment listening, but my own phone rang, betraying my presence. I had no choice but to take a few steps down the hall.

“Shit, Fred, bad timing! What's so urgent?”

“Your show.”

“What about my show?”

It was a success.
And that annoys you, doesn't it?
I kept myself from spitting at him.

“Did you see the show from last night? I mean, the one that got broadcast . . .”

“Yes . . .” I hesitated.

“Not on the set monitors. The real show on a real television.”

“Right, okay, no . . . What's the difference?”

“There was no show.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me: the first episode of
Culture Mix
was not broadcast on television last night. They went with the originally scheduled TV movie.”

“Are you kidding?”

He didn't reply right away, and I understood he was being serious. Deadly, even.

“Since we were all at the station last night and I couldn't watch it live, I called my friend this morning to ask him how it was on a home screen. You know, from your living room. I wanted to record it, but with the stress and everything, I forgot to program it.”

The friend in question had watched a crime movie being shown on BTV for the zillionth time at the stated hour.

“He isn't messing with you?” I choked.

“No. I checked. I called two others who don't know each other. I wanted to make sure they weren't all pulling my leg.”

My voice shook like it does in winter, while beads of sweat pearled on my forehead.

As in a dress rehearsal, we had done our show behind closed doors, without any real viewers. For us, and for glory.

“Listen, it has to be a joke . . . I was just with David. He read me the ratings report. We were a su—”

“It's crap, Elle,” he interrupted. “I don't know where he got those numbers, but it's a lie. I had trouble believing it at first, too. So I ended up calling the technical manager of broadcasting, Guillaume. He's the one who handles everything being broadcast here. We've known each other for a while, and after chatting him up a bit, he spit it out.”

“Spit what out?”

“It wasn't an accident. He got a call from David himself, when you were getting ready.”

I refused to see the connection:

“A call for what?”

“Shit, Elle . . . I swear I'm not saying this because of us or to get back together or something . . . But fuck, open your eyes to your man!”

“A call to say what? Shit!”

I kept myself from yelling, afraid it might boom through the deserted corridor.

“To ask him to ignore the signal coming from your set and to broadcast the TV movie instead.”

I didn't know what to say. But at last I snapped out of it. My feet carried me to the elevators:

“What came over him? I mean,
why then
?”

“No idea. He has a viewing station in his office on the nineteenth floor where he can see everything on set in real time. He has the power of life or death over what gets broadcast, even the live shows.”

“Yeah, okay. But that doesn't explain . . .
this
.”

“All I know is that David saw you on his screen . . . and he gave Guillaume the order. That's it. You know the whole story.”

The whole story, right, in which I was trying to find a few positive points like a man drowning at sea fights to find a buoy. At least Rebecca wouldn't sue me; at least Sophia hadn't exposed herself as a Hotelle; at least no one here could discover my double life. At least, and this was perhaps the most important point for now, my meltdown at the end of the show would have no real consequences.

But I could not quell the rage growing in me. Should I scream? Charge into David's office? Strangle him? Hit him? Settle all the issues that were straining our relationship?

I didn't even feel like exposing this charade. Or understanding the reason behind David's change of mind. I was done with the Barlet brothers and their deceit. What could I expect from his mouth now but more lies and humiliation? Another chance to betray me . . .

“Elle? Elle, are you okay?” Fred drew me out of my thoughts.

“Yes . . .”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to meet you?”

“No, no, I'm fine . . . ,” I said, pressing the button for the elevator. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“As long as the story hasn't leaked, can you not say anything to anyone about this? Can you do that for me?”

The elevator's steel doors opened. As I entered, I had the sensation of willingly stepping into the jaws of a beast: the genie of Barlet Tower, which would soon swallow me. The network cut out as soon as the elevator started to move, and I didn't hear Fred's reply. But I figured I could count on him.

Who else but him?

29

A
fireball in a Japanese manga.

An explosion in an American blockbuster.

The frequency of the bass in English techno.

 

I CONTENTED MYSELF WITH THESE
three thoughts. My mustachioed professor would be proud, regardless of his opinion on these metaphors from a younger generation than his. Seriously, I felt devastated. David, Louie, Sophia, Rebecca . . . and even Maude, my own mother—everyone was lying to me. Everyone was faking. Each person was giving me a truncated, amputated, or made-up truth. It was like a virtual reality, the kind you see in video games or science fiction flicks, where the protagonist watches entire swaths of landscape melt before his eyes as he progresses. Like a gigantic, pixilated scene that is no more tangible than a dream.
The Matrix
for dummies, for this one dummy here.

How ironic that the only person I could trust was the man I had abandoned. And in the heat of the midday sun that struck me as I left the tower, I almost started to laugh. From impotence and rage.

 

WHEN I GOT BACK TO
Duchesnois House, I learned that I was not the only one to have been wounded. I found Felicity huddled in a corner, trembling in her new surroundings. I tried not to overthink our shared fate, hers and mine, and not to see her trauma of the day as a sign. But it wasn't easy. Unhappiness feeds on anything that might have meaning, as a source of torment and relief. For the moment, every little thing was painful and seemed to be dragging me into an abyss.

I kept myself from calling all the players in my drama. What would they have to say anyway? What new lies would they concoct? As for me, all I felt right then for them was incomprehension and rage. No tangible thing with which to confront them, except maybe Fred's recent discovery. But that wasn't enough. Some could plead ignorance, and others would feign,
Oh, no one told you? It was just a dress rehearsal. The real debut will be next week.
Come on  . . .

Listening to their lies, hearing their voices alter, or seeing their eyes shift to the left, all incontestable signs of their duplicity, it was too much for me. Or, rather, not enough. In the midst of this affair, whose overarching aims escaped me—who was manipulating whom? what was everyone's role? who was aware of the fraud?—David seemed like the darkest mystery, the most difficult player to understand. He of the luminous, sunny, and charismatic disposition was in truth a black star. Only one side, a lying sliver of a crescent, was bright. The rest was in shadows. The more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder how I had fallen in love with him in the first place.

How had he appeared the first time we met? I remembered his voice, so close, so smooth, so beguiling. Why hadn't I seen his other sides? How had he been able to deceive me? I, who have long prided myself on my capacity of discernment, a quality my professors in college thought foretold a brilliant career in journalism?

That was it. My thread. My angle. If I wanted to gain access to the secrets of David—the one who was conspiring against me, the one who was hiding his past from me—I would need to go back to the beginning. To the night when we'd first met. With Felicity purring gratefully at my side, I breathed deeply, containing the fire that had been burning me up ever since Fred's revelations. Soon, I was calm enough to start making my round of calls. Embarrassing but necessary.

 

“MOM? IT'S ME. HOW ARE
you?”

“I'm fine . . . now that I've got you on the phone.”

I knew she was being sincere, and in no way wanted to reproach me, but her dull tone of voice constricted my heart.

Some of my personal things were still in the drawers of my miniature desk in Nanterre. They included a disorganized pile of business cards from professional contacts, bars and restaurants where Sophia and I used to hang out, and nightclubs and other dance spots where my friend used to perform. I hated asking Mom to go through the mess, but I didn't see any other way of procuring the contact information for  . . .

“Marchadeau . . .” I spelled the name. “
E
,
A
,
U
at the end. Right, like in ‘
eau
de toilette.' ”

Oh, if only things could be as crystal clear as the sweet-smelling liquid in a bottle of perfume.

“I think I've found it, my girl . . . François Marchadeau. Assistant editor in chief at
The Economist
. Is that it?”

“That's him. Could you give me his number?”

“You know some important people!”

I decided against asking her about her mysterious telephone conversations with Louie Barlet. Whatever her role in the brothers' schemes, she could only be an involuntary cog, an unconscious pawn. If anyone loved me unconditionally, it was she. I could call anything into question but that.

Her voice was weak. Every time I called, she seemed further away, like she was disappearing behind a thick curtain that filtered out all happiness. Her voice was becoming increasingly hoarse, thick, and at times so muddled that I barely recognized it. The invisible hand that was strangling her from the inside wasn't letting up for a second. Not anymore. And probably not ever again, until the very end.

I masked my number and dialed the journalist a dozen or so times. At first, it rang and rang before going to voice mail. In the end, after a number of attempts, I was automatically directed to his automated message, a sign that he had turned off his phone. I had forgotten one thing. Would I answer my phone if some anonymous person were calling me on a Sunday afternoon while I was taking time off with my family? Probably not. I hesitated, then left a crafted message:

“Hi, François. Annabelle Lorand here. Elle. I imagine you remember me. And I think I saw your name on the guest list for our wedding next Thursday. Which means we'll be seeing each other again soon . . .”

Only four days, I remembered with surprise, trembling from stress rather than impatience.

“Listen, the reason for my call is a little delicate.”

If I wanted to catch his attention and convince him to betray two decades of friendship with David, I would have to bluff. Sadly, I didn't have any tools at my disposal besides those of an imposter. But it was my turn, after all!

“I've recently stumbled across some sensitive information concerning the Barlet Group. And also David . . .”

I paused for effect. The idea of the future Madame Barlet seeking to unearth an unsavory story about her husband would come as a shock to the old tennis partner.

“Could you call me back at the following number? It's fairly urgent. I don't want this kind of rumor to fall into the wrong hands.”

As I expected, he took the bait. Ten minutes later, he returned my call:

“You do remember the circumstances under which we first met, don't you?” he asked sharply, without so much as a hello. “And you do remember
who
David is for me?”

“Of course I do, François. And I haven't forgotten with whom I finished that night, at the Hôtel des Charmes.”

Reminder for reminder, threat for threat, our positions were divided, and though the discussion unfolded in this despicable manner, we were at least on equal footing. Both forces could consider the other from a solid and visible vantage point. There was nothing to pretend. Our masks had fallen.

“And I suppose he knows nothing of all that?”

“That's right.”

“Okay,” he said after a silence. “Let's just get something clear between us. David is my friend, a kind of friend like you only get once in your life, and I have no need or desire to spend a Sunday afternoon listening to all the gossip surrounding him. In any case, I already know most of it.”

“That's not what this is about . . .”

“That is always what this is about,” he interrupted. “You've only known David a short time, Elle. You probably don't yet realize what it's like to be a man in the spotlight, with so much influence and so many admirers. Nor to live in his immediate entourage. For the moment, you've only seen the pleasant aspects, I would even say the recreational parts, of his kind of life: doors that open for you as if by magic, rooms that empty with a snap of the fingers, boats under starry skies . . .”

Direct references to all the little miracles David had performed for me, since the night we'd first met and when he'd asked me to marry him. So the two friends did not simply hit a ball over a net two times a week at that ultraexclusive club west of the capital, La Châtaigneraie. How much did they tell each other over backhands and smashes?

“I am neither stupid nor young enough to believe that my life with him could be reduced to that. Don't take me for a bimbo.”

I could tell from the sound of his breath in the receiver that he was smiling. François Marchadeau was the kind of man who liked sassy young women. It probably even excited him to have someone fighting him like that. During our brief encounters, he had already shown himself to be playful. He was certainly subtler and more skilled than his humble position with respect to his former classmates suggested.

“I don't doubt it,” he said, more composed. “But you haven't experienced everything yet: the paparazzi, spiteful articles, jealous backstabbing, and sycophantic flattery . . . Not to mention the threats.”

But he
was
mentioning them, and he knew what effect they might have:

“Do you want an example? One of our mutual friends from business school found his wife at home, her throat slit by some thugs with a gas conglomerate from the East.”

“When?” I asked, trying to mask my emotion.

“Ten years ago. But men like David have to be prepared for that kind of
industrial accident
.”

“
Industrial accident
.” His way of describing the death of that innocent woman sacrificed on the altar of financial interest was chilling.

Still, I maintained my resolve and racked my brain for the best argument to convince him to meet me in private.

“That's just it.”

“What is?”

“What I have to tell you concerns
me
. Directly.”

“In what way?”

“My integrity is also at stake.”

My tone and choice of words were dramatic enough to stir his interest. I knew how to titillate his journalistic instincts. I had the same, though they were still in their nascent state, the kind that come to attention at the slightest sign of a scoop.

“Integrity . . . physical?” he asked gravely.

“No, professional.”

He let out a nervous little laugh that was interspersed with loud sipping sounds. I guessed the beverage was still hot. He was probably in the middle of his Sunday brunch.

“Okay . . . Let's meet. But we agree that this conversation never happened, nor our rendezvous later today.”

“We are in complete agreement,” I said seriously.

Not that these conspiratorial commonplaces didn't excite me. They awoke thrilling cinematographic memories that titillated my imagination and called forth the ghosts of real and fictional spies. But these childish thoughts were fleeting. After all, none of this was fun. It was my life. And two brothers were playing with it. I was afraid of being consumed by the murky meanders of their ancient rivalry.

“Do you know Café Marly under the arcades at the Louvre?” he asked me.

“Yes . . . I've never been, but I know where it is.”

“I'll be there in an hour. No more.”

“Okay.”

“I also have a family, you know. And they're not too happy with me at the moment. I would rather not go out on a Sunday evening, and just two weeks before summer vacation.”

The childish reference to summer break showed how much he cared about his kids, and I found that touching.

My cell phone screen indicated three missed calls from Sophia as soon as I hung up. I didn't feel capable of talking to her for the moment. I didn't know if I ever would.

I quickly showered and changed into something a little more revealing than my pantsuit. My future interlocutor was not indifferent to my fleshy charms. I might as well take advantage of that fact to try to pry a teeny bit more out of him than he was prepared to give. So I opted for a plunging neckline, together with a push-up bra and a midthigh-length skirt.

 

I had no desire to seduce him. Moreover, during the interview with Marchadeau, my charms played their role without me, for once. I was a pretty package with no one at the helm controlling my attributes. My breasts heaved if they wanted. My naked thighs peeked out from under my skirt as they pleased.
My
sex let itself be seen through my panties' thin layer
of cotton.
I didn't care  . . .

And yet, as I was dressing earlier, I couldn't help but think of the time Sophia put herself up to that challenge: finding the perfect outfit, one capable of defrosting the most frigid of men, the ones who were most in control of their impulses. An ensemble that included a dress, underthings, high heels, which together were so short, so formfitting, so transparent, so sexy, so entirely devoted to playing up her charms that no one could resist her. Anyone who witnessed this masterpiece of feminine wiles would have the irrepressible desire to throw themselves on her. I wonder if she ever found the magic formula, although I don't think she needs an outfit to bed anyone she pleases.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/14/2009

 

ONCE I WAS DRESSED, AND
more chic than I'd been in a while, I started down the large circular staircase. Armand caught me on the last step:

“Annabelle . . . Are you going out?”

I could have sworn I heard reproach in his voice. His large stature obstructed my path.