Icy Pretty Love (5 page)

“You don’t find shit like that at a mall in America,” I say, jabbing my thumb at it.

He nods at me to follow him. “You won’t find any of this ‘shit’ in America.”

Thees sheet.
I giggle, but it strangles in my throat as we step through the glass door and I see the inside of the building.

“Welcome,” he says, “to the Galleries Lafayette.”

It’s like the holy offspring of a department store and the Louvre. We’re in the purse section, and orderly cubicles with endless wall displays of designer bags stand in rows over the polished floor, where polished people stand, selling and buying. The floors are set up like rings. I rush to the edge and look up. Above me, rings of floors arch upward, each crowded with shoppers. The ceiling looks like it belongs in a famous European church, not a mall, with its painted fresco and stunning architecture.

“Is this a famous Parisian landmark that some jerk with too much money decided to convert into a mall?” I ask Baldy, stunned.

He shakes his head. “It was built for zees purpose.”

I wander for the next hour, totally quiet as I take everything in. It really is more like an art gallery than a mall. The clothes are more beautiful than I knew clothes could be, each piece more intricate than the next. I run my fingers over a silk sleeve sewn like a butterfly’s wing, a skirt that seems to be made out of air, a scarf as soft and comforting as a cloud.

“It’s like a beautiful dream,” I say after ten solid minutes of not speaking.

Baldy smiles despite himself. “I thought bringing you here might inspire some silence. As it turns out, you’re more pleasant when you’re impressed.”

I’m too happy to even make a hair joke.

It’s all too beautiful, too different from the darkness and dirtiness I’m used to. I’m timid for the first time. I touch clothes, rub their softness between my fingers, but I can’t bring myself to try anything on or even ask the price. Surely anything so beautiful and delicate would crumble when it touched someone like me.

After a while, Baldy takes pity on me and pulls an intricate lace dress off the hanger. “If I may suggest this, miss.”

I brush it off with a laugh. “That wouldn’t suit me.”

“You’re not you anymore, if young Mr. Ashworth has explained the situation to me correctly.” He hands me the dress. “You’re Georgette Montgomery.”

Georgette Montgomery. I keep forgetting. Her name is fresh and clean, like new spring leaves. I want to slip into her, let her erase everything terrible about Rae. I take the dress.

In the changing room, I have to take three deep breaths before I can bear to look at myself in the mirror. The girl staring back at me is delicate and frail. The dress hides her scars, the way her shoulders slope. She’s big-eyed innocence. She’s Georgette Montgomery.

This is how I banish Rae. I’ll cut off pieces of her and discard them like broken limbs until she’s gone for good.

When I step out, the salespeople lose their French aloofness for a moment to lavish me with compliments that I can’t understand. Shyness is something I gave up long ago, but I can’t help but cast my eyes aside and tilt my chin down. This dress makes me feel vulnerable. And vulnerability is something that Rae Grove could never afford.

But I’m not Rae Grove anymore.

I’m Georgette Montgomery.

When Baldy sees me, he stops short and exclaims something in French.

“No point insulting me unless you do it in English,” I say weakly.

“You’re starting to look like someone worthy of Master Ashworth’s company,” he translates.

I fall to my knees, alarming the staff, and try to decide between pressing a hand to my heart or wiping away a fake tear as an appropriate dramatic gesture. In the end, I do both. “Temper your gushing compliments, bald friend. My fragile heart can’t take it!”

He mutters something in French to the wait staff, who look at me with sidelong concern.

We buy the dress. And then another dress. And a silk scarf. Two silk scarves. And skirts, and blouses, and shoes, all of which cost more than I could probably get for my internal organs on the black market. Even my kidneys, which are choice, if I do say so myself.

Baldy is an unexpectedly helpful shopping buddy. I learn to interpret his slight facial expressions. Pursed lips: “I worry that you will be mistaken for the least attractive Kardashian in that getup.” Tapping foot: “The color of that pantyhose is giving me clinical anxiety and I will discuss it with my therapist tomorrow.” No expression: “You are an exquisite, ravishing beauty.” A slight nod indicates compliments so comprehensive they cannot be translated into words.

After we’re laden down with purchases, by which I mean Baldy has eight shopping backs balanced on various appendages while I skip ahead, we get lunch. And by lunch, I mean macarons. I used to think the macaron was an eye condition. Now I understand that it is heaven in the form of a colorful little cookie filled with something that is not quite cream and not quite jam, but strikes a perfect balance between the two.

“I don’t know what the hell saffron is, but it’s a hell of a good flavor for a cookie,” I say, spraying crumbs on the table.

Baldy pushes himself back in distaste. “I will remind myself to purchase an umbrella for the next time I have…lunch with you.”

“Why so skeptical about the word lunch?” I swallow. “You got it right. The English word is lunch.”

“I know the English word is lunch,” he scowls. “I am merely unsure that eight macarons qualifies.”

“True. Back at home I usually had some potato chips with my lunch cookies. But don’t worry, these macarons were twenty euros, so this is like the fanciest and most expensive lunch I’ve ever had.”

Baldy sighs. He takes a sip from a flask in his pocket that I suspect contains alcohol. Most likely wine. Damn French.

“This is a lot of fun. You’re gonna be like my grumpy, well-meaning uncle. I’ve never had one of those and I always wanted to.”

He sighs again.

“One who sighs a lot.”

One more sigh. Now that I’ve buttered him up, I can get some information out of him about my grumpy new fake fiancé. “So how well do you know Master Ashworth—er, Cohen?”

“Long enough to know that he is unsuited for marriage, even a false one.”

Aha! Gay as balls! Knew it. I lean forward conspiratorially. “I see I’m not the only one who knows Cohen’s secret.”

Baldy splutters mid-sip from flask, spitting something deep red onto the table. Wine it is. That, or he’s got profuse internal bleeding. “You—he told you?”

“Not exactly. I’m just very observant.” Leave it to me to solve the world’s mysteries. Something twinges in my stomach, though. Definitely not disappointment at having my suspicions concerned. Absolutely not. Poor digestion from a lunch of solely cookies, absolutely yes.

“I suppose it’s not too difficult to imagine, you figuring it out,” he mutters. “Living there at night, after all…”

I imagine a parade of well-oiled shirtless men on their nightly march into Cohen’s bedroom, armed with leather whips and assless chaps. Last night it must have been someone else’s turn to host. Well, the next time the gay train makes a stop at Casa Ashworth, I’ll be sure to hole up in my room and give them the privacy they deserve. They can even use the tub.

“I assume Master Ashworth has already asked you to keep this knowledge to yourself,” Baldy says, resuming his flinty stare.

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I mean, he doesn’t know I know.”

“Then I’ll ask for him.” He rubs his forehead, and it seems to me that he’s older than he was a minute ago. “It’s a delicate situation. I do not wish him to continue this lifestyle, but…”

“Hey now,” I interrupt. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to those activities yourself,” he says coldly. Excuse you, Baldy! “But this is beside the point. I have hope he will come to his senses himself.”

He’s genuinely agitated now. The Ashworths must be those hyper-intolerant, worst-kind-of-religious types. I wasn’t imagining the he douche vibes I got from Ashworth Sr. Always trust the douche vibes.

“I won’t tell,” I promise. “His life, his privacy.”

“Exactly my thinking.” Baldy relaxes, as much as an uptight old doorman can relax. “You must forgive him his…eccentricities. I have known him since he was a child. He’s had a hard time of it.”

“Oh yeah,” I can’t help but laugh. “Sole heir to a bajillion dollars. Anything he’s ever wanted, whenever he’s wanted it. Maybe his daddy doesn’t approve of what he does in his spare time, but he still has a better life than ninety-nine percent of all the people I’ve ever met.”

He frowns. “I wasn’t under the impression you knew him very well.”

I stand up. “Cohen’s been served up a buffet of the best parts of life since he was born, and me and everyone I know, we’ve had to do horrible things for the shittiest scraps. So don’t ask me to feel sorry for Cohen Ashworth. Because I won’t.”

“Some might call that heartless.”

“Oh, I have a heart. And the only reason I still have one is because I’m careful not to let it bleed dry.” I force a smile. This is a path I hate going down. “Hey, let’s call a truce, yeah? You don’t have to like me, but active hatred isn’t really something I’m looking for from the one of three people I know here. I won’t let Cohen’s secret out of the bag, and you let me count you as an ally. Deal?”

He looks at my hand and shakes it crisply, though I notice he rubs hand sanitizer between his palms afterwards. “May I suggest, however, that you look to the young master as your ally, first and foremost.”

“Cohen’s not my ally. I’m not that stupid.” I remember one of the many rules my roommate taught me, back when I was new to the business:
clients are the enemy. Remember that. We’re fighting a battle every day: as much as we can get from them while still giving up as little as possible. That way you get to keep some of yourself for yourself.
What I realized after a while was that even if you give up just a little bit to each client, it adds up to a whole lot of your soul.

Baldy is silent for a moment. “Try to look past what he is on the surface. Very few people do. That’s all I ask of you.”

“There’s a reason people don’t get too friendly with porcupines, Baldy.” I wipe crumbs from my mouth. “Come on. I got a fancy dinner to get ready for.”

He sighs again and gets up, loading bags onto one arm at a time. “There’s one more thing I must ask of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop calling me Baldy.”

~4~

“Tell me something about yourself, Georgette,” I ask the mirror, spinning so that the lacy dress flares slightly and shows off my freshly-shaved, moisturized leg. “Where are you from?”

“San Francisco,” I answer myself, shyly. “I grew up on a lovely estate. My parents were such fortunate people.”

“I bet they fucking were!” I point at the mirror. “What are your favorite things, as a fancy rich person?”

“Hmm.” I put my finger to my chin in mock thought. “Juice cleanses, frozen yogurt, pumpkin spice lattes in the fall…oh, the list goes on and on.”

“I just bet it does!” I exclaim. “You seem like a cultured, well-mannered young lady. Definitely not the scum of the earth from the armpit of the earth. Definitely not the type of person who’s ever done something awful for money. You’re pure and perfect, aren’t you? Untouched.”

That last word trails off into an emptiness and I’m left looking into my own stupid eyes. Those eyes that have stared back at me in every mirror I’ve ever looked into, despite all the different people I’ve been. Those eyes have always stayed the same. Except, over the years, they’ve gotten more tired.

Once this is all over, I’ll invest in some colored contacts. Sky-blue eyes would be a good look for me. The kind of blue too clear to hide any darkness at all. A lot of screwed-up things can hide in dark brown eyes.

I take a deep breath, set a smile on my face, and go downstairs.

Cohen is waiting for me in the lobby, looking haughty and elegant in a fitted black suit. The gay community of Paris must have thrown a parade the day his father decided to ship him here. At the sight of him, my uterus is tempted to throw a parade as well. Maybe it’s his gayness that makes me attracted to him. It removes the element of fear.

Most of it, at least. Gay guys still have fists.

But when he sees me, it looks very like the idea of hitting me is a million miles away from his brain. If I wasn’t smart, I’d say his eyes widened minutely. But I’m smart enough to know that what you see with your eyes isn’t always the truth. A smile doesn’t always mean kindness. An extended hand isn’t always an offer of help.

At any rate, it’s time for me to prove that I can play this role. I cast my eyes away from his, shyly, and curtsey. “I’m ready to go,” I say in a small voice.

When I glance up again, his eyes are narrowed. “Then follow me.”

“Yes, of course, my love.” I give a tiny smile and catch sight of Baldy—er, Renard—watching us as we walk into the cool Parisian night.

The key to being a perfect woman is smallness. Men like their girls tiny. Breakable. Sweet as sugar and just as likely to dissolve. You’re not meant to take up as much space as them. Decorative figurines that go on shelves are little, too.

A shiny black car is parked on the side of the street. Cohen opens the door without saying a word, then climbs in after me. There’s a smooth divide between us and the driver. We’re alone in a miniscule, expensively upholstered room. I glue my nose to the window, entranced by the lights flashing by, before remembering that’s not something ladies do.

I clear my throat in a bashful way. “I had a wonderful day with Renard today. I thank you so much for the opportunity to—”

“Stop,” he interrupts.

I stop. His face is carved up by the moving shadows of the outside world, but I read anger in the furrows of his brow.

“You don’t need to do that when it’s just us,” he says, though he’s looking out the window and not at me.

“Do what?”

“The acting. You’ve already made it fairly clear that’s not really you.”