In The Cut (5 page)

“Look past the obvious.”

“I give up. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Business cards.” Olivia squinted her eyes at him. “The dresses, the gowns, the suits, the tuxedos, the jewelry, the eye wear, and even some of the women are all for sale. This gathering is nothing but a commercial whose actors are also the consumers. This is how ‘they’ advertise. You go pulling out business cards and start handing them out, they’re liable to call security and have you thrown out into the street for vulgarity.”

“Oh really?” Olivia didn’t look convinced.

“Really. If you don’t believe me, go ahead.” He released her elbow.

Olivia bit her bottom lip as she looked around the room. “So, how am I supposed to let them know about Butta Cutz?”

“First of all, they’re going to need a damn good incentive to want to come to Butta Cutz. And the only incentive that works on these folks is money.”

“Money?” I’m not going to pay them to come to my salon. That’s defeating the purpose.”

Saint shrugged. “Of course there’s another way.”

“And what’s that?” she asked, tensing her shoulders. “Pay them, but pay them with their own money.”

“Huh?”

“Saint!” the fifty-five year old Rumanian called out, as if he saw a ghost. It took Olivia a few seconds to realize that he was referring to Clayton, and it took her a few more seconds to realize that he was speaking to him in French.

Saint bowed his head and then replied to what the Rumanian had asked him. Olivia was amazed at how Saint’s voice took on a French accent as he spoke the language as if it was his native tongue. He gestured toward Olivia and continued his conversation with the Rumanian.

“Olivia this is Mr. Petrescu.” Olivia remembered the name from their conversation on the jet.

Mr. Petrescu grabbed Olivia’s extended hand and kissed it. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke English this time, but Olivia still had trouble understanding him through his thick accent.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, as well, Mr. Petrescu.”

“Please, call me Laurent.”

“Okay, Laurent.”

“You’ve gained weight, my friend,” Petrescu said to Saint.

“I’m not as active as I used to be.”

“So, I’ve heard,” Petrescu said, grinning at the double meaning of Saint’s words. “So, what brings you here, business or pleasure?” Petrescu asked, suspiciously.

“Neither. I’m just accompanying a friend,” Saint said, pointing with his chin in Glenn’s direction. Petrescu looked over and then clapped his hands on his cheeks. “He still looks magnificent. I hear he’s becoming famous here in America.”

“He’s the future ‘icon’ of the fashion industry, Laurent.”

Petrescu laughed, but the bite in his stare told Saint that he hadn’t forgotten the night when Glenn punched him in the face. He wasn’t mad at the fact that Glenn punched him. He was outraged that Glenn didn’t accept his intimate proposal. After all, he was Laurent Petrescu. No one said no to him. He bowed his head to Olivia. “I will leave you two to mingle while I go and pay my respects to Glenn.” Before departing, he locked eyes with Saint. The only word Olivia understood in Petrescu’s parting words in French was a name: Josephine.

They both watched Petrescu as he approached Glenn and hugged him like a long lost relative. Olivia and Saint both smiled at the way Glenn greeted him with a cardboard hug and a plastic smile.

Olivia stepped back from Saint and looked him up and down. “You’re full of surprises. You speak French?”

“I speak it a little.”

“A little?”

“I lived in Paris for a few years. I was forced to learn the language to get around.”

“Whatever you say,
Saint
.”

“That’s my nickname. Correction that was my nickname.”

“And who’s Josephine?” Olivia peeped the way he stiffened. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. It’s none of my business.”

“Clayton!” Glenn was waving him and Olivia over.

As they walked toward Glenn and Grace, Saint could see that he was sweating and nervous as hell.

“I would like you to meet Marion Claude.”

“Marion Claude? That name sounds so familiar,” Saint said. Then he snapped his fingers. “I read an article on you in Fortune 500.”

Marion nodded humbly. “Please to meet you Mr.—”

“Andrews. Clayton Andrews.” Saint extended his hand. “And this lovely lady is Olivia Martin.”

“A pleasure,” Marion said, kissing Olivia’s hand.

“I see you’ve bumped into an old friend,” Saint said to Glenn as he looked toward Petrescu, who was standing next to Glenn. “Yes, Laurent and I have some catching up to do,” Glenn said, moving closer to Grace.

“Please, if you will,” Marion Claude said, motioning for them to sit at his table.

“Your friend, Glenn speaks highly of you, Mr. Andrews.”

“What are friends for, right?”

“I offered to buy this beautiful masterpiece,” he said, gazing at the dress Grace was wearing, “as a present to take back to France for my wife, but he insists on you handling all of his business transactions. Name your price.”

“We have all night, Mr. Claude. I’m sure we can find a time when we can talk with less people around,” Saint said.

“This is the perfect place, we’re amongst friends, no?”

Saint said something in French that brought a smile from Laurent Petrescu, a smile from Marion Claude, and a stunned look from Grace, who just found out that Saint, spoke French. He translated for Glenn, Grace and Olivia’s benefit. “Friends and Money is the recipe for disaster.”

“I like this saying, its sooo true,” Marion said, clasping his hands together. “Tell me your price for the dress.”

Saint looked into Glenn’s big brown eyes and could see that he was desperate enough to rip the dress off of Grace’s back and give it to Marion Claude for free. “Ten thousand.”

“What?!! Claude and Petrescu both said at the same time. Glenn looked like he wanted to cry.

“What?!!” Saint mimicked. “What as you didn’t hear me or what as in you can’t afford it?”

“I assure you, Mr. Andrews, money isn’t an issue,” Marion Claude said, sticking his chest out slightly.

“So, then it’s settled. Ten thousand dollars… cash.”

“Mr. Andrews—” Marion started to say.

“Mr. Andrews, what?” Saint said, now speaking in French. “You know as well as I do that Glenn Lemora is about to be the next big thing in fashion. In six months that dress is going to be worth triple the price we’re asking for tonight. And for the record, you said you want to purchase the dress for your wife, but the article in Fortune 500 said you were a bachelor. Was that a misprint?”

Marion Claude busted out laughing, and like a chain reaction, Petrescu and the women clinging onto Marion Claude laughed like obedient lackeys.

“I see why Mr. Lemora allows you to handle his affairs,” Marion said in French.

“Game recognizes game,” Saint replied with a wink.

Marion spoke in English. “Out of respect for Mr. Glenn Lemora, it will be my pleasure to buy one of his originals. Unfortunately, I can’t get my hands on ten thousand dollars cash, but if you’re willing to take six now, and—”

Saint sat back and put his arm around Olivia. “Mr. Claude, did I mention that Miss Martin owns a men’s salon, and that she is a professional barber?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And where is this salon located?”

“Downtown, Manhattan, the center of attention.”

Marion Claude arched an eyebrow.

“I tell you what. Arrange to have the six thousand sent to Mr. Lemora’s room—”

“And what of the four thousand?”

“Four thousand should about cover your traveling expenses to New York, yes?”

“So, let me get this straight. You will give me the dress, and write off the four thousand as traveling expenses if I agree to visit Miss Martin’s… salon?”

“Exactly, and bring your entourage with you.”

Olivia was smiling on the inside. What Saint said earlier began to make sense. Use their money to pay them to come.

Marion Claude stared at Saint, contemplating his proposal.

“Just imagine the publicity this would attract. News reporters from every newspaper, T.V. station, and radio station will be there.”

“And how would they know that I would be coming?”

“You know you can never keep the lid on something this big. Someone is bound to talk.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“Bet my life on it.”

Marion Claude nodded.

“What day would be good for you?” Saint asked.

“I must be back in France no later than Wednesday. Is Monday good?”

Saint looked at Olivia.

“Yes,” she said, slowly recovering from awe, “Monday is perfect. How many people should we be expecting?”

Marion Claude opened his arms in a wide arching motion, causing Olivia to look around. “Everyone who is here will be there.”

“You scare me,” Olivia said, as she and Saint stood out on the balcony savoring the night’s cool breeze.

“Okay… I didn’t see that one coming,” Saint said, taking a swallow from his wine glass.

“The way you hustled Marion Claude—”

“I didn’t hustle him. I did him a favor.”

“Oh really? And how’s that?”

“He craves the spotlight. So, I shined a gigantic one right in his eyes.”

“Blinded him with the light while you take off with his loot like a thief in the night.”

“You’ve learned well, Grasshopper.”

Olivia laughed. She locked eyes with him as he inched closer to her and ran his hand along her arm. “Clayton—”

“Shh.” His fingertips sent tingles through the back of her hand. He wrapped his hand around her wine glass. “Two glasses of wine are more than enough. Anything more will have you holding your head in the morning.” He took the glass from her and turned to set it on the balcony’s table.

Olivia exhaled, realizing that she’d stopped breathing. She folded her arms, embarrassed that she’d braced herself for him to kiss her.

“You okay?” he asked, as he turned back to her.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you cold? We can go back inside.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“So, you like?” he said, pointing to his fresh hair cut. “I had my barber do that imaginary line thing-a-ma-jig, and he blended the taper.”

“It’s all right.”

“You didn’t even give it a good look over.”

“I’m a barber, remember? I checked your do out the second you got on the plane.”

“You said it was all right, meaning?”

“Meaning, you need to go to a barber who knows what they’re doing.”

“A barber like you.”

“You’ll never find a barber like me.”

“Oh, do I sense a little grandiosity in that statement?”

“I call it like it is.”

“So, be brutally honest. What’s wrong with my do?”

Olivia slowly began walking around him. “Don’t move,” she said when he started to turn his head. She walked a full circle and then stopped directly in front of him. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair. She then tilted his head down. “Hmm”

“Hmm, what?”

“You got some Indian or Spanish in you.”

“My mother’s Spanish.”

“That explains the curly hair and your olive brown complexion. Your haircut looks good… to the untrained eye, but I would’ve done two things differently.”

“What’s that?”

“Parts of your hair are uneven. That’s because your barber doesn’t use scissors to even you out. With soft, curly hair like yours, you’ll never get it even with just clippers.”

“And the second thing?”

“I wouldn’t take too much off the top, you’re thinning up there.”

“What?” Saint jumped back and patted the top of his head. Olivia started laughing.

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No, I’m not messing with you.”

“You don’t curse, do you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“On the plane when Grace used the N word, you immediately checked her on that. Just now, I asked you if you were fucking with me and the natural response would be ‘no, I’m not fucking with you’, but you said ‘no, I’m not messing with you’”.

“No,
Saint
, I don’t curse.”

“But you used to, right?”

“What’s up with the Date Line, Barbara Walters interview?”

“Just trying to get to know you.”

“I should be the one asking the questions Mr. Saint, the French hustler. So do you speak any other languages?”

“Umm, let’s see… I speak a little Italian, Spanish, Swahili, and German—”

“Swahili?”

“Just a little.”

“And German?”

“It’s a long story.”