Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (4 page)

This is so ridiculous! Who
thought up this brilliant plan?

“Darling, could you just lean a little further back, lift
your left foot just a touch, and make sure your toes are softly pointed?” sang
out the celebrated celebrity photographer, Jeremy Sutton, in a sycophantic
voice before bellowing to the hairstylist, “For Christ’s sake, brush her hair
off her forehead and keep it off. I want her hair over her right shoulder, not
her left.”

I distracted myself from the primping and prodding by trying
to calculate how much it had cost
Forbes
magazine to have me sit on a
teak lounge chair on the beach alongside the translucent blue water of the Bali
Sea. The trip to get all of us
just
to Finn’s Beach, on the southern tip
of the island, must have cost a small fortune. I had already given up trying to
keep count of the number of people necessary to juggle light reflectors, hold
down wind barriers, and grapple with styling weapons while they dodged the small
waves that rushed the beach. Granted, they were working in paradise, but it was
all so ludicrous, I had to work hard to suppress my amusement.

As requested, a makeup artist blotted my skin and then
quickly applied another layer of powder to my forehead, adding to my feeling of
being entombed. At least the sun couldn’t make it through all the makeup, so I didn’t
worry about sunburn.

“She’s sweating! Someone get a bloody umbrella over here and
shade her,” Jeremy demanded as he prowled around, looking at me through various
lenses. Lowering the camera from in front of his face, he looked at me and
turned on the charm. “Darling, you are simply beautiful. For you, there is no
bad angle.”

Though I smiled at his compliment, the word
Really?
ricocheted
through my head.
Who believes this shit?

Cries of alarm registered just before a wave swept the
photographer to his knees. He heroically held his cameras over his head, saving
his equipment. In the commotion, two wind barriers rolled down the long sandy
beach. I burst into laughter as several people chased after them before they
crashed into innocent bystanders.

I was no expert, but as far as I could tell, this photo
shoot was officially a disaster! Temporarily abandoned while people sorted the
situation out, I waved to one of the staff.
“Could you drag this into
the shade for me please?”

Taking in the general chaos, the darkly tanned employee
smirked as he grabbed my chair out of the surf and pulled it into the shade.
“Would you care for a drink?”

Once protected by the thatched, green palm fronds that
roofed the
palapa
, I smiled. “A tall glass of pineapple juice would be
wonderful.”

For once, it wasn’t my turn to clean up this disaster of
epic proportions, so I settled back and watched the scene unfold with morbid
fascination.

The soggy photographer made his way over after directing his
employees to pack up their equipment. “Truly sorry, love, but it’s a bust. The
wind is too strong. We’ll need to find another location. My assistant thinks he
has one a few miles up the road.”

“How long until we leave?”

“Twenty minutes or so.” With that, he left to confer with
his crew.

I hopped across the hot sand to my bag and found my cell
phone. “Denise, it’s me. Any news?”

My secretary at L’Oréal uttered the words I’d hoped for.
“He’s retiring. I heard the news straight from Monsieur Huse’s secretary.”

My heart raced. I was within spitting distance of my goal.
“I love you,” I sang happily to her. “I’ll see you soon.”
Hot damn!

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT
, shit,
merde
!”
I climbed down the rickety ladder, asking myself for the millionth time
why
I had agreed to be a part of this. I inspected my bleeding knuckles, the result
of hammering ferociously while atop a ladder that teetered and swayed with
every movement. Charlotte was going to owe me bigtime! I’d started out helping
as translator for her friend Bethany, a former model turned fashion designer,
and had become one of the crew.

After stepping onto the lid of a paint can, I bellowed,
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,
fuuuuuuuuuuck
!”

A few people gave me sidelong glances, but not only did I
not care, I felt better. They continued to scurry about, keeping up their
frenetic pace, focusing on their own problems.

I slumped against a yet-to-be-painted wall, popped open a
cola, and contemplated whether the color on the bottom of my shoe was really
the one we’d been searching for. Then I inspected my hand. Though competent
with hammers and saws, every remodeling project I took on added to the silver
scars that peppered my hands and arms.

My life had drifted a long way
from childhood dreams of attending the Rhode Island School of Design or
the
School of Visual Arts in New York. When both of them turned me down, I’d
applied
Pennsylvania State University and pursued a
business degree
. I now existed in a much different world, one where I
relied on facts and figures, and I limited my creative endeavors to renovating
apartments and helping friends out with minor remodeling projects… and building
runway sets.

Renewed by the caffeine break, I jumped up and quickly
rolled a large swath of paint. This was my third attempt at finding the correct
color.
If I weren’t a newbie to building sets, I would know how halogen
versus LED lights affected every color under the sun.
The first white had
had a yellow tinge. The intention had been to warm up the space—to create a
healthy spring glow—but, when the halogen lights were turned on, everyone
appeared to have a case of jaundice. The second coat of white made everyone
look like zombies. If only the theme were “apocalypse.” Initially, the idea
hadn’t seemed ridiculous.

I set the timer on my watch, walked over to the lighting
specialists, and told them we’d test the new color in two hours. The chaos
around me made my stomach flip. “Thank god Bethany isn’t here,” I muttered to
myself.

***

The lighting specialists and I sat
on the floor, tucked away in a dark corner where we could see all the different
light sources bounce across the set. Finally feeling successful, we were about
to break for the day when Bethany Halvorsen entered the cavernous space. Having
visited her New York showroom with Charlotte, my impression of her was that she
was poised. Today, all six feet of her lithe body positively trembled with
excitement.

After I had explained the day’s efforts, she asked
enthusiastically, “What’s next?”

With a weary sigh, I handed her a sheaf of papers. “I go
home, shower, and put on pretty clothes. You get to stay and make sure your
collection works with the lights while I have dinner with friends.”

I saw gratitude and concern on her face just before she
hugged me. “Go! Go! Of course, have dinner. I can’t wait to see what you’ve
decided on. Thank you so much, Kathleen.”

As I picked up my battered canvas workbag, I grinned at the
workmen, who were utterly charmed by Bethany’s beauty, southern accent, and
efforts to speak French.
They have no idea what’s she’s saying!
I
thought as I smiled again, knowing that somehow she’d find a way to communicate
with the enchanted crew.

In an “I told you so” voice, my
friend Anaïs spoke her mind. “You lack inspiration. You should have bought the
apartment with the pretty little balcony, here in Palais-Bourbon. The seventh
arrondissement is quite fashionable.” Her last word was virtually sung as she
swept her spoon through her celery soup. For support, she looked to Yvette, the
third in our trio, who wisely remained silent.

Glaring at Anaïs, I sent a silent demand to change the
subject as I relaxed into the burgundy banquette and reached for my glass of Champagne.
A bubble tickled my nose as I savored the flavor and was taking a second drink
when she chose to ignore my hint.

“Chérie, by now you normally have several sets of sketches,
tile samples, design boards, mountains of magazines. I think your apartment is not
an inspiring muse.”

The three of us had met on a warm spring day back when I was
fixing up my first apartment. Fresh out of graduate school, I’d had no spare
money, so I’d taken on the remodeling myself. I’d loved every minute of
transforming that grungy space into something special. They had watched me go
through the process with two more apartments since, which somehow had given
them permission to weigh in on all my decisions.

“We’re not talking about it again! After climbing up and
down a ladder all day, I want to think about something else. I’ve bought it.
And that, as they say, is that.” I gulped down the rest of my Champagne,
quickly feeling a pleasant lethargy throughout my body.

The dishes were whisked away, and the waiter returned with a
pot of something pickled. Sitting downstairs at La Fontaine de Mars, we slowly
ate our way through the menu and talked fashion.

Suddenly, Yvette was staring intently over my shoulder. I
couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What or who are you looking at with such interest?”
Long ago, I’d learned that, with the French, food, clothing, and the opposite
sex each garnered the same level of attention.

“
Un homme
,” she answered, tapping her cigarette into
the ashtray. “He reminds me of someone, but I cannot remember who.”

Anaïs, seated beside me, discreetly glanced over her
shoulder, which was followed by a quick burst of French.

Too tired to think, I gave them a questioning look.

Switching to English, Yvette rescued me. “It isn’t him, but
he looks familiar. Like one of your handsome American actors, but he’s much
younger and definitely French. He has a certain…
charisme
. I think the
film is called
La Matrice
.”

“Well, then it could be Laurence Fishburne, Keanu Reeves, or
Joe Pantoliano,” I said.

“He is walking this way,” Yvette quietly informed us as she
raised her glass to her mouth. Her wine-stained lips pressed against the rim as
he passed by.

Seeing only his back, I decided he had to be Keanu Reeves.
“Nice backside!”

“Well, I much prefer the front,” Yvette retorted, lifting an
arched brow.

He was forgotten as conversation switched to the end of
September in Paris, and Fall Fashion Week.

Yvette, who had a beautiful collection of lingerie, was
dying to see designer Marlies Dekkers’s collection. “She is showing at the
Palais de Tokyo. I wish you could take me!” she said with a pout.

While images of my serviceable white cotton panties and
purple bra flashed through my head, I made a mental note never to let Yvette
see my underwear and shrugged my shoulders. These events were by invitation
only.

Releasing a resigned sigh, she asked, “Will Tiziana be in
Paris for the shows?”

Dragged from thoughts of dismal underwear, I answered, “Yes.
She and Ted. They are supposed to give me a call once they get settled in.”

Yvette accepted her plate from the waiter and then did the
French pouty thing, again. “I still cannot believe she chose Spoylts’s
‘Flirtation’ collection for her honeymoon.”

“Well, that is because you are virginal. Tiziana is more of
a courtesan.” Anaïs offered her opinion without judgment. I tittered out loud,
wondering what Tiziana would make of that. “I’m sure Ted was thrilled, and
isn’t that the point?”

Changing the subject after crunching on a golden beet, Anaïs
reported, “My friend Isabelle tells me that the Armani Collection is to die
for.”

“I’ve heard it’s all jackets, trousers, and big bows,”
Yvette said critically. “
Non, merci
.”

Though Anaïs and Yvette looked alike physically—dark hair,
waif thin and elegant—their fashion styles were quite different. Anaïs wore
classic, tailored, timeless pieces. She had been lured in by Armani, while
Yvette ran toward Proenza Schouler, who designed avant-garde clothing.
Meanwhile, I loved all fashion. It was one of the many reasons I’d taken a job
at L’Oréal Paris—I wanted to be at the epicenter of fashion, and my job paid
well enough for me to indulge my passion.

After the three of us went back and forth about what
constituted style—new style, retro, avant-garde, classic, couture—the waiter interjected
to find out if we would like anything else. Coffee was decided upon. Just as
Thai-American designer Thakoon was about to be dissected, Keanu walked over,
slowing as he approached our table.

Instead of saying, “My name is Neo, I’m looking for the
Oracle,” he spoke to me. “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t leave without
remarking on what compelling eyes you have.”

“Thank you.” As soon as he drew attention to them—one was
blue and the other green—I ducked my head. While I generally accentuated them, I
found something in his scrutiny unnerving.

At a sudden and complete loss for words, I was bailed out by
my friends, who invited him to join us for a drink. Politely declining, Keanu
grinned a devilish French Man grin and wished us goodnight. The three of us
watched his elegant backside walk away.
Yvette was right,
I thought.
His
front was better.

“Odd!” I mused. “Or is it just me?”

“
Oui!
It is just you who are odd! Such a man, and you
let him walk away,” Yvette harangued as she tapped a finger to her own head,
questioning my intelligence.

I defended myself. “I was confused. I kept expecting Trinity
or Agent Smith to show up. It was definitely an alternate universe.” Not true.
I was instantly and overwhelmingly attracted to him, a sensation I hadn’t
experienced in quite some time.

Somehow, this segued into a lengthy bashing of the American
triumvirate: politics, arrogance, and obesity. Having had enough, I trumped
them. “We gave the world motion pictures and George Clooney! No one beats that.
Keep your
Jean de Florette
!” I looked at my watch and decided to make my
exit. “I’ll see you at Bethany Halvorsen’s show, right?”

“Absolutely,” they said in unison.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when I contemplated
Bethany’s show.
Six days from now, it will all be over!

I tossed a handful of euros on the table, gave each a kiss
on both cheeks, and escaped into the night.

Wandering along the Seine, I crossed a bridge and walked
alongside the Tuileries, making my way northeast to the sanctuary of my mangled
apartment.