Fly Me to the Moon (20 page)

“Then it’s perfect. I’ll have Jean Claude pick you up, and you’ll stay with me at the Ritz.”

“But—what about my clothes? I mean, I won’t have time to go home and repack,” I said, realizing that as far as excuses went, it was pretty lame. But even though I was really tempted to go along with his plan, I was still in need of a little more convincing.

But he just waved it away. “This is
Paris,”
he said. “We’ll go shopping.”

And even though I’d never been one to beg off shopping, I knew I was in no position to buy a new wardrobe. And if Max was planning to pick up the tab, well then, that was awkward too. I mean, I just didn’t know him well enough for that. But just as I was about to decline, he kissed me. And as my lips yielded against his I went over everything he’d just offered: Paris, shopping, the Ritz, and the blatantly unspoken but definitely understood—S-E-X—and most likely the amazing, toe-curling kind.

I pulled away for a moment, taking in his dark eyes, strong nose, and soft, moist lips. Life was short. So wasn’t it better to regret something you did, rather than something you didn’t dor

I pressed my mouth hard against his. “Yes,” I told him. “Yes. I’ll do it!”

The second I got through customs, I ran down to the flight attendant lounge, hoping I could brush my teeth, change my clothes, and try to freshen up a little before I got back on the plane and headed to France.

“Hey, where’s the fire?” Clay asked, grabbing my sleeve as I rushed past him.

“Oh, I didn’t see you,” I said, stopping to catch my breath. “I’m headed to Paris for a few days.”

“I thought you just got back?” He gave me a suspicious look.

“I did, but it’s a long story and I’m outta time. Can we talk later?” I asked, shifting my purse and looking around nervously.

“Where you staying?” he asked, knowing something was up and refusing to let it go.

“The Ritz,” I admitted, feeling myself turn every shade of red.

“You little vixen!” He smiled. “For how long?”

I just shrugged.

“Hey, I just picked up this two-day Amsterdam layover, gets
there Friday leaves on Monday. You should meet me there from Paris, and we’ll fly back together.”

Friday would only give me four days with Max, I thought. Which would either be far too much time together, or not nearly enough, depending on how things went. “I don’t know,” I told him, looking anxiously toward the bathroom. I was running out of time and really needed to get in there.

“Fine, I’ll call you at the Ritz. Whose room should I ask for? Yours or his?” he teased.

“Ask for Maxwell Dunne,” I said, giving him a quick hug before I grabbed my bag and ran down the hall.

The fact that I’d just spent the previous eight hours dishing out food from the same menu I was now being offered meant I was pretty uninterested in any of it. So after ordering a glass of red wine from a flight attendant I’d hung out with on a Prague layover several years before, I retrieved a squashed strawberry-yogurt Zone bar from the bottom of my bag and reminded my thighs how they’d thank me later.

I was seated at the window in our Business Select cabin, which was a sort of hybrid between a downgraded first class and a marginally better business class. And even though I had a choice of eight movies and four trivia games at my disposal, my goal was to go straight to sleep the second I’d quaffed down my food and drink.

I glanced at the guy sitting next to me, who was rumpled, unwashed, and looked to be well into his sixties. But he seemed friendly enough as he raised his wineglass high in the air and smiled in a sort of
toast to us.
Lifting mine as well, I smiled back, took a sip, and then broke out my iPod so he wouldn’t get any ideas about talking to me.

As I listened to Gwen Stefani singing “It’s My Life,” I tore into the wrapper of my protein bar, taking a bite and marveling at how well that sweet, artificial strawberry taste blended with my wine.
And just as I was about to take another, the old guy next to me extended his footrest, removed his socks, and propped up his crusty bare feet for the entire cabin to view.

The skin on his left foot was yellow in some spots, red in others, and dry and flaky like I’d never seen. And as he reached down to scratch it, I covered my dinner in horror as I imagined the trillions of funky skin particles that were now being driven into the cabin air only to be recycled over and over again as we made our way across the Atlantic.

Oh sick! It doesn’t get worse than this,
I thought, burrowing deeper into my corner. And just as I was shielding myself with my blanket, getting it all tucked in around me, he crossed his right leg over his left, proudly displaying his big toe with the thick, warped yellow nail, the shrunken crooked pinky toe that had no nail, and the big empty space in between, where the other three toes should have been.

I just sat there staring at that wide blank space as though it were a car wreck I couldn’t turn away from. And as his meal was delivered, he lifted his glass, tapped me on the arm, and said, “Bon appetit!”

Taking one last glance at his mangled feet, I smiled weakly. “Bon appetit,” I mumbled, then threw the blanket over my head and prayed for tailwinds.

The blanket trick must have worked, as by the time I was standing in front of the Ritz, gazing at the seemingly never-ending stone facade, I wasn’t feeling the least bit tired. And by the time I got to Max’s suite and took one look at the stone fireplace, gilt mirrors, crystal chandeliers, velvet settees, and larger-than-large marble bathroom, I was tempted to jump up and down on the opulent, oversized bed in pure joy.

But instead, I just stood there, awkwardly fumbling through my purse, looking for something to tip the bellhop with.

“Mademoiselle, it is not necessary. Monsieur Dunne has taken care of everything. But please ring if you require anything else,” he said as I watched him leave.

Then I stripped off my clothes, dropped them in a heap in the middle of the floor, and headed for that large luxurious bathroom, looking forward to a nice long bubble bath in the huge marble tub.

Dressed in the same boot-cut jeans I’d worn to dinner the other night, and a clean(ish) white cotton tank top under a turquoise sweater, I headed out of the Ritz and into the city, wanting to pick up a few things while I enjoyed the day in Paris. And since I was more familiar with the area on the Left Bank, I made my way toward the Seine, intent on visiting some of the little shops I knew of on the other side.

The day was bright and warm, and the streets were busy with people rushing about, and as I removed my cardigan and tossed it into my black, duty-free, Longchamp tote bag, I thought about how much my life had changed since my birthday, and how I couldn’t help but think there’d be more of this.

I mean, in just a few short months, I’d finished my manuscript and mailed it out, moved to a Fifth Avenue address (okay, so maybe it wasn’t mine, and it was only temporary, but I was there now and that’s all that mattered), and had started dating the most amazing, sexy, exciting guy I’d ever met in real life.

Max was perfect. He had everything I’d ever dreamed of, and the fact that he wasn’t married was almost too good to be true. But single he was, since, not content to rely solely on the ring-finger test, I’d come right out and asked him in the middle of our last dinner. I mean, I knew I could fall hard for this guy, and I’d wanted to gather all of the facts before the dessert arrived.

“Jeez, Max, I fly all the way to Paris to see you, when you’re just a quick forty-minute flight away back home. I mean, you’re not
married, are your” I asked, followed by a nervous giggle and a gulp of wine. But he just shook his head, which wasn’t exactly the verbal affirmation I was after. So I pressed a little further. “No wife and five kids, anxiously awaiting your return?” I bit my bottom lip and waited.

“No wife, no kids, no girlfriend. Look Hailey, I’m always flying back and forth between Paris and Boston, and that can make it pretty tough to sustain a relationship.”

But not if you’re dating a flight attendant!
I’d thought.

“Of course I’d like to slow down and get married someday.” He shrugged. “Though I’m not so sure about the kid part.”

Even that was fine with me, since I wasn’t so sure about the kid part either.

“If you want to meet up in Boston, we can do that. I just thought it would be more fun to explore Paris together,” he’d said, smiling and leaning over to kiss me.

Yup, Max was perfect. And single. And deserved much better than my frayed, beige Gap bra-and-panty set, I thought as I walked through the doors of Sabbia Rosa, one of the best lingerie stores in Paris.

“May I help you?” asked a slim older woman who looked incredibly chic in that undone yet totally put-together way the French specialize in.

“Oh, I’m just browsing,” I said, wishing I didn’t look so blatantly apple-pie American, as just once it would be nice to fool a local, any local.

“I have a new collection of sets that would go perfect with your coloring. Come,” she said, leading me to the other side of the store, where a row of delicate, elegant, whisper-soft silk underthings hung.

“Wow,” I said, reaching for a deep apricot-colored bra edged in cream-colored lace. “This is beautiful.” I stroked the soft, filmy fabric while nonchalantly searching for a price tag.
Three hundred
euros! Are they serious?
I smiled faintly and placed it back on the rack, thinking maybe I should try to locate a Victoria’s Secret or at least something more in my airline employee budget.

“And then there’s this,” she said, thrusting a dark, emerald green nightgown at me.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous.” I nodded, knowing there was no way I was wearing a nightgown. The logistics of that were just way too complex, requiring me to beeline for the bathroom immediately after dinner so I could do a quick change, and then reemerge as though I’d been secretly stowing it beneath my sweater and jeans the whole time. And as I flipped over the price tag and saw that it was nine hundred euros, I was glad I’d already vetoed it.

“I’m not really the nightgown type,” I told her, heading back to the bra and panties, thinking how the apricot set now seemed like a bargain after the negligee. I picked up the matching thong and noticed it was half the price of the bra. But since it consisted of nothing more than a small silk V in the front and a piece of string in the back, you could see why it’d be cheaper.

But it was beautiful. And it’s not like I was paying rent anymore. Not to mention that I hadn’t brought any nice lingerie with me (probably because I didn’t own any). And Max was special. And I really wanted our night to be special. . . .

“I’ll just try this on real quick.” I told the saleswoman as I slipped into a dressing room.

I’d told Max I would meet him at Bar Hemingway for four reasons:

1. I thought it might be really awkward to meet up in a room that centered around a bed, even if we both knew that’s where we’d end up.

2. The bar had a strong literary history, with actual photos taken by Ernest Hemingway himself displayed on the walls.

3. I’d read it was the birthplace of the Bloody Mary—a drink I was quite fond of.

4. I was kind of hoping for a
Pretty Woman
moment. You know the part where Richard Gere (who oddly enough bore a slight resemblance to Max) walks into the hotel bar and finds Julia Roberts (who other than being an auburn-haired female bears no resemblance to me) looking radiant in her little black dress. (Let’s just forget the stuff about her being a hooker and him paying her to be there.)

I sat at a small round table, legs crossed, index finger making nervous laps around the rim of my wineglass, wearing a brand-new, sexy little black dress, a new pair of strappy silver sandals I’d bought to go with it, and of course, the very soft, very expensive lingerie that offered no support whatsoever hiding discreetly underneath. All of it conveniently charged to my Atlas AirMiles Visa card, as I’d convinced myself that not only was I getting an amazing new outfit, but mileage points as well, which would come in handy if Atlas decided to pink slip me.

“Bonsoir.”
I looked up to see Max crossing the room, looking amazing in a trim charcoal suit, with a lavender shirt and navy, patterned tie. “You look beautiful.” He bent down to kiss me, taking the seat next to mine. “Did you shop?” he asked, gazing at my new dress.

“I took a walk over to the Left Bank,” I told him.

“Walked? You should’ve used the car. I told Jean Claude to hang around in case you needed him.”

“I know. He mentioned it at the airport. But it was such a beautiful day, and I’d slept the whole flight, so I just felt like walking.” I shrugged.

“So you had a good flight?” he asked, motioning to the waiter for a glass of wine.

I thought about my seatmate and his disgusting bare feet. But I guess in retrospect, it had been a small price to pay to end up in a
place like this. “I slept right through it,” I said, smiling and taking a sip of my wine.