Hotelles (12 page)

Louie faked jubilation and shot me a look to do the same.

“One might say, yes.”

“That's my horrible older brother!” David joked, nudging shoulders with his sibling. “He's also Barlet Group's director of communication.”

“Director of . . . ,” I stammered, horrified.

“Our one and only . . . but he's also the very best, and by a long shot.”

It was clear David's excessive enthusiasm irritated Louie. And yet, in the presence of his brother, Louie showed a reserve that sharply contrasted with his attitude from the night before. An employee's respect for his boss? Or that of a prodigal son for his successful brother?

The CEO turned to his right and asked in a professional tone:

“Now, if you don't mind . . . I'd like to speak with Annabelle. Privately.”

“Of course.”

Louie nodded obsequiously, looked at me in a way I couldn't read, and finally disappeared into the hallway, the shadow of his long silhouette flickering through a play of light over the immense glass panels.

I can make out Louie Barlet's protruding, muscled ass through the light fabric of his tight pants. I want to grab it, squeeze it, maybe even bite it, and  . . .

 

Anonymous, handwritten, and unfinished note, 6/6/2009—No comment!

 

“DARLING?”

“Yes?”

“Sit down, please.”

I sat and found myself facing David for the first time in the position of a docile, good wife.

“I've thought a lot about your interview and everything . . .”

“Let's not talk about it.”

“Yes, let's do talk about it. I spoke with Luc Doré this afternoon. He's in charge of what goes on air at BTV. He's been wanting to add a culture segment to his evening programming. Our current Thursday night prime-time show isn't working. I've had my foot on the brakes about it, but I just gave him the green light.”

Brakes. Green light. The way he talked, you'd think David's job was as simple and carefree as a game of Mille Bornes. A game that he always won, of course.

“And?” I pretended I hadn't seen his cards.

He grabbed my hand.

“And, Mademoiselle Lorand . . . I should say Madame Barlet . . . I am pleased to announce that in a few weeks, you will be hosting the new general culture show on BTV. It will be called
Culture Mix
.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not at all. I got your demo tapes from your school and showed them to Luc. He was really excited about them.”

“But, David . . . I've never done a show in my life!”

“So you'll do like ninety-nine percent of television hosts: you'll learn on the job.”

He took his hand back and stood up. His internal Chloe-clock must have alerted him to another meeting.

“It's a provisional title, of course . . . If you don't like it, you can change it. I'm afraid I have to leave you. I'm already ten minutes late. We'll talk about it tonight at the house.”

My husband had just changed my life more than I could have ever dreamed. And my boss had just left without a good-bye, much less a kiss.

Sigh. They were both the same man.

10

June 6, 2009, early evening

T
he RER train ride to Nanterre had never looked so beautiful, nor had the trip from the center of Paris ever felt so short. I almost forgot about Louie and my equally disturbing harasser. I think I even smiled at my own reflection a few times like an idiot. I wondered if my happy bubble were contagious and if the other passengers could feel it. Maybe that was too much to ask  . . .

Outside, the fading light bathed the gray buildings in flattering hues, and for once they looked beautiful to me.

I was in such a good mood I decided not to stop by the police station, as I had been promising myself I'd do for days, and I even forgot to go to the bakery for Mom's treats. David's proposition had erased all my worries and fears.

“It's no big deal,” Maude welcomed me in her bathrobe. “I played grandma today and made a blanquette.”

Mom wasn't old enough to be a grandmother, but her sickness made her look like one before her time, with her matte-gray complexion, wrinkles that seemed to deepen by the day, and an increasingly heavy step  . . .

I felt uncomfortable at first being so happy in front of her, but then I couldn't contain myself. With one hand, I idly stirred the veal ragout, whose smell of nutmeg and bay leaves tickled my nose. A purring Felicity seemed to share my joy and wove around my legs.

I tried to minimize the exciting opportunity David was offering, but my mom understood it was a big deal:

“How wonderful, darling! That's wonderful!”

She pressed herself to my back and laced her weak arms around me. It almost felt like she was holding on to me for balance. I reached my free hand back and gave her a pat, keeping my eyes glued to the thick stew.

“Yeah, it is . . .”

“But . . . ?

“His help bothers me.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know, I'm twenty-three, and I just got out of school . . . and I'm going to have my own show, prime time, on one of the most watched channels in France. Do you realize what people are going to think?”

“Killer luck?” She smirked, convinced that was how young people these days talked.

“No . . . They'll think somebody pulled some massive strings. And if I'm anything but excellent, I'll be massacred.”

She pressed her cheek against my back like children do. Her voice was much smaller as she said:

“But you
will
be excellent, Elle. Period.”

“Mom.” I sighed, smiling. “You're sweet, but believe me, in television, this kind of favor will come back to haunt me. The boss's girlfriend gets the show. Everyone hates that: viewers, commentators . . . not to mention the other hosts who want the job. I know what it's like.”

I brushed aside the thought of the text message rejection I'd received just a few hours before.

At that moment, I caught a whiff of my mother's ever so reassuring rose perfume as it blended with the stew's juices.

“Personally, I don't believe in chance or luck,” she replied as firmly as she was still able. “If you get the show, let's be clear, it's because you deserve it.”

“Hmm . . .”

“Didn't you say that Luc what's-his-name really liked your demos?”

“Yes . . . Well, that's what David says. But I think he was just trying to please his boss. From what I saw today, my fiancé isn't exactly warm at work.”

“That's not very nice,” she chastised gently.

Surprised at her critique, I turned to face her.

“Not nice? To David?”

“You could have more confidence in his judgment. After all, as you always say: he owns a very big television network. If he thinks you're up to the job, I don't see any reason not to believe him.”

Stunned, I stared at her for a moment on the verge of tears. Then I redirected my gaze through the open door to the living room. A collection of photographs of me sat atop the buffet. It was a kind of memorial to all the triumphs of my young existence. The most recent pictures were of my high school graduation and then with Sophia with our college diplomas.

“Honey, it's normal to have doubts,” she said, folding her fragile hands around mine. “But given David's level of responsibility, he can't afford to take unnecessary risks. And he chose
you
.”

She knew the right words to say, the ones that soothed and made everything a little clearer, like when I was a little girl and would ask about my father, the only trace of whom I had was an old, faded photograph: him and a chubby me, dating back to the year he disappeared, late 1987.

Richard Rodriguez, the Spanish foreman. They'd had a shotgun wedding, and one day he left to do a job in Quebec that was only supposed to take a few weeks. He never came back. Just like that, a ghost.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I hugged her closely, trying to give her some of my warmth.

“Oh, I'm so stupid . . . I forgot the most important thing!” I was so excited I was clapping my hands like a kid.

“What is it?”

“Wait a sec . . . ”

I went to the entry, rummaged through my bag, which was hanging on a hook, and came back to the kitchen holding a long envelope on which was printed a line-drawn globe.

Maude looked at me questioningly.

“What is it?”

“Ta-da!” I trumpeted. “What do you think? Your annual Disneyland pass?”

“What?”

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or scold me. I pretended to whack her with the envelope.

“No! Our tickets for L.A.! David's assistant gave them to me earlier.”

“La?”

“Los Angeles, Mom . . . Get with the program, jeez!”

So long as I didn't push her limits, she loved it when I teased her. It made her feel more like a friend than a mom.

“You should have seen Madame Chappuis's face when I told her I was going to the United States this summer!”

“I bet she couldn't believe it.”

“Honestly, she thought I had lost it, yeah! ‘Right, America . . .' ”

“You should send her a postcard.”

“I'm going to, and you'll sign it. The old bag will have a heart attack.”

She took the envelope and stared at the boxes printed on the heavy stock paper with all the dates and codes. She read the first one quickly.

“We're leaving June twentieth?”

Two days after the wedding, I thought to myself. I hadn't told her yet. I didn't want to show how happy I was when her life was in the balance.

My wedding . . . Even to me the prospect seemed unreal. Almost none of my friends and family knew. David, in our few moments together, never brought it up, as if now that he had my answer, it was a done deal and the subsequent events a formality. As promised, Armand was working behind the scenes to make it a perfect day. He hadn't been consulting me on the more basic decisions (invitations, flowers, menu, etc.). I'd only ever hear about them once the choices had been made. And Sophia, who normally would obsess over this kind of topic, seemed uneasy about broaching it, even though the wedding was imminent. Was she jealous? Or annoyed that I hadn't told her sooner?

“Yes, we leave on the twentieth. Why? Did you have other plans?” I bantered.

“And when do you start your new job?”

“In theory on the ninth. In three days. Tuesday the ninth.”

She closed the envelope, grasped my hands, and looked at me with determination.

“I'll go alone.”

“What?” I stammered.

“You can't come with me. You will have just started a new job.”

“But, Mom, the plane leaves on a Saturday. It's not a problem.”

“Be reasonable: you're not going to go all the way across the world and back in a weekend. And I know this job is really important to you. You can't drop everything and leave right after you've been hired.”

“David is the one who bought the tickets. And David is
also
my boss, Mom. If he thought it was a problem, he would have said something. He would not have chosen these dates.”

Although she was weakened by illness, Maude was still my mother, which meant she was still capable of making me do what she wanted with just one look. Just one word.

“No, no . . . You're staying here, daughter. I'll go by myself. I'm a big girl.” She said it like she was taking a cruise for a few weeks, though it was hard to tell by her voice whether or not she was just pretending to be brave.

“I'm not just worried about the trip . . .”

“Am I misremembering? Weren't you the one who said that this clinic was
amazing
, and that a nurse would be at my side attending to my every need as soon as I got off the plane?”

“Yeah, I said that,” I admitted. “And it
is
amazing. It's truly world-class. It has treated the crème de la crème of Hollywood. As well as at least two United States presidents.”

“So what do you think is going to happen to me there?”

Nothing, she was right. The only thing that was going to happen in this whole adventure was that she was going to be cured, something the Max Fourestier Hospital in Nanterre had been unable to achieve, despite laudable efforts.

“Anyway, you know how it is. When you're happy,
I'm
happy. And if I'm happy . . .”

She stopped herself, probably out of superstition. She didn't want to think of her future but of mine, which she saw as bright. I decided not to contradict her. We could talk about it later.

 

THE BLANQUETTE TASTED AS GOOD
as it smelled, and I was relieved to see my mom devouring the mouthwatering pieces of meat. She had more appetite than usual and was clearly enjoying our meal.

“Did you see your mail?”

I had not yet requested a change of address at the post office.

“No. Why? Is there something special?”

“No. The usual papers: bills, ads . . . Oh, wait, here.”

She stood suddenly and made her way to the entry with surprising energy.

“You have a strange invitation.”

“Why ‘strange' . . . ?”

My question, like my fork, froze and hung in the air.

“Because there's no address on the envelope. Just your name.”

In other words, someone had brought the letter directly to my mailbox. And that someone had known not only that I got my mail at my mom's house but also that I came by regularly to pick it up. Like the person who wrote the anonymous letters in my notebook, I thought fleetingly.

I wasn't waiting for anything in the mail, and if David had wanted to surprise me with something, he wouldn't have sent it here.

Maude shuffled back to the table and handed me the envelope. I thought I would pass out. My hand froze on the edge of the paper.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked, surprised.

“Yes, yes . . .”

The color choice, a glittery silver, was one used for wedding or birth announcements, and also for society events like gallery openings or movie premieres.

I recognized the familiar hue of my Ten-Times-a-Day. How could it be a coincidence? The color was so rare, so specific.

“Aren't you going to open it?”

The flap wasn't sealed but tucked into the envelope's folds. Anyone could have opened it and read its contents. Without understanding why, this thought sent a nervous shiver up my spine.

The most visible aspect of its contents was a hard plastic magnetic card. Again, I thought I was going to faint when I saw the printed logo:

The Hôtel des Charmes

So he knew  . . .

Since the hotel rooms didn't have numbers, it was impossible to know which door this magnetic key would open. After I got over the initial shock, the first thought in my head was strangely this: without the room number, the keycard was useless.

I've already made love a few times in this hotel, but I have yet to orgasm here. I have not added my contribution to the ghosts of pleasure haunting its rooms. Do I really mind?

 

Anonymous, handwritten, and unfinished note, 6/7/2009—What did he know? He wasn't in my vagina and couldn't possibly speculate about what I felt!

 

A PINK POST-IT WAS STUCK
to the back of the card. I felt a wave of disappointment when I realized that the handwriting did not match the one used in the anonymous messages addressed to my body.

Dear Zelle,

tonight, ten o'clock.

Be on time.

Do not bring your phone.

 

The script was less jerky, more calm and even. It was the handwriting of a person at peace, as opposed to the worry and anguish apparent in the other messages.

“Bad news?” Mom asked, noticing my pallor.

After having examined the contents of the envelope, I was able to say without lying, or barely:

“Yes . . . I mean, you were right, it's an invitation.”

A white card with one sentence printed in the center:

1—Thou shalt love thy body.

The reference to the Ten Commandments was unmistakable. In college, I had participated in a daylong seminar on literary forms in the Bible: sermons, parables, psalms, etc. The Decalogue had been an important topic.

“Really? Where?”

Maude, who respected my privacy like it was a sacrament—a character trait that had made it easy for me to dodge her repeated requests to meet David—was suddenly curious.

“To a, umm, a masquerade ball.”

“Really? How cool! Is it at your school?”

She was forcing me to improvise.

“Yes. The student council president lives nearby. He probably thought it would be nicer to hand deliver the invitation.”

“You don't seem very excited,” she said as she poured herself another few drops of wine.

“You know me, big parties have never been my thing.”