Hotelles (30 page)

I decided on another option, seizing an opportunity to gain control:

“Okay. Fred, there's something you should know about Louie.”

“He has a thing for you, right?”

It was amazing how, in the space of a few days and through the magic of his miraculous new job, Fred seemed at last to have cut affective ties with me. Louie had made a good calculation: by giving him back his pride, Louie had quelled my ex's anger as well as his feelings for me.

“Not exactly. Let's just say that he acts strangely.”

I was careful to omit the parts about invitations, commandments, and our rendezvous at the Hôtel des Charmes, and insisted on the way he tried to get at me through extravagant gestures, like with my mom.

“Oh, yeah, you're right . . . That's shady.”

“I hate to have to tell you this . . .” I pouted.

“What?”

“ . . . And of course it doesn't mean anything about your abilities. But I think that if he chose you it wasn't a coincidence. He's been using you and Mom to get under my skin.”

He considered me for a moment, circumspect. Suddenly, he sobered and I saw a familiar violence growing inside him.

“Okay . . . So according to you, if somebody offers me a job, it's not because of me but because of something to do with
mademoiselle
!”

I reached for his arm, but he withdrew it brusquely.

“Don't be like that, Fred, shit . . .”

He was already halfway back to join his peers, when my question stopped him in his tracks:

“He didn't tell you, did he? Did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“That you would be working for me? I'll bet he was careful not to fill you in.”

“Hmm . . . That's true. He didn't tell me. Human Resources did. But what does that prove?”

“Just that he's manipulating you. The list of technicians was decided over a week ago,” I bluffed. “If you landed here, and David doesn't know about it, it has to be because Louie intervened.”

“It's possible,” he admitted, guarded.

“You can't see that he's playing with you, with all of us? We're nothing to someone like him. Insects under his shoe!”

The image must have hit home, considering the look of intensity in his eyes.

“What are you suggesting?”

“If David learns how you were hired, he'll void your contract. I guarantee it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“When did you start work?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Well, then you saw how he fired those other two, the tall blonde and that cretin fucker . . . In less time than it takes to blow his nose.”

I snapped my fingers for effect.

“Okay. I'm guessing your silence doesn't come free,” he suggested, a sharp look in his eyes.

“Let's call it quid pro quo: you keep your job . . .” I paused, evaluating what exactly Fred had the power to give me. The only way of evening out the playing field with Louie, a new page in the silent dialogue we had begun.

“And me?”

“And you . . . you will record as many conversations as you possibly can between Louie and his entourage.”

“Are you crazy? Who do you think I am, James Bond?”

“I don't want to know how you manage it, Fred. But get me tape of his landline, whenever he's near a set . . . Anything, I'll take it.”

Albane interrupted our negotiation, but I saw him nod in resignation. Poor Fred: even good news turned on him.

“Elle? Will you get in makeup? If we want to tie this up before lunch, we can't dawdle.”

 

THE MORNING PASSED IN A
flash. Albane, whom everyone respected—regardless of title or seniority—stayed by my side. That, together with Luc and Philippe's brief visits on set to ensure that the first stage was going smoothly, helped to create a calmer environment between the crew and me. Even Fred laid low, keeping his wounded male ego in check and even, at times, making special efforts, like telling a joke to lighten the mood.

The girl on screen looked as much like me as an actress looks like her understudy, which is to say, very little. Still, after a few hours, I got used to my strange double, and my expressions and movements became more natural, despite the camera's intractable eye.

“Are you coming to lunch with us?” Stan, the show's director, asked.

I would have infinitely preferred a salad and a Monaco with Sophia, but I wanted to fit in, so I accepted the invitation and nibbled my shepherd's pie, trying to be as agreeable as possible.

Albane, whose nonexistent curves testified to a certain nutritional imbalance, left us when we got to the cafeteria. However, she was also the one who nabbed me as soon as I put my food tray on the dishwashing counter.

“Elle! Can I speak with you for a second?”

“What's up?” I asked, noting her irritable attitude.

“I hope you ate well—you're going to need the extra fuel.”

“Why?”

Without a word, in her authoritative and slightly snippy way, she led me to the ladies' room next to the self-service food court. Then, amid the brouhaha of powder room conversations, she stated simply:

“We start tomorrow night.”

To keep myself from fainting, I played dumb and asked:

“Start what?”

“The show.”

“Is that a joke? Did the others put you in charge of hazing me?”

“I wish, believe me . . .”

“But why? Who decided?”

“Who do you think?”

She suppressed a bitter smile.

David had decided to throw me into the lion's den before I was ready. I didn't understand the meaning behind the sacrifice. What was he hoping to achieve by sending me into a battle I could not win?

“I can't imagine the idea just came to him this morning when he got to work?”

“No, obviously not. We've just learned that our direct competitor pushed up its launch for a new variety show by a week.”

“And it starts tomorrow night,” I guessed.

“That's right.”

“But that's absurd! I thought we were slotted for Thursday because it was an underexploited time.”

“I thought so, too.”

“You don't send a cockleshell led by a ship's boy to face your biggest enemy!”

She must have liked my naval metaphor because she gave me a friendly pat, a rare thing for her.

“Well, we're going to have to learn to swim. We don't have a choice!”

We exchanged a few pained looks, both haloed in clouds of powder and perfume.

“What does Luc think?”

“Same as you: that we're going to get massacred. But tell that to an admiral who only has eyes for the seaman in question . . .”

I lowered my eyes, then my head. She was right. David's feelings for me were deeply impacting his judgment. He was not acting like a boss but a man in love: impulsive, overly confident, incapable of heeding the alarmed cries or sound advice of his entourage.

 

WHEN I PEEKED INTO HER
office, Chloe's eyes widened, sensing the urgency of the situation.

“Can I see David?”

“Yes . . .” She panicked for a moment before consulting her computer, then her watch. “Ten minutes. Then he's leaving for a meeting. Shall I announce you?”

“Yes, please do.”

My future husband received me with open arms, as though I were just dropping by for a visit.

“Elle! Darling! Have they told you the news?”

I had trouble reconciling David's stark office with the fact that he was such an important man. Outside of his desk, three chairs, and a small sofa, the only decoration in the room was a bronze bust of his father, Andre Barlet. It was the first time I had laid eyes on him.

David hugged me for a moment, then pointed to a chair facing his, as he would have done with any other colleague.

“It's wonderful, isn't it?”

“Wonderful, yes,” I agreed unenthusiastically. “But also completely impossible.”

“Why? Because of that lowlife Chris Haynes?”

“No, I—”

“I really don't give a damn about him. We have at least twenty sets on hand. They simply have to be installed, the lights adjusted . . . and onward!”

It sounded easy—possible, even—when he said it with that kind of enthusiasm.

“David . . . You're forgetting something.”

“What?”

“I've never been on television!”

“Don't be silly!” He laughed.

It was like trying to tell Dr. Strangelove
not
to press the button.

“No, really!”

“You're stressing over nothing. You have the best team in French television at your side.”

Including Fred, my ex . . . the guy who wanted to whack you a few days ago.

“Super! And what are we going to be talking about?”

“Relax! Albane told me she had enough stuff to cover three shows.”

Including a report on Hotelles!
I silently cried. I could not hold back my exasperation any longer. If anyone could open his eyes in this madhouse, it was me.

“David . . . are you trying to be obtuse?”

“What do you mean?” A cloud crossed his brow.

“I'm terrible! Terrible, you hear? I failed all my auditions, David. And not just because your competitors are blind idiots.”

“No, they really are idiots.”

I stood at once.

“You cannot launch a show at the most important time slot of the week with a beginner like me at its helm, especially without any preparation! It's insane! I am not ready, David, period!”

I saw the effects of my verbal explosion on his impassible expression.

“I won't do the show,” I concluded calmly.

“You will do it,” he replied, tit for tat.

“No.”

“You will . . . because it's what I want . . . because you are my wife . . .”

Not yet,
I couldn't help but think.

“And because if you leave this office without having changed your mind, don't bother coming back tomorrow. Or ever, for that matter.”

He was ready to fire me, his fiancée, the one he'd been praising to heaven only a moment before, as he'd fired Alice and Chris, cutting off their heads on an irrevocable whim.

“Think hard, Elle. If you don't do the show tomorrow, you'll still be my wife, the woman I love . . . But you will never again be employed by this company. That part of your life will be over.”

25

O
kay, even though we have to make this show happen on a dime, we are not going to half-ass it, right . . .”

The more time I spent with Albane, the more I appreciated this woman's energy. She was less rough around the edges than she seemed. As we worked on the following night's catastrophic deadline, I understood the reason behind her attitude: in a world dominated by men, there are only a limited number of ways to survive. Either you make yourself into a captivating and untouchable creature, a femme fatale like Alice, and then you have to have been blessed with the right attributes and accept life on a six-inch pedestal, your compact in hand—or you're like Albane, challenging men on their own turf, professional and loudmouthed. I had the whole afternoon to appreciate her innate sense of devastating humor and her capacity to make the most prosaic subjects fascinating.

“We can't just string the reports together like a kid making a noodle necklace for his mom. We have to find a common theme. Even if it's random, we have to stuff it all into a more general idea.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Mmm, yes . . . It's very junk drawer, but considering the timing, we'll have trouble finding better: something like ‘Summer's Top Ten Pleasures.' ”

“Not bad,” I approved. “We could even refine it: ‘Summer's Top Ten Pleasures—Five for Him, Five for Her.' ”

“Not idiotic . . .”

“Five pleasures each, including a taboo,” I added, ridiculously proud of myself.

“Excellent! That will give me a chance to include the idea Louie had me tinker with the other day. I couldn't think of a way to introduce the idea of occasional prostitution into a segment on summer break. But now it fits perfectly!”

This is how you shoot yourself in the foot while smiling.

“Are you sure? Something about that report bothers me.”

“Really?” she asked ironically. “Does it tickle your feminist side?”

“Yes . . . There's that. But I'm particularly worried that it might overshadow the rest. I know Louie considers societal phenomena as cultural. But if we could avoid starting the show off with trash . . .”

“I agree. But it has one major quality.”

“It's ready to go?” I sighed.

“Exactly. What's more, it was produced with Louie Barlet's secret funds. It will save us ten percent on the pilot, which is nothing to sneeze at.”

“Is that really all that important?”

“If our numbers are low, it will be vital.”

“I see. But who is to say that we'll fail?”

“I am. We've never done a show without preparation or even any promotion. With Louie's little caprice we can at least make the argument that your show cost less than any other . . . I say we should take it!”

I could not think of a viable argument against it. I was going to be presenting a segment on Hotelles. All I could do was swallow the bitter pill, and with a tall glass of water. For the moment, I made do with a few sips of the smoked tea Albane had made for us both.

“If you want, we can view it now,” she offered. “You'll be less nervous on screen if you have time to prepare something that will help you put distance between yourself and the spot . . . You know, like, ‘I'm going to show you a piece that's more about denouncing the jerks who use this kind of service than anything else.' ”

I have not seen many X-rated movies in my life. Four, maybe five, all during this period when Fred thought it would be a good idea to watch them together, to stimulate our mutual waning libido. The only thing I remember was this baseless yet irrepressible fear that crept over me during the opening credits. I wasn't scared of my reaction or troubled by the degrading show. No . . . It was an absurd fear that I would see my own face and body on the screen, like I had a twin who might have participated in the filming without my knowledge. I was completely stuck on this idea. And Fred could not understand what was terrifying me. Inside, under my marble skin, I was boiling. My sex was on
red
alert
fire. And the more one of the actresses looked like me, the more my cleft grew wet with a thick and abundant
fluid
nectar.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/12/2009

 

HER CONCERN FOR ME WAS
kind. Clearly, under her crude exterior, she was a much more subtle and empathetic being than she seemed.

“No, no, if you say it's okay, I trust you . . . ,” I said reluctantly. “You're the pro.”

An expert in capitulation, I spent the rest of the day watching her put together
my
show. What had I hoped, really? Hadn't I told David a few hours before that I didn't know anything about it? And if Albane weren't there to mitigate my incompetence, this show would be about as interesting as a DIY student project. Faced with her seasoned reflexes, my amateurishness was painfully obvious.

I was so busy going with my new friend's terrifying flow that I almost forgot about the Barlets, their tangled lies, and the traps that were becoming more and more complex.

My phone was on silent, and I wasn't checking my messages. Then, during a quick break, I listened to Mom tell me about how three workers had come by the house that morning to fix everything she had been letting deteriorate—for want of energy and funds—and that were such a daily burden: broken electrical switches, disjointed tiles, blocked pipes, chipped paint.

Albane returned to my office with a young brunette in glasses, who was weighed down by several spring outfits.

“Elle, meet Géraldine. She'll be in charge of your wardrobe.”

We exchanged respective greetings.

“We'll improve the concept for subsequent episodes,” she went on. “But for now, I figured we were going for a pastoral beauty, straw hat theme, so here are some ideas.”

Five tiny floral dresses, each one shorter and more transparent than the last. I waited for her to hold them all up to her chest before making my choice: pink and white, decidedly virginal.

“That one is not bad.”

“Sold!” Albane approved in a definitive tone. “If that doesn't rake in preadolescent to old men . . . then I know nothing about male fantasy!”

 

HER LIGHTHEARTED REMARK UNDERLINED SOMETHING
I had been trying hard not to think about: soon I was going to appear in front of thousands of anonymous eyes; they would be counting on me, judging me, scrutinizing my oh-so-imperfect person, and there was nothing I could do about it. Worse, I was choosing to put myself out there. Suddenly, in the face of this ordeal, the exhibitionism Louie had put me through at the Hôtel des Charmes didn't seem like a very big deal  . . .

 

THE WARDROBE DECISION MARKED THE
end of our day. Géraldine left, holding the chosen dress before her like the blessed sacrament of the coming televisual ceremony.

“What time can you be in tomorrow?”

She was really talking about tomorrow, Saturday, the first day of the weekend. But she did not have to remind me: from now on, I was going to have to make such sacrifices.

“Early. Before eight. David will probably be here, too, so we'll arrive together for a change.”

I instantly regretted mentioning my special status. But her giant good-bye smile showed she was not offended.

“A word of advice,” she yelled from the corridor. “Don't plan anything for tonight. Above all, get to bed early!”

 

I WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE
Barlet Tower when Fred appeared at my office door, visibly impressed by my sanctuary.

“Come in!” I said encouragingly.

He closed the door behind him, with a conspiratorial look I had never seen on him before.

“I have a little something for you. Two things, actually.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Louie is a very busy man. Always glued to his phone. Which makes me wonder what he's up to, besides being on the teleph—”

“Okay, get to the point,” I interrupted impatiently.

“He spent a while talking to his brother on your set.”

“Really? About the show?”

“No, not really . . . I couldn't record everything from the beginning, but let's just say that Louie seemed to be angry with David over Alice's firing.”

That was a surprise. What did her fate have to do with the egotistical dandy that was Louie? “My girlfriend at the time”—he had not mentioned her name when he was telling me about Aurora's death. For how long had Alice Simoncini been working for the Barlets? Could she be . . . ?

“Here, listen . . .”

He pressed play on a digital pocket recorder. The brothers' voices swelled to life:

 

“SHIT! YOU CAN'T FIRE HER
as though she were just a tart! Do I have to remind you of all the little sluts you've had sent to your office these past fifteen years?”

“Shut up! You will be silent now!”

“Oh, it's easy,” Louie mocked. “All I have to do is ask Chloe to take an inventory of all the blocks in your schedule marked ‘Do not disturb' . . . You're as easy to decrypt as a hotel room door, my poor boy . . .”

“The difference being that this place is
mine
. I can fuck whom I please when I please! Not Alice!”

“Is it because she dared to dream it could be a little bit hers, too? Is that why you threw her out? Was that her big fault? To have been stuck on you for too long?”

“That has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”

“Or is it because she's been hooking up with that idiot Chris Haynes? You don't want her anymore, but you hate that someone else is playing with your toy, is that it?”

“You're starting to piss me off, Louie! Keep it up, and they won't be the only departures this week!”

“Go ahead! Do it! If you only knew how long I've been waiting for this!”

 

SUDDENLY, A MECHANICAL NOISE COVERED
their voices, interrupting the conversation. Some technicians had probably shown up on set.

Under Fred's watchful eye, I said nothing of the blow I'd just taken and asked instead:

“And what about the other recording?”

“Telephone call from his landline. I had trouble intercepting it at first, but in the end it's pretty clear.”

“Whom was he calling?”

“Apparently someone called Rebecca. He didn't mention her last name.”

At last she was resurfacing. Though it didn't come as a surprise, her return made me uneasy.

“Go ahead,” I coaxed. “Play it.”

“Elle . . . I don't know if you want to hear this.” His embarrassment seemed sincere.

“Why?”

“Because they talk about you. And about David.”

What could they be saying about me that I didn't know already?

“Go ahead. I can take it.”

He pressed the button on his digital device.

“ . . . Becca? It's me.”

“Hello, my Lou. How are you?”

“I'll be fine. But the situation is getting harder to bear here.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“David and I almost came to blows earlier. I don't remember when we last had it out . . . but we were only seconds away from fighting again. Like when we tore each other to pieces over Aurora.”

“That's old history.”

“Yes . . . well, I don't think so. Not really.”

“Don't lose your cool,” she advised. “Not now. He has to keep believing that you're batting for him.”

“I know, I know . . .”

“And the other thing, how's that shaping up?”

“Yes. We're getting there. I think . . .”

“Do you think she'll leave him?”

She.
Was Rebecca talking about me?

“I don't know. Armand told me that she agreed to sign the prenup.”

“Don't get discouraged: so long as she has not said yes, there's still hope.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed, his voice unusually worried.

“Do you want me to speak with her?”

“Hmm . . . Maybe. But I don't see what that will change.”

“Do you trust me, yes or no?”

“Yes . . . yes . . .”

“Look, you asked me to dissolve the agency, and I did it!”

“That's true. Thank you.”

“I'll call her and let you know.”

“Okay, thanks. Good-bye.”

“Chin up. You know I'm here for you, my Lou. All of me.”

My head was spinning. I would need to listen to the recording several times in a row to fully grasp it. The familiarity between them, the way she called him “my Lou,” and especially the second part . . . the one about getting me to leave David. Why? I couldn't figure out the missing link between the secrets I'd just heard and the big erotic game Louie was playing with me. Was the whole point of it all to get me to give up on marrying David? And if so, where did Louie's dark designs come from? He had only known me a few weeks. And why had he made contact with me in the first place, with those perforated notes, even before I'd met the man I was going to marry? It didn't make sense, none of it . . .

I was deep in thought when I heard my phone ring.
Blocked number,
indicated the caller ID. I asked Fred to leave with a tense smile.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I'll go.”

He froze at the door when he heard my voice:

“Fred!”

“What?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said, misunderstanding.

“I mean, for
everything
. . .”

He shrugged and then dragged his feet to the other end of the hall. In the meantime, my mysterious caller had left a voice mail:

“Elle, it's Rebecca. Rebecca Sibony. I know you and Sophia have tried to get ahold of me . . . I owe you both an explanation. Perhaps to you especially. There's a little Lebanese restaurant at the corner of Rue du Roi-de-Sicile and Rue Ferdinand-Duval. Layover in Lebanon. I'll be there around eight o'clock. Please come. Alone. See you this evening.”