Love under contract

                                                                                    I.

Don’t laugh: her name is Zara. The Spanish chain that sells fashion to the masses didn’t exist yet when her mother gave her that name.  She named her after her Spanish grandmother, and her full name is Zara Catherine Amelié Coralie Valois-en-Beaujolais. Now you’re really laughing: you’re reminded of the wine, right? What a jumble – an international chain of  moderately priced fashion-shops and a wine . . . well, it is what it is, and Zara learned to deal with the jokes long ago, usually cracked only by those who didn’t understand the name and its meaning anyway – the common folk, as she always cynically observed.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror and was happy with the way she looked: a narrow face, striking green eyes, cat’s-eyes … people described her as beautiful  -- no, not people -- men. And when they spoke with her they probably had something else on their mind other than intelligent conversation, which would have been her preference.

As she re-applied her dark-red lipstick, she heard a noise that turned her stomach, followed quickly by the flushing of a toilet that confirmed what she had heard: Behind the cream-colored cabin door, Anne was vomiting for the third time today, and if Zara weren’t such a good soul, she would no longer be standing there. She was really proud of herself for being so humane.

Anne finally came out of the toilet stall. She looked terrible, pale as a ghost, circles under her eyes. Really shitty, Zara thought, but it’s her own fault. Why did she have to go to bed with a guy without a condom and then come to the conclusion that abortion is murder! And she didn’t even know the guy!

“Zara?!” Anne stumbled and held onto the sink. Zara glanced at her in the mirror. God, how awful.  She had already given her the address of her doctor, but Anne, with her extremely old-fashioned upbringing, didn’t take her up on it, and now she was in her thirteenth week.  It wasn’t as easy to find a doctor at this point, but if Anne wanted her to, Zara would try to make it happen. She had her contacts.

Zara should actually have tried to comfort her, to feel sorry for her, but since Anne had begun this nonsense, their friendship had frayed, and once Anne had the baby, she would be someone to avoid. Children are really the limit, Zara thought, sighing.

“Okay, put some powder on, you look really . . . ,” no, she couldn’t bring herself to say how miserable Anne looked in her black Celine sheath -- almost like a widow in mourning.

Zara handed Anne her Prada bag, but Anne shook her head. “I’m going home, I’ve had enough.” She sighed and looked at Zara. “What are we doing here anyway, Zara? This is a recruiting event!?” Zara grinned and picked up her new Hermes bag, “Yes, so?”

She was here for a particular reason, but she couldn’t tell Anne that, so she had to be creative. “Don’t these guys look good?” she said, meaningfully, although it would be difficult in Anne’s condition to find an appropriate man. Looking for men, or more specifically, seeking a suitable husband, was actually the favorite sport of the women in their circle.  Engagement rings were accepted and rejected by some of their friends, if one could call them that, often on a monthly basis. Zara had never, well, hardly ever, played this game – only one time, and she didn’t want to think about that now. She was very young then, Alessandro looked divine, and they had a lot of fun together. Not that she didn’t take the available men in the marriage-market into consideration, but she had other priorities in her life now, more important than finding a husband.

In fact, it was possible to find the ideal husband here – not only these young Ivy League graduates, but also established investment bankers and hedge-fund managers – and many of the Upper East Side girls wanted just that. Zara didn’t have to bother looking too hard since she was without doubt exactly the kind of girl most of these men wanted for a wife. Her family was the ideal example of rank and status, although most of these guys couldn’t even pronounce her name correctly, Zara thought disdainfully.

“Oh, come on – the evening has just begun!” She took Anne by the arm and pulled her out into the large banquet room.

Men and women, some older than they, a few younger, stood around in groups. They all had only one goal: to impress a potential employer. And they were easy to recognize: primarily men, thirty-five years old and up, in perfectly cut dark suits, with custom shirts and expensive silk ties – all of them graduates of elite universities.

Zara and Anne stood off to the side, as observers. Anne refused the proffered Champagne for the sake of her unborn child, but Zara couldn’t resist and took a glass from the tray which a young waitress offered, although she knew it would not be up to her standards. She tasted it and made a face . . . “Yuck!”

As Anne watched Zara, her face reflected what she was thinking: Why do you always drink what you already know will taste awful?! “I thought . . .”, “Zara, they’re Americans,” Anne declared through her nose, in a particularly pronounced British accent that would have pleased the Queen-Mother. Both of them exploded in a fit of giggles, like little girls. Anne was right; how could she compare this non-vintage Champagne to that of a fine, small Champagne producer. Zara’s name, after all, was also Baujolais, which is more than roughly similar to a wine always delivered on a specified maturation date in November.

In this light-hearted moment, Zara thought that Anne was actually very nice, even though she knew her only fleetingly. “Well, the two ladies seem to be having a great time.” Neither of the two young women had noticed that someone had joined them, and startled, turned to look over their shoulder. Zara recognized male beauty when she saw it, and what she was seeing now was not bad; it was without doubt beauty – despite the unmistakable German accent, which she didn’t find particularly engaging.

He was tall, very tall, blond and tan, with very blue eyes, a kind of blond Ken doll. About thirty, or thirty-five, with a completely flawless face, he was almost incredibly beautiful. No man should actually be that beautiful, Zara thought, startled.

He looked directly into her eyes, in which small gold specks shimmered. Then he turned toward Anne and smiled slightly.  Extending his hand, he said, “I believe we haven’t met as yet.” He was wearing an expensive suit, not off-the-rack, and even the tie, a pale pink, matching perfectly with his blue suit, was only the best, as was his cologne. Perhaps he’s gay? Zara thought briefly and looked at his long, slender fingers. Where do I know him from?  His face seemed so familiar.

Gregor had noticed the two young women as soon as they came back from the restroom: the tall blonde with the pageboy, who looked a little green around the gills, and the delicate darker blonde with the ponytail, pulled tightly back from her face.

He recognized the dark blonde immediately and thought that everyone who knew her was right; she did, in fact, make an impressive appearance. She wasn’t very tall; the woman with her, who was presumably her friend, was a full head taller. The girl was extremely graceful and reminded him of Audrey Hepburn – they way she moved, like a dancer, upright with her chin held high, and above all, the proud gaze. She was wearing a close-fitting, knee-length black dress with a high neck, and plain high black heels, with pearl jewelry, which further emphasized her lithe figure. The severe hairdo with the curve of the ponytail drew attention to her narrow face, the high cheekbones, and the sensually shaped mouth. She doesn’t really look like her mother, Gregor thought, although she certainly had inherited that aura from her.

“Anne Brighton, I’m pleased to meet you,” Anne smiled pleasantly. “Oh, Brighton, I know your father. I didn’t know that you were interested in a position in investment banking?” What was she doing here? Her father was quite proper, one of the many British landed nobility who had gotten their jobs through connections from their private school days, George thought.

Anne shook her head. “I’m just tagging along . . .” She threw Zara a look that said “Save me, I’m going to faint.” Zara rolled her eyes, silently mouthing a question in response, “Who is he?” Anne’s eyes widened in disbelief that Zara had not recognized Gregor, and she smiled at him.

Good heavens, all this unspoken to-do had really bothered Anne. Zara deliberated where she might have met him. She tried to remember all of the gala dinners and functions that she had recently attended, but came up with nothing. It had to have been somewhere else.

The tall blond guy apparently doesn’t find it necessary to introduce himself, Zara thought, quite annoyed. Now Gregor turned toward her and asked, “And you?” She had the feeling that he was staring at her. Didn’t he read any of the social pages? Just wait, she thought, I can be as arrogant as you. “Zara Valois-en-Beaujolais.” He smiled and took her hand in a warm, strong handshake.  “Well, have you perhaps wandered into this recruiting party in error?” he asked. His English with its hard German accent didn’t sound the least bit pleasant as it had with Anne a moment earlier.

In any case, Gregor was astonished that she hadn’t recognized him, although she pretended as if she did. He had noticed it immediately, as he spoke with her friend. Close up, she was actually even more beautiful; her eyes were like those of a cat, large, slightly slanting, and emerald green – and how petite she was! In high heels, she came only up to his shoulder.

Zara knew that he recognized her, and not only that, but he apparently also knew that she was not a recent graduate in search of a job. Anne signaled her with her eyes, as if to say “I told you; let’s go.”

No, first Zara wanted to know who he was, and only now had the conversation become engaging. “Perhaps I have an interest in investment banking?!” Zara said briefly, and flashed her perfect smile – practiced a thousand times before. “Really?” He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head toward her. “But you work for Harmann, Goodmann & Walters – or am I mistaken?” Gregor asked. This little minx . . . what game is she playing? Gregor asked himself.

Anne looked at Zara and her mouth formed some kind of sentence – should she learn to read lips in the future, she wondered? What was Anne trying to say to her? Who, for heaven’s sake, was he, why did her memory fail her now?! She, who could memorize lists of names on the way to an event – how could this happen to her? Probably the best thing to do, Zara decided, is to act as if I know who he is.

“No, you are not mistaken, but why are you so interested in why I’m here?” Anne, who was standing at his side, raised her hand to her neck, as if to suggest killing him. Murder? Zara didn’t understand. “You don’t resemble your mother very much; if she had your intellect she wouldn’t have lost her firm.” Gregor couldn’t resist this side-swipe to see how she would react.

Now she knew who he was: Gregor Levy, Doctor Gregor Levy, and how her mother always said that in him, the devil himself was concealed behind the face of a fashion model. Now Zara also understood Anne’s gestures. Of course she had expected that he would turn up here; after all, that was also why she was here, why she was in this country. She wanted to see him, the one who had made her mother so unhappy. Not that she was unhappy now, but it was because of him that her mother, a successful business woman, became a pleasure-seeking addict, in search of perpetual youth, deluding herself with one cosmetic operation after another, who changed husbands the way others changed their bed-sheets. And then he has the gall to make a joke at her mother’s expense, a woman whose life lost all meaning when he dropped her.

He, who with his good looks and banker-prattle, simply acquired a majority of shares and took over the firm, throwing out her mother, who had inherited the business from her father, declaring her incapable of running it. But she had never been able to find out how he had accomplished this!  He was going to have to pay for everything he had done!

Suddenly Zara could also remember his face, which she knew only from the photos that adorned every billboard and fashion magazine when he was a top model. She had expected that he would look much older since it had been a number of years ago that all of this happened. But actually, he hadn’t changed much – as if he were Dorian Grey. Did he also have a portrait that aged in his stead? He has to be between thirty-five and forty, she decided quickly.

Zara thought about whether she really should discuss all this with him now. He would regret soon enough what he had done with the firm, but he didn’t know that, nor should he know.

So she said only: “Nice of you to allow that I have a good intellect, even though you obviously don’t have a high opinion of my family.” He curled his lip mockingly. “As if the feeling weren’t mutual.” Anne pointed to her watch – can’t the woman talk? What was that again? Zara wondered, nervously.

“You have a point there and if I didn’t have such good upbringing, I would also say what I think of you!”  Now Zara remembered what Anne was trying to tell her by pointing to her watch: She had to attend a benefit party yet this evening, and the hairdresser was probably already waiting for her.