Love under contract (13 page)

“Maurice, I wore jackets that were tied at the ass!” Gregor said calmly and twisted his mouth into a grin. The two bankers whom Gregor knew only too well snorted with laughter, and Zara could also hardly suppress a smile. She had to make an effort to find those photos!

Maurice grinned too. He had a point, but Gregor looked divine in those jackets. He had legs that a woman could envy.

“But it all looked wonderful on you,” he repeated petulantly. “You forced me to wear the absurd things, and it wasn’t up to me-- I was only nineteen or twenty,” Gregor said, shunning any responsibility, and thought of the straitjackets that Maurice had designed at that time. “Those straitjackets were a horror and that white latex,” and Gregor also laughed, the thought of it alone was crazy. Latex -- Zara could hardly control herself, white latex! She had to get her hands on those pictures! “But you were on the cover of every magazine . . .” “Well, no wonder, Flash Gordon was once also on every cover,” Gregor laughed. The tension was gone – and even Nevill had to wipe away his tears of laughter.

“Okay, you have a point, the straightjackets didn’t sell,” Maurice admitted. “But, when I look at Zara in your dress, that was surely one of your best years!” Maurice nodded. He was right, those were his best years, his collections praised to the skies and also commercial successes. Clients who were already ordering, before the entire collection was even in the shops.

“Alright, I’ll sign and will stay through the next collection, until you’ve found your new designer,” Maurice finally said, and he sounded a little relieved.

Later Zara walked Maurice to the door and embraced him. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “Don’t be, Princess. He’s right, I’m burned out and I wanted to stop anyway.” He stroked her cheek. Your mother’s shops are doing better than ever, he understands the business, he has hired young designers, like the young Lebanese, who are really outstanding.”

Zara had lost interest in these details a long time ago; since it was no longer her mother’s business, it was no longer important. She didn’t want the business back, either. What she wanted was revenge.

But Maurice said that the shops were doing so well?! What would the value of the stock currently be? “If my name lives on, it will be more than I can expect, and you . . .” “Oh, I’m doing fine,” she interjected, avoiding the subject. “Look ahead, you’re too young to look back in anger all the time.” Zara smiled; Maurice wouldn’t understand.

He had already opened the door, but stopped again and said, “He was my top model, my star, he was like a god – and . . . Maurice smiled dreamily. “He still looks very good, different, but . . . Zara.” She looked at him, the graying, lanky man at the door, who once was the great talent of the fashion scene, the star. “Yes, Maurice?”  “He’s attracted to you, the way he always looks at you . . .!” Zara laughed quietly; that’s what she had hoped. If the first plan didn’t work, then the second would. “Maurice, he wants to marry me.” Maurice grinned. “Do it, Zara, do it!” Zara shook her head. No, she wouldn’t go that far.

In the meantime, Nevill had opened more Champagne, and the few remaining guests gathered in the Music Room and made a toast, clinking their glasses. Zara, who as always, had eaten almost nothing, only sipped from her glass. Soon the next bottle was cracked open. They all had a reason to celebrate. Gregor had raised the wings of the piano and begun to play.  What can’t that man do, Zara asked herself, unnerved.

Pondering, Zara sipped her Champagne and leaned over the side of the grand piano toward Gregor, so that he suddenly had a view deep into the neckline of her dress. She looked at him with eyes half-closed – and drew her index finger across his cheek slowly, so that it hardly touched his skin.

He thought his heart would stop. He had never seen anything so seductive. In the candlelight, her hair shimmered as if golden, her skin seemed as if made of velvet, the gleam of every diamond in her jewelry was competing in a wager with her eyes.

The touch of her hand was like fire; the hairs on his neck were standing up.

He leaned forward a little, his face was so close to hers, that he could see little more than her large eyes; his lips came closer, and he thought “I want to kiss her; I must kiss her.”

No, it wouldn’t be that easy, Zara thought and turned away with a cool laugh, smoothed the flolds of her dress, and went over to the others – as if nothing had occurred.

Gregor, however, asked himself what had just happened. The expression on her face was as if it belonged to another woman, not to the cool aristocrat whom he always saw. He wanted more of it, much more . . .

Gregor saw Zara the next morning, running like crazy through the Tuileries Gardens. What was the matter with her? Something was already wrong with her last evening.

He wanted to talk with her, but she didn’t appear to see him or hear him, until he noticed that she had ear-buds on. He ran next to her, and held her tight. She stared at him, frightened. Perspiration ran down her cheek. She wore a scarf on her head, tied in the back like a pirate, and the tight T-shirt clung to her; she was bathed in sweat. She was breathing heavily. Gregor reached for the earphones and took them away from her ears. He heard rap music coming out of the headset, loud enough to wake the dead.

Rap music? What was going on? Was this again a break from her façade – classic, jazz, he would have expected of her, but surely not gangsta-rap!

She seemed entirely disoriented to him and he saw that she must have wept while she was running; her eyes were red, and the traces of tears could be seen on her cheeks.

“What’s the matter, Zara?” He held her tight at the shoulders. She said nothing, just stared at him, as if she didn’t know who he was. Her cheeks were red from running.

Zara was not yet quite aware of who he was. This morning she had read the bank reports that her mother had given her – at first glance it appeared that there was absolutely nothing left of their properties – everything was burdened with mortgages, credit payments were in arrears – and her mother was lucky that Antonio would be paying her alimony, at least until her next marriage.

The mere thought that the property that had belonged to her family forever was gone had completely shattered her. First her mother had sold the family jewelry and now this. What was she to think? In addition, if it became known that she had to sell the remaining properties, a scandal would ensue. Yes, and then Zara had danced through the night with friends. She had dipped back into her old life and had also taken some of these colorful little mood-enhancers, and was now completely beside herself. Her body was no longer used to it.

“Zara, say something already!” This was not the arrogant aristocrat, this was simply a girl that was completely messed up, with pupils as large as a wagon wheel. She still couldn’t answer, and she also didn’t want to cry in front of him, not him! She pressed her lips together and lightly pushed him away from her with both hands.

“Come on, Zara, we’ll go get a coffee,” he suggested and took her hand. She let him, feeling his fingers on her arm. It wasn’t unpleasant – and didn’t she want it?

There was a small café very close by, and Gregor ordered a large cup of black coffee, which he pushed toward Zara; she had sat down on the sofa and now ran her hand over her forehead.

As if she were hypnotized, she took the coffee and drank some. Her hands were shaking. It was bitter and strong and her stomach rebelled. Aghast, she hurtled past Gregor toward the toilet, who didn’t understand at all what was now the matter with her.

She returned looking very pale, and ordered a bottle of water. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I feel terrible,” Zara murmured, thinking that there must have been too many little pills, or she had gotten the wrong ones, which could have happened. She couldn’t remember too much. How long had the party lasted, where did she actually wake up – and with whom? Did she spend the night alone? Ugh, she must also have gotten her hands on too much of that powder.

What was Gregor doing here, in running clothes, unshaven . . . hmm, even like this he didn’t look bad – really manly.

“You haven’t eaten anything,” he realized. Since Christmas, he had already suspected that she had an eating disorder. Zara didn’t answer. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Gregor laughed.  “Well, marvelous!  You have time-outs!” he said, and ordered toast and coffee.

Zara wanted to get up but Gregor held her down. “Don’t get up; the toast is for you. You can tell me now what’s going on, or I’ll find out. I hear things.” “Are you crazy?! And I don’t know why you’re being so forward and familiar?” Gregor grinned. Judging by her snippy tone, she was obviously feeling better.

The toast arrived and Gregor pushed it in front of Zara. She looked at the two slices of bread as if they were from another planet. She wasn’t hungry; she was rarely hungry; eating was a waste of time and made one fat besides.

“Very well, Princess, then we’ll talk about our future instead. We’ll prepare a contract, you’ll get it when we’re back in New York, and I’d like to have it back – signed – before my birthday . . .”

He was handling her like a business, she thought, and was speechless for a few minutes.

“I believe I haven’t said yes, right?” She asked, astonished – or did she? No, surely not. “But also not no . . .” He leaned forward, she bent back. “I didn’t come for that . . .” She looked at the toast and stood up. “Doctor Levy, I am not a car!”  “No, much more expensive, and moreover, I’m not that interested in expensive cars,” he said, and smiled. Gregor crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at her, standing before him at the table, a little confused as to what she should do. “Why do you actually want to marry me?” She still didn’t understand why he was so eager. Sex, she could understand; but marriage? Gregor leaned back and still smiling, looked at her.

“To you, I’m just this conceited aristocrat . . .” She had heard him say it himself. “Hmm, I won’t deny that,” he said seriously.

He noticed that the couple behind them suddenly began to listen to what they were saying and got up, quickly laid down the money to cover the check and took Zara by the arm, pulling her out of the café.

On the sidewalk, in the warm winter sun, he stopped and looked at her. “Because I like perfection and challenge!” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was she supposed to be a kind of trophy?

“You are completely mad; there are plenty of other women who would participate in such folly voluntarily!” Gregor laughed. He stood in front of her and although she had no make-up on, was sweaty and snippy, he couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman. Her green eyes sparkled; under the scarf, her long hair fell in curls, no, he didn’t want anyone else.

“That may be; I know that I can have almost any woman,” he said, self-assured. Of course he knew what he looked like; that’s why there were mirrors. “But I don’t want other women. I want you and am prepared to pay a lot . . .”

He had a point. Zara thought about her financial situation and sighed.  “Okay, and now tell me what’s the matter!” She shook her head. “That’s none of your business,” and thought, not yet. “As you wish . . .” He let her go – she took a few steps, put her earphones on again, turned on her MP3-Player and started off, in the direction of the Tuileries.

Gregor watched her go and thought that he would find out what was going on. He contracted a detective agency the same day in order to find out everything – down to her bra size. Zara had no idea about what he was up to.

She knew him better than she would have liked. One phone call would be enough and he would only find out what she wanted him to know – and no more. He wanted a contract? No problem. Let’s see what she could get for sex. On the other hand, sex with him wouldn’t be so bad. She had slept with many men who weren’t half as attractive as he. But he should find out as little about that as about the cocaine and the colorful little pills . . .

Back in New York, after further frustrating days in which she gained insight into the mountain of debts her mother had accrued, Zara had her first encounter with her future stepfather in the bar of the chic Hotel Morgan.

Zara entered the bar and saw her mother with a slightly overweight, somewhat tall banker, sitting in a corner, on the most gay dark-red floor cushion imaginable, giggling like teenagers. His hands were all over her, and her mother, fresh from a recent trip to the hairdresser and the cosmetic surgeon, was behaving like a bitch in heat. Antonio was really a refreshing exception in her collection of husbands, Zara thought, annoyed.

Owen Keanne looked beyond Aceline and saw Zara coming toward them. She was wearing a bright red lace dress which had a high hemline in the front, since it was a wrap-around style. Her hair was done as she so often wore it – straight back and close to the head, with a side-part.

Owen let go of Aceline and said to her softly, “Your daughter has arrived!” Aceline looked in Zara’s direction and smiled. Why did this girl not find a man? She had so hoped it would be Robert, but again, nothing. The little dumb-bell sent the engagement ring back!

Aceline had to listen again and again, during every girl-talk session in which she took part, about her daughter’s inappropriate behavior. With Robert, Zara finally had the chance to lead a life appropriate to her station, and to leave behind, this dumb (in her view) lawyer-job. Career and independence. Pooh! She herself had to learn with much pain where that led . . .

“Mama . . .” Zara bent down to her mother and kissed her on the cheek. “Zara, how nice of you to come, albeit late,” her mother said, and smiled wearily. “I’m sorry but I have a job,” she excused herself assertively. She extended her hand to Owen, who stood up quickly and held her hand longer than Zara would have liked. “So, this is your future stepfather,” Aceline said smiling, and beamed at Owen. From this moment forward, Owen, however, stared at his future stepdaughter’s neckline and the conversation circled only around potential sons-in-law, so that Zara, unnerved, threw a glance at her wristwatch with ever greater frequency.