The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (33 page)

“Thanks. But I don’t need you to do that...when I meet someone I want it to be fate, you know...yet something serendipitous.”

“Whatever. Suit yourself,” she said flatly, obviously offended that I’d declined her matchmaking services.

“Nuilley, I’m sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. All your sweet efforts. It’s just I want to meet someone that when the first time I lay my eyes on him I will know...he’s the one.” I waved my hand into the air.

“Sounds like a fairytale to me,” she negated stiffly. “Real life isn’t like the romance stories you write.”

I shrugged, “Perhaps. But should be.” I rolled my eyes.

Nuilley let out an exasperating sound. “It’s not going to happen—love at first sight, and all the heart pounding crap is for dreamers. C’mon Brie, wake up.”

“Hey...I am awake,” I snarled and continued, “I don’t really care, Nuilley. You believe what you want, and I will what I want.”

“Whoa! Lighten up. It’s only a blind date for Christ sakes.”

“Christ’s sake,” I mumble, correcting her under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I exhaled.

“Well, I’m not asking you to fall in love with whoever I set you up with. Just have some fun and let your hair down a little.”

“Forget it. You just said you’d find me a man who will love me forever. Which is it, love forever or just have fun? They lived in fun ever-after.” I teased to make light of the conversation.

“I don’t know.” She paused. “I’ll take the fun, forget the ever-after.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” I short laughed. “I’ll want the happy ever-after and it’s not going to start with a blind date. They feel so contrived, for both people involved. Besides, if I don’t like him, or he doesn’t like me—but
you
like us for each other...it will feel shitty for everyone if things don’t work out—I don’t know—I just want to meet someone on my own with no added pressure from anyone, or you.” I poked at her arm playfully. “Don’t you ever want to be carried away by a force that can’t be touched?” I poked her again, teasingly.

“No, and be careful what you wish for. And stop trying to get me to fall for the romantic bullshit. You’ve been doing that for years. And, it’s not going to happen, not for me anyway. Falling in love is just a crock of bullshit. It’s just a word people use so they can control each other. So stop.” She whipped her shoulder around, turning away from me and stared out the window, pouting. Nuilley wasn’t one of those men haters; not at all, she just didn’t want to fall in
love
so she used the word derisively.

I shrugged. “Touchy, touchy. I believe it will happen at least for me. One day I will be swept off my feet by the perfect man.”

“Fine then, but if you change your mind, let me know. I know some great guys—doctors, lawyers, businessmen...shit! Anyone who’s worth knowing in this city I probably know them already,” she said pointedly.

Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.

“Alright, I’ll meet one of your friends...if it’s random. Like at a party, or in passing. I’d go for that. But no match-making.”

“Really? Okay!” The light in her eyes rushed back, coupled with a big smile spreading across her face. “I will have a party next week at my place and invite everyone I know. And you my princess will be the guest of honor.” She lunged at me and wrapped her arms around my neck, squealing with joy. “My friends will adore the shit out of you,” she said, releasing a long, airy victorious sigh.

Another wild idea. No, Nuilley. Why are you so stubborn?

When Nuilley doesn’t get her way, her French accent comes out thick and migrates into speaking strictly French, making it hard for me to keep up. I immediately bought
Rosetta Stone
after the last time she got her panties twisted in a wad, refusing to translate for me in a group of her French speaking friends. She left me sitting there, smiling and nodding like a dumb ass, having no idea what anyone was saying.

I wasn’t up for that, we had such a great night, and I didn’t want to end it on a sour note. I hugged her back, grinned, and half-heartedly relented. I knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer if there wasn’t some sort of comprise on my part. Or she would pout for the entire ride home.

“How about we go clubbing next weekend, instead of a party, and if we run into one of your amazing friends, then introduce him to me, okay? How’s that?”

“That’s even better. Great idea,” Nuilley excitedly said, with mischief swarming in her eyes. “I know the perfect guy, Troy Manson...”

She continued on as I angst inwardly, dreading the thought of being fixed up with someone she probably passed on. If he were so perfect, she would have wanted him for herself. Then I reflected on what she said:
I know the perfect guy, Troy Manson
. She didn’t say the perfect guy for
me
. Hmm, I wondered if there was a catch.

It didn’t matter either way, his last name killed the deal for me—for all I knew he could have been a distant relative of
Charles Manson
. The last time I’d allowed Nuilley to interfere in my love life was with Jordan, and that turned out to be almost lethal. Nonetheless, I knew she meant well.

Nuilley’s high-pitched voiced robbed me from recalling the past. “A friend of mine who works at
Play
told me Troy has been showing up there every Friday night since they opened. I haven’t been yet because most of my friends are in serious relationships, married or engaged—except for you”—
thanks for pointing that out
—“I’m dying to go to
Play
—damn, we should have went there tonight...what was I thinking! Maybe they’re still open. Driver. Driver, are you there?” Nuilley called out.

“His name is Armand,” I informed her.

“Really? How do you know his name?” She reached to tap on the glass partition window, but I interjected and grabbed her arm.

“Not tonight...please take me home. It’s really late. We can go next weekend.”

“Fine. I guess you’re right. We’ll look desperate showing up at closing time.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, adding a soft smile.

“We’ll catch up with Troy then, okay? He’s so fucking gorgeous. Oh my God, when he lays his eyes on you, it will be love at first sight. You’ll see. He’s everything you have always wanted. He has dark hair, dreamy-green eyes, and is sexy tall; he’s got to be 6’ 3”...I can’t wait until you meet him. Plus, he has tons of great looking eligible friends too, who I’m sure will be there hanging out with him, you know, just in case. Troy is...” Nuilley plunged on...her words blurred into a long biography about Troy—Troy did this and Troy does that. Troy, Troy, Troy!

I sat there listening, smiling, hemming and hawing when necessary. There was no doubt she had her eyes on Troy, and she needed me to come along as her wing-girl. Nuilley usually had an underlying ulterior motive despite her good intentions. Got to love her though.

When we arrived back at my apartment, Nuilley and I kissed each other goodbye in a very French sort of way, on one cheek and then the other. I always laughed at how the French found every opportunity to exchange kisses.

The cute limo driver, Armand, sheltered me from the soft rain beneath his big black umbrella. He walked me to my front step and then paused, smiled coyly and leaned in closer to me. For a minute, I felt that he might have kissed me, too.

At the bar, the waiters kept topping off my glass. I was pretty tipsy, and unaccustomed to such mass quantities of champagne. I swayed back and forward toward Armand and he reached out, holding onto my forearm, balancing me.

“Mademoiselle Eden, do you need help to your flat?” Armand asked. He certainly was easy on the eyes.

“Ooh, that’s so sweet of you, and honestly I told you to call me, Brielle.” With having said that, he nervously flashed back at the car. We could see that through the tinted window Nuilley’s cell-phone light was near to her ear. She was probably on the phone with either Troy, or the man she had just met. That was my guess. At any rate she was preoccupied. “I’m so not as formal as Nuilley.” I slapped a limp palm against his chest, and a rasp of a giggle escaped my lips, all of which, giving him the wrong impression.

“If you like, I can come back and check on you after I drop off Mademoiselle, Lambert.” His eyes smiled when he spoke.

“Oh no. Thanks though. On second thought, I think I can manage from here.” I flashed him—no, the liquor in my veins mustered up a bravado flirty smile.
Why not?
I thought about giving him a friendly little kiss on the cheek, which would have mortified Nuilley if she were paying attention.

According to Nuilley’s rules, it’s so not chic to kiss, date or even mingle with anyone you do business with, except for the clause, unless they are making six-figures or more. She could be the biggest snob. And, I’m probably her only friend who challenges all her ridiculous rules.

Second thought, there wouldn’t be as much as a peck on the cheek for Armand. My mouth tasted peculiar, like a mixture of sweet cream and cigarette ash. The thought of kissing him, even with his good looks, made me shudder. He probably would have shoveled a mint in my mouth afterwards.

So, rather than a little peck, I fished a few Euros from my bag and shoved them into his free hand before turning on my heels.

“Merci, Mademoiselle...I’m mistaken, Brielle.” He nodded politely. “Beautiful woman.”

“Merci,” I called to him.

“Brie, call me tomorrow,” Nuilley bit out from her now cracked-open window.

The limo’s engine idled as I punched in my private entry code on the keypad discreetly located behind a tall bush on the exterior wall of the brownstone. When the alarm buzzed, I leaned against the heavy double doors and pushed them open with my body weight, trying to keep my balance while inebriated.

“Night. Love you, babys,” I called out, and waved over my shoulder to Nuilley.

I had one friend in Paris whom I loved. Thank God, for Nuilley. Despite her reckless behavior with men, and her high-class VIP air that she put on in public, she had many redeeming qualities as most people do; she knew what true friendship was.

I stood there with the door ajar, watching until I could no longer see the taillights of the limo. I could hardly wait to brush my teeth and wash the makeup off before slipping between my new soft cotton sheets in my own bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows. Once completely inside, the sound of the limousine’s motor driving off down the narrow road lingered in my ears. The sound of stillness made me feel lonely.

There I was, drunk and suddenly ridiculously close to crying. It must have been the alcohol or the culture shock. Everyone back home had told me that I would cry when I traded New York City for Paris. While I recognized that I most certainly would cry here and there, I also believed that I would quickly embrace the heart of Paris, and then I would dry my tears and make a fantastic life here.

The brownstone’s atrium was oddly quiet, except for a faint whistle of the wind streaming through the cracks in the old walls. I walked to the stairs and grabbed the smooth wooden banister. I stood there for a moment staring up into the dimly lit stairwell, when suddenly I felt dangerously dizzy. I tightened my grip on the banister and started to make my journey up the stairs to my apartment. 

When I arrived at the second flight, I stopped to rest my legs for a moment and sank my butt to the stairs. There was no way in hell that I was going to climb three flights in my high-heeled boots. After all, I could barely walk on flat ground as dizzy as I was, let alone up the old rickety staircase. I felt the fizz of the champagne gurgling in my stomach, and racing its way up to my throbbing head. I prayed that I would not get sick in the stairwell.

I sat there for what seemed like eons trying to shake off the buzzing sound deep within my eardrums. The silence was deafening, making the mind-numbing buzz more intense. I decided to take off my boots to improve my heady equilibrium. I unzipped my boots and placed them beside my purse on the step below me. I also unbuttoned the top button of my jeans.

Not only did I drink too much, I had overindulged on the food, too.
If I continued at this rate, I
wouldn’t be a size four for long. I already felt positively obese by French standards, especially in comparison to the locals.

The women in the clubs I’d noticed were stick thin. The trend was to be a bag of bones, wearing size zeros—is that even a size?—pale-skin, no hips and a flat-chest appeared to be vogue, as well. It was as if they were competing in an anorexia beauty contest, and the
Skinny Bitch
book was the prized trophy. I on the other hand, preferred indulging on the French cuisine and wasn’t interested in any book that would scare the flesh off my bones, or possibly send me into starvation!

I stuck to the motto Tara from St. Augustine had preached to me:
embrace your curves!

I continued to sit on the steps, watching a few other late night partiers making their way down the narrow street. They made no effort to keep their voices down. Their laughter flooded my ears, which caused me to feel so lonely. Everyone seemed to have someone to love in Paris—everyone but me.

In the front window, I caught the reflection of my image. Damn, the humidity had done a number on my hair. It was no wonder I was alone, I looked like Medusa sitting there in the dimly lit lobby, waiting for some unsuspecting man to stumble into my trap and turn him into stone.