Trainwreck 2 (Trainwreck #2) (39 page)

“Gloria!” he shouted again.

I turned my head away and bit my lip, battling more tears. Finally, the car started to move. Jaime stayed with it. Damn him! Was he going to run down Park Avenue with us?

“Nigel, step on it!” I ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.” He floored the gas pedal, leaving Jaime behind after one final, frustrated thrust of his fist on the glass pane. I heard him curse as we zoomed off. In no time, we were cruising down the wide city street. I spun my head around and could see Jaime still standing motionless on the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Park.

A golf-ball-sized lump swelled in my throat. Tears I’d been holding back streamed down my cheeks.

“Glorious, what’s wrong?” asked Kevin, brushing them away.

“Everything. Fucking everything.”

By the time we arrived at Teterboro, the nearby New Jersey airport that catered to corporate jets and private celebrity planes, I’d spilled everything to Kevin. He had listened intently, only stopping me with a question or two. Few things shocked Kevin; today’s events were among them.

“Shit! This is fucked. Maybe we should move forward with a different agency. We haven’t signed a contract.”

That wasn’t an option. The ZAP! pitch was perfect. It would take weeks, maybe months to find another agency that could come up with a campaign that was as good—if that was even possible. And in the retail business, the longer you waited, the more likely your competition would jump in ahead of you.

“Listen, Glorious. He’s on the East Coast; you’re on the West. There’s three thousand plus miles between the two of you. You never have to physically see him again. Everything can be done through e-mails and an occasional Skype. If someone has to oversee the shoot from our side, I can do that.”

I sighed with relief. Kevin was my problem solver. He always had been and always would be. I gave him a hug. I loved him to pieces. We would always be there for each other.

“What about Vivien?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about the little minx. I’ll handle her.”

By the time we arrived at the airport, I was feeling much better. Except for better and for worse, I couldn’t get Jaime Zander out of my head.

I braced myself for takeoff. The Gloria’s Secret corporate jet was next in line. My stomach bubbled with nerves. I squeezed Kevin’s hand. I was petrified of flying, especially takeoffs and landings. Flying made me feel so out of control. My life was totally in the hands of others. The pilot’s. And God’s. Unfortunately, I spent a good part of my life up in the air, traveling frequently for business meetings around the world. You would think the more I flew, the easier it would get, but it didn’t work that way.

Once the plane was up in the air and cruising smoothly, my pulse rate calmed down, and the butterflies in my stomach disappeared. A glass of chilled Chardonnay, served by one of the flight attendants, further relaxed me. By the time I finished it, I was sleepy and shifted my roomy pink leather chair into a reclining position.

“Wake me, when we land in LA,” I told Kevin who was watching an episode of
Queer as Folk
on his iPad.

“Sure.” He gave me a light peck on my cheek.

I closed my eyes, willing my mind to let go of Jaime Zander. The ache in my heart, however, lingered until sleep took over.

Six hours later, an announcement from our captain awakened me with a start. It was time to return our chairs to an upright position as we were beginning our descent into Los Angeles. Kevin had dozed off too. We simultaneously lifted our chairs.

“Home sweet home,” sighed Kevin, who loved sunny Los Angeles as much as I did. It was almost midnight on the West Coast. I gazed out the window at the myriad of twinkling lights below and smiled. Neither of us had known when we’d fled to the City of Angels how much we would fall in love with the sun-kissed weather, the Pacific Ocean, the Spanish architecture, and the colorful, multi-ethnic neighborhoods.

As the plane swooped down, my fear of flying once again took hold of me. My stomach fluttered and my chest tightened. Gripping my hand, Kevin comforted me. “Hold on, Glorious. We’re almost there.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the plane touched down on the tarmac. Home! We were safely home. I immediately turned my cell phone back on.

There were a dozen phone calls waiting for me from a private number. When I saw the equal number of texts, I knew who they were from. Jaime.

I read the first text.

Call me as soon as u land.

And then the second.

I can explain.

I didn’t need to read the rest. Nor did I have to play his messages. The last thing I wanted was to hear his voice. My body tensed. Pain propelled my rapid heartbeat.

As we pulled into the terminal, the phone rang again. Again a private number. I ignored it. The phone rang again.

“It’s him.” I clenched my teeth and looked at Kevin beseechingly. “Kev, will you answer it?”

Kevin clutched the phone and put it to his diamond-studded ear. A somber expression washed over his face. “Hold on, please.” His long-lashed eyes took in mine. “Glorious, you need to take this call.” He handed me the phone.

The phone shook in my trembling hand. I could feel my blood drain from me as I listened to a familiar voice on the other side.

It was Nurse Perez from the Cadbury House for Assisted Living. Madame Paulette was dead. She had died peacefully in her sleep.

My body froze over. I could only feel the scorching tears that poured down my face.

“It’s Madame Paulette,” I spluttered.

I needed to say no more. Kevin took me into his arms and let me cry on his shoulder. He knew what Madame had meant to me.

“Oh, Glorious, I’m so, so sorry,” he soothed as I heaved against him.

The plane refueled. Without ever leaving the cabin, we did an about face, heading back to New York. Collecting myself, I told Kevin about Madame Paulette’s wish to be buried next to her late husband in Paris.

“Glorious, I’ll arrange for her body to be properly flown to Paris. I’m pretty sure Sandrine, our Paris store manager, is Jewish. I’ll contact her to see if she can help with the funeral arrangements.”

Thank goodness for my beloved Kevin. Indeed, Sandrine, a good friend, was Jewish. My mind was in a thick fog. What would I do without Kev?

“Do you want me to come to Paris with you?” he asked.

A ghost of a smile flickered on my face; Kevin was always there for me. But this time, I needed to be alone. As soon as he debarked the plane in New York, I was flying solo to Paris.

I
arrived in Paris on Saturday a little after eight p.m. I was exhausted, totally jetlagged. Though we fortunately didn’t encounter any turbulence during the seven-hour flight from New York, the turbulent memories of the last twenty-four hours rocked my body and mind, making sleep impossible.

As soon as we touched down at Le Bourget airport, I got a text from Kevin. Madame Paulette’s body was being flown to Paris, and Sandrine had managed to set up a Jewish burial service the next day, Sunday, at the cemetery where her husband Henri was buried. The driver Kevin had arranged met me on the tarmac and whisked me off in his limo to The InterContinental Hotel where I was staying. Like Madame Paulette, I loved Paris. As the Eiffel Tower came into view, a pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. This time, my love affair with the City of Light might end.

Bleary eyed, I checked into the hotel with just a couple of bags as I planned to head back to Los Angeles on Monday after Madame Paulette’s funeral.

Having stayed at The InterContinental numerous times, I was treated with the utmost respect, the staff working quickly to get me into my suite. All I wanted to do was snuggle under fluffy covers and sleep. I couldn’t even see straight. As I followed the valet through the bustling opulent lobby to the elevator, a stocky man wearing a long black trench coat and wide brimmed hat that hid his face brushed by me, almost knocking me over.

“Izvinite,”
he muttered gruffly without slowing down.

It was Russian for “excuse me.” A chill ran through me at the thought of Boris Borofsky. I pivoted my head, but the rude man, whose back was now to me, was almost at the front entrance. I took a calming breath. I was tired. It couldn’t be him. My mind was just playing tricks on me.

Five minutes later, I was in my beautiful suite, with its plush four-poster canopy bed and regal French furnishings. I quickly shed my clothing, my lingerie the last to go. I could still smell Jaime Zander on me. The memory of him ravaging me on his conference room table replayed in my head. And then the sight of him kissing Vivien kicked that memory out of the ballpark. A mixture of rage and self-loathing coursed through my veins. I shoved all of my undergarments into the waste can by the sink, and then hopped into the shower to wash away the memory of this deceitful man. No matter how hard I scrubbed, his face lingered in my mind.

I towel dried myself and readied myself for bed, slipping into Gloria’s Secret iconic pink and white striped cotton PJ’s—made for sweet dreams
. Enfin!
I crawled into the luxurious duvet-covered bed and turned off the light. Unconsciously, I rubbed my fingers over my scar as tears leaked from my eyes. The words of my beloved Madame Paulette swirled around in my head.
It eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
In my heart, I mourned the loss of my cherished mentor and scorned the loss of Jaime Zander. My heavy, teary eyes couldn’t fight gravity. At last, sleep triumphed over sorrow, but sweet dreams were not to be had.