Beautiful Americans (28 page)

When M. Marquet picks me up, I try and give him my most appreciative smile. “Thank you so much for picking me up. And for having me back to the château. I love coming here so much.”

“We’ll go for a ride tomorrow,” he offers. “Right after breakfast. Vanille has missed you!”

What was once mysterious and charming about this big old house is now just plain spooky. All night, I toss and turn, jumping awake at the strange creaks in the floorboards above my head, hearing voices though everyone should be asleep.

Mme Marquet knocks softly on my door Saturday evening, just as the dusk is settling out the windows. I jump a mile at the noise, then dread letting her in. I know I need to talk to her about the break. Mme Cuchon reminded us just before the test that all of us staying in Paris for the break need to make sure and have our host parents call her to formally take responsibility for us for the extra time before Spring term.

“Penelope,” Mme Marquet says, swooshing into the guest room with her arms full of brightly colored satin, silk, and taffeta. “Would you like to come with us to the hunting ball this evening? The ball hosts, you remember
les Lafontants
, have a daughter your age, and they’d like you to keep her company if you don’t mind.” She spreads a metallic gold empire-waisted strapless sheath over my bed. “Maybe this Lanvin gown will fit you. I wore it on New Year’s last year. M. Marquet just adored that color on me.”

At Mme Marquet’s urging, I slip out of my T-shirt and into the dress, kicking off my corduroys modestly once the dress is on. I look at myself in the mirror. The bust fits perfectly, giving way to a slim fit through the waist and along my hips. The shimmery gold fabric complements the skin of my bare shoulders. I so rarely wear anything this form-fitting that I barely recognize myself. I lift my long hair and twist it up with my hand, wondering if I should ask Mme Marquet if she will do my hair.

“
Mon dieu,
” Mme Marquet says when she sees me in the Lanvin. “You’ll be a scandal in that dress. You can wear this old Oscar de la Renta.”

I turn away from her as I slip out of the gold dress and into a light blue taffeta ball gown that fits much less nicely. It’s about four inches too short, and princess seams were designed for a body much more voluptuous than my own. Even I can see that the gown is out of fashion, despite the sumptuous fabric and delicate stitching. It looks like a costume from Disneyland; something from a TV montage about Princess Diana’s gowns.

“
Très belle
!” Mme Marquet says, though I know the dress fits badly. “That one is much more appropriate.”

“You really think it looks okay?” I say doubtfully.

“
Oui
!” she confirms. She sounds so sure that I decide the dress really isn’t that bad. It was obviously very expensive, and the fabric feels amazing against my skin. After all, Mme Marquet knows much better than I do what to wear to a function like this one.

“
Ma princesse,
” she then says as she leaves to go get herself ready, and her approval feels so good I want to hug myself.

“Mme Marquet?” I ask her. This would be the perfect time to ask her to call Mme Cuchon. But she’s already gone.

 

It turns out the Lafontants’ daughter, Aimee, is not, in fact, my age. She’s fourteen, and has a gaggle of friends to entertain her. Everywhere I turn, there are older people, married couples in long-sleeved black-tie attire, and then younger kids in party clothes, buffed patent leather Mary Janes and taffeta dresses for the little girls chasing the little boys around in their shorts and knee highs. There aren’t any people my age here at all.

Mme Marquet takes an unprecedented interest in my well-being as soon as we arrive at the Lafontants’ mansion, which is even grander than the château. She introduces me to all of her friends with pride.

“
Ooh la la
!” the women fuss over me.
“Très, très belle
!”

Glamorous people, amazing food, chandeliers, an honest-to-God ballroom right here in the Lafontant mansion. I can’t help beaming as I absorb it all.

“Are you having fun?” I turn to find M. Marquet at my elbow, handing me a glass of champagne. I nod happily.

“Oh, yes! It’s all just so out of this world. I’m having an amazing time.” I take a timid sip of champagne. I’m usually not a huge fan of booze, but this tastes like heaven—bitter and sweet at the same time, and fizzing its way down my throat so easily that within a few minutes my flute is empty.

“Have another,” M. Marquet says, lifting two more flutes off the tray of a passing waiter. “And don’t forget to take a look around. It’s magnificent.”

A woman in a black two-piece beaded gown beckons to M. Marquet. “Have fun,
cherie
!” I can tell by the lightness in his voice that M. Marquet is drunk, but in a good way. “And,
cherie
, I have to tell you. I just
adore
that color on you.”

I giggle. A walk does sound nice. Pretty soon I’m going to be drunk, too—I need to pace myself.

I’ve only been drunk once, at a party Dave and Annabel had to celebrate their engagement. Before Annabel decided she couldn’t trust Dave, either. It didn’t have to be that way, but Annabel didn’t know the whole story when she disappeared.

The Lafontants, I’m discovering as I walk around their little palace, are one of the oldest and most established families of the French aristocracy. Their medieval crest is hanging everywhere, proudly showcasing the lineage of the family from before the modern age. Ducking into a candlelit corridor lined with old woven tapestries on one side and huge iron-framed windows on the other, I feel like I’m in an old fairy tale, especially with my big, puffy blue dress and my hair tied up off my neck, however inexpertly I had done it. I look at myself in the reflection of the window. It doesn’t matter that the dress isn’t a perfect fit or that strands of my hair are falling out of my messy updo. I look like I’m in a fairytale. I almost feel assured that I am going to have a happy ending here in France

Guests—and there must be more than a thousand of them here—are wandering about the château like it’s their own home, so I feel comfortable doing the same. Imagining that there must be an old library somewhere, I start to poke into the little rooms lining the corridor. Some look like offices, with stately desks and a thick layer of dust over all the papers, while others are storage rooms full of antiques. I even see a suit of armor in one of them. I long for Annabel, or even Olivia or Sara-Louise or Mary—someone else to explore this magical place with me. At the moment, I’d even take Alex—how envious she will be when I tell her the company I kept this weekend!

Farther down the hallway, I see a door cracked open, the light from a fire making shadows on the floor. I hear voices, making me curious. What is it about rich French people that compels me to go traipsing through their houses as if hunting for treasure?

I push the door open.

Mme Lafontant is spread out over a large banquet table on her stomach, her black satin skirt hunched up around her waist and her pale hips and thighs looking shockingly white against her black garter belt and silk stockings. And with her, I’m absolutely shocked to find, is M. Marquet. The bodice of Mme Lafontant’s dress is pulled down, and M. Marquet’s spotted hands are squeezed harshly around her breasts. M. Marquet lets out a loud, awful moan that I’d just as soon forget I ever heard.

I try to back out as quietly as I came in, but in my haste I smack face first into the doorframe. “Fuck!” I say aloud, trying not to cry in pain as I rush back down the hallway toward the ballroom. The train of this stupid blue dress is so long I keep tripping over it, slowing me down.

“Penelope!” M. Marquet calls after me, catching up with me easily. He’s tucking his tuxedo shirt back into his black pants. He still has the scent of Mme Lafontant’s perfume on him, plus another rich smell that makes me gag. He feels too close, too heavy.

“What are you doing?” I spit out at him. “Isn’t Mme Lafontant a close friend of Mme Marquet?”

“Ah,” M. Marquet says. “You Americans are such sensitve babies. Don’t be upset, Penelope. Nothing is the matter here. In France, marriage is much more open than in your country. Affairs are accepted; it’s commonplace . . .”

I lift the heavy hem of my dress and walk briskly away from him. The whiskey on his breath makes me nauseated, and remembering how affectionate Mme Marquet had been to me earlier, how she called me
ma princesse
, my loyalty is to her. When I come back into the ballroom, I can’t look at her. I might throw up at the memory of what I just saw, or cry. I put my hand to my forehead, willing the mental image to go away.

“Penelope!” Mme Marquet rushes to my side. “Are you ill?”

I breathe in for three counts, out for six, just like my mom said. “I’m . . . I’m . . . not okay, actually.” I take another long breath. “M. Marquet is—I just saw him—Mme Lafontant—on the table—”

“My husband was fucking Mme Lafontant on a table?” Mme Marquet asks archly. “Says who?”

Me!
I want to say, but something about her tone tells me this is one of those situations she’d rather not discuss in real terms.

“That’s an ugly rumor, started by jealous, silly girls,” Mme Marquet says with finality. “Silly girls who don’t belong with the good society of this ballroom. Go find our driver. It’s time for you to go home. Just look at you.”

“But, Mme Marquet . . .” This has all gone horribly wrong. I look down and see with horror there is dark blood seeping through the front of my dress. I must have cut my knee when I banged into the doorway. “Oh, God,” I choke out.

“And Penelope?” Mme Marquet goes on, clasping my forearm forcefully. “Don’t think I don’t know about your trouble back in the United States. Don’t think I don’t know how badly you are relying on our generosity. I know all about the lies you’ve told, the things you’ve neglected to tell us, to tell Mme Cuchon.”

I gape at her, panic taking over me. “You want me to pose as your daughter so that M. Marquet can look like a family man to French voters. What about the lies
you
tell? The things you’ve neglected to tell me?”

“Shut up! Just shut up you stupid, ignorant
vache
,” Mme Marquet says. “You slut. You tramp.” She’s drunk, and slurring her speech. Mme Marquet staggers as she pushes me out the front door, past the caterers and the servants and the butlers and the long line of valets and chauffeurs waiting for their passengers to come out. “I told you! It’s time for you to go home!”

“How can you be so cruel?” I ask, truly flabbergasted.

Our driver spots Mme Marquet and pulls up the car. “Go! Just go,” says Mme Marquet. “You think I’m cruel? You think I’m cruel? You don’t know anything about cruelty, you whore. Just go.”

I’m trying to go, but she won’t let go of the back of my dress. I fling her off me, and the strap she was holding breaks, ripping the back of the dress so it’s hanging off my back. The driver looks away as he opens the door for me. He’s the only witness, and he’d lose his job if he tried to stand up for me.

As we drive away, I see Mme Marquet fall to her knees on the gravel driveway, clutching a tuft of light blue fabric in her hand.

The Right Girl for Him

I
don’t know how Olivia puts up with her parents staying at the Hilton. It’s so tacky and . . .
American
. It’s not her fault, but sometimes Olivia is hopelessly gauche.

“Well, where is Madame Caroline staying?” Zack counters as we move up the stairs of the Ternes metro station on Monday afternoon. We’re headed to the Lycée, but just for a few hours. Mme Cuchon wanted to have a last meeting with us before the holiday break, most likely to lecture us on staying out of trouble while we are out of her direct supervision.

Zack knows how excited I am for my mom to finally come visit. I can’t wait to show her off! And she’s been so distant since the credit card incident and bailing on fashion week, barely emailing or texting me at all. She must have been really pissed! I’m ready for her to forgive, forget, and reinstate my line of credit.

“My mom is staying at the de Crillon, like always,” I tell him breezily. “You’ll have to join us for dinner there one night.”

“You’re kidding,” Zack whistles. “At the Place de la Concorde? You guys don’t mess around, do you?”

“Nope,” I say, lighting a quick cigarette as we walk to the Lycée. My mom was definitely not messing around when she canceled my Amex, that’s for sure.

Miraculously, we have time not only for me to smoke before school but to check our mailboxes in the office as well. It will be the last time we can check them before the break.

“Empty as always,” Zack groans, then goes to find Olivia. I bite my lip, noticing how careful he is to avoid Jay and the guys sitting on the couch in the computer lab, waiting for the twins and a bunch of other home-obsessed girls to finish checking their email and Facebook accounts.
I really screwed that up for him,
I think with a sharp pang of remorse.

“Zack!” I gasp. “Look!” Zack, out of earshot, doesn’t respond. There’s a package in my mail slot. Having a package in your mailbox is the most wonderful thing any Programme Americaine student can hope for at the beginning of each school day. A student who gets a package is the center of attention throughout the whole of the day, everyone wanting to know what American goodies they have and whether they will be willing to share them. Katie from Ohio is always getting gingersnaps from her mom, which are gone by the end of our first class. George’s mom sent him the
Bourne
trilogy, immediately sending all the other kids to their email asking for all their favorite movies on DVD. Mary orders books in English from
Amazon.fr
, and can usually be seen furtively reading a British version of
Life is Elsewhere
or
One Hundred Years of Solitude
for the rest of the day after she gets her package.