Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (15 page)

FACEDOWN IN BED,
I woke
abruptly and searched for what had brought me out of a deep sleep. I uncoiled
the sheet from around my hips and lay on my side, facing him. I smiled,
absorbing him, his bedroom, and the unfamiliar noises of his apartment and the
street below. I lay quite still, observing the boyish quality his features took
while he slept. His long, lean leg slid across the white linen and rested
against me. I was lying there, happily reliving making love with him, when I
heard a clang.

I quietly called his name a couple of times, which proved
useless. I ran and got his bathrobe, gathering up the excess fabric and
knotting the belt as I stealthily crept down the hall toward the kitchen. I
heard another clang. It was the distinct sound of pots being knocked about. With
a gulp, I took a deep breath, quickly peeked around the corner, and found an
absolutely exquisite young woman trying to brew coffee while she muttered and
cursed under her breath.

Hmmm
. How to proceed? Pop out of nowhere? Flush the
hallway toilet? I stood there, dithering, when suddenly the girl and I were eye
to eye. My heart jumped into my throat as I clutched the bathrobe tightly shut
while she drew in a quick breath and came to a complete stop. Utter surprise
was painted across her face—heavily fringed brown eyes popped wide open beneath
unruly brown hair, and dark red lips parted in an “o” across flawless white
skin. Features so unlike her father’s. What gave her away as his child was her
self-possession. Even shocked, she stood poised, calm.

Keenly aware that I must have morning breath, I walked
around her, saying, “You must be Chantal. I’m,
er
, Kathleen,” while I
hunted down a glass and drank a huge glass of water.

I was completely unprepared to be enveloped in a hug. So not
French. “Kathleen, I am so pleased to meet you.”
Apparently!
“Is he
still asleep?” she asked. I nodded. “Get dressed. Let’s go for coffee.”

In unfamiliar territory, I agreed.
Not exactly how I
thought this morning would go.

If the French had the concept of “the walk of shame,” I
hadn’t heard about it. Leaving the apartment with her, wearing the same clothes
I’d had on yesterday—a complete tell that my sleepover had been unplanned—wasn’t
too awkward. I secured all the buttons down the front of my knee-length,
slightly too formal Proenza Schouler wool coat then swirled a silver cashmere
scarf around my neck.

I kept pace beside her, listening to her talk about how glad
she was to meet me and how happy her father had been since meeting me. I found
her emotional exuberance sweet and a little overwhelming. Grateful that the
morning air was crisp, I burrowed my face in my coat and scarf, hoping to hide
my feelings. We walked familiar streets until I wasn’t too surprised we ended
up at Du Pain et Des Idées.

Peeking through the large glass windows, we saw a myriad of people
making their selections of fresh pastries stacked in baskets and piled on trays.
The buttery air was heavenly when we entered, and I found myself at peace.

“Mademoiselles?” asked a kind-faced man when it was finally
our turn.

I gave Chantal the go-ahead to order for me. “We would like
three fruit mouna, three croissants, three fig tartine, and two
pain des
amis
. Oh, and two baguettes.”

As he handed Chantal her bag, I asked for a dozen chocolate
and pistachio escargot. When she raised her eyebrows, I said, “I have friends in
from out of town, and I thought they would enjoy trying them.”

I offered to pay for breakfast.
She looked dubious for a moment and then accepted, after negotiating paying for
the coffee. I knew they didn’t serve coffee here, so I immediately began to
wonder where our next stop would be.

The shop owner handed me my pastries and change before
offering a hasty, “Au revoir.”

I opened the bag containing the delicate pastries and
inhaled. Inside were pinwheel-shaped layers of golden, flaky dough topped with
finely chopped green pistachios and gooey chocolate. “Heaven,” I said.

She smiled politely at me.

You need to live somewhere without a boulangerie every
block to know how heavenly this really is.

I followed her without question and was surprised to find us
out front of
Sébastien’s building. “Papa should be
awake. He will make us coffee.”

Papa?
Papa, indeed.
My
brain worked double time to combine the concept of someone’s father with the
man who had loved me so thoroughly and without restraint the previous night.

As she fumbled with her
keys, I took a deep breath of Parisian autumn air and remembered why I had
chosen this remarkable place to live. A quote by
Honoré
de Balzac rushed into my thoughts: “
Whoever
does not visit Paris regularly will never really be elegant.” I had stumbled my
way here, and here I wanted to stay.

When
we walked in the front door, he looked up from his paper and greeted us.
“Bonjour! What a lovely way to start the day.” Before he kissed me, he gave me
a questioning look. “Merci for the note. I was wondering what happened to you,”
he whispered in my ear.

In
lieu of answering him, I handed him bags of pastries. “We bought food. Chantal
promised me you’d make coffee.”

“Of
course, chérie.”

***

As
Chantal departed, I stood in the kitchen, cleaning up and watching them at the
door. He slipped a handful of euros into her hand and kissed her hair before
saying goodbye. It was a perfectly normal scene.

By the time she had
announced her departure to meet friends, I had merged Sébastien’s two selves,
to some extent. I had also absorbed the facts that I was twelve years older
than she and he was eight years older than I. Did that mean anything? No. It
didn’t. Well, it kind of did. I was a little uncomfortable, but “early days”
yet.

He came to me and nuzzled my ear. “Merci for everything. I’m
sorry if her rattling around this morning frightened you. I gave her money and
told her to buy coffee.”

I chuckled at his words. “Will she buy coffee with it? Or
will she be here tomorrow for coffee?” I couldn’t resist asking.

He turned me around and hugged me close. “I think now that
she knows you spend the night, she’ll be more restrained.”

I pulled back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to change anything.”

“Chérie, I want you to change everything.” He kissed me
tenderly. My knees trembled; my heart fluttered. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Breathless, I said, “I have to go to Vivienne Westwood and
Rahul Mishra. I’m supposed to see Nina Ricci, but I’ve never really liked their
collections.”

“We have time, chère, I promise.”

Our lovemaking was passionate, intense. Clothes were quickly
shed, and desire tossed leisurely foreplay out the window. It was breath stealing,
raw, and honest. It was sensual.

“You might have bruises later,”
Sébastien
softly chuckled.
I only managed a grunt of concern, still catching my
breath. “I promise to be gentle from now on.”

Feeling brave, I looked at him. “Variety is the spice of
life. Now, let’s shower.”

“Oh. My. God. That was a fecking
train wreck,” Marian pronounced Vivienne Westwood’s show. We were in complete
agreement. She continued, “Jaysus, what was up with the floating coat? What was
that supposed to represent? It’s a bit early for Halloween.” Her off-the-cuff
comment about one of the models draped in a gold dress within an armature
hidden by a man’s overcoat sent us into hysterics.

“Sorry, but that was one of her lesser sins. The men in
booties, rope belts, and the knotted-up, tattered fabric were atrocious,”
Hillary added, once we’d caught our breaths.

I made some kind of zerbity sound, chastising, “Don’t tell
me you’ve forgotten the red toga or the jester suit bedazzled with feathers at
the nipples. Were those just to make the other pieces actually look good? Oh my
god, I think she has actually lost it.”

We had ducked out of the Westwood show without any remorse. We
fled to Rahul Mishra’s showing. Since we had plenty of time, we went in search
of somewhere to get a drink.

I had promised Liam that I would coddle Charlotte, so
instead of walking, I hailed a taxi. I could tell that our driver was clearly
dazzled by the carload of beautiful, well-dressed women. Impersonating an
American speaking atrocious French, I asked, “Excuse me, can you take us
somewhere really special for a drink, a cocktail, near Palais de Tokyo? We’ll
pay you a little extra.” I threw in the last bit, thinking this would be
something a naïve American would do. I added a silent apology to the universe
for betraying my countrypersons.

He cast a glance at Charlotte’s belly. “For just a little
extra, I can give you my cell number, wait for you, and take you to your next
rendezvous.”

Well, that was a surprise. “How much extra?” I asked,
sounding a whole lot more French. He named an ungodly number of euros. I
covertly looked at Charlotte’s belly, where her hand stroked the massive mound.
In perfect French I said, “Fine. But you’d better be less than two minutes
away.”

He gave the typical response, “Of course.” I rolled my eyes
and prayed it would all work out. He said, “I recommend the bar at Hotel De
Sers.” I nodded, and off we went.

The bar in the hotel was super-trendy: chrome, glass, and
mirrors. It reminded me of one we had gone to a few years before, in New York
City. Liam had returned to Ireland and Charlotte had been a mess, not knowing
when she’d be seeing him again; we’d gone over to cheer her up. The de Sers was
beautiful. It just could have been anywhere.

We were debating between two cocktails, a French 125 or the
Summit, when the waiter arrived. He waited while I said, “Given the press
coverage, controversy, and deliberation every designer inspires, I think we
should try the Summit.”

“Perhaps, you begin with it and then have a French 125, to
remember that Paris is a city of romance.” He dazzled us with his sexy, French-accented
English.

Marian was white knuckling it. I could practically see her
talking herself out of crawling across the glass table after him. Apparently,
Charlotte could, too. She whispered in Marian’s ear, “Easy girl.”

When he gave her a flirty look before leaving, I thought,
Poor
man. He has no idea what could happen if he keeps that up.
While I only had
her stories to base my theory on, my instincts told me Marian could be quite
adventurous in bed.

We arrived at the showing in prime form, ready to be dazzled
by the one designer we all agreed upon: Rahul Mishra.

***

Perched on the edges of our chairs,
we strained to see every delicate piece of fluttering fabric waft by. Elegant,
effortless, fresh.

“How does he do this?” Tiziana asked me.

I shrugged. I had no idea. In between gasps,
oohs
,
and
ahhs
, I ticked off the items that I wanted.

Quietly, Marian called out to Hillary, “That would be great
for you. Contemporary chintz.”

I waited for the scathing retort, but instead Hillary gave
the white dress, heavily embroidered with bright flowers and geometric
patterns, a closer look and then jotted something down on the paper she was
taking notes on.

“Oh my god, Kathleen, that is so you!” Charlotte clutched my
arm excitedly. Walking toward us, a model wore a full-length gown in pale,
stormy gray that was heavily embroidered. Asymmetrical, one sleeve was full
length and the other arm and shoulder were bare. Sultry lines were created by a
cluster of small flowers hugging the right side of the waistline that radiated
out to larger geometric shapes and bold, organic lines that ran the length of
the dress. The effect was stunning. I was in love. I quickly tallied and, of
the thirty-three pieces we’d seen, nineteen I could wear to work and four I
would wear for fun.

“What do I do?” I asked Marian. “I can’t afford all these.”

She inclined her head in Tiziana’s direction “Quick! Touch
Queen Midas with your bag, and see if it turns to gold.”

I snickered at her quick wit. The tote I had that day was
enormous, and it would take about that much gold to purchase everything I
wanted.

After lingering at the after party while I checked my watch
repeatedly. It was time for me to make a getaway. “Girls, I’m going to head out
for just a bit. We’ll meet at Brasserie Lipp, right?”

They sent me telling glances but said nothing, only waved
goodbye.

Sitting in the back of the taxi, I
unbuttoned the top two buttons of my black silk top and added a thin silver
necklace with a square crystal that sparkled amongst my cleavage. I let my hair
down, brushed it, and quickly swiped bright red lipstick on. The taxi driver
dropped me off at the corner of Rue Yves Toudic and Rue Beaurepaire. At the
heart of Enclos-St-Laurent, I spritzed myself with my favorite combination of
Jo Malone perfume, discreetly misting some of the secret places of my body. As
I walked, I smoothed my skirt and wondered if I ought to do one of the buttons
back up.
Kathleen, be brave. Be sexy.

I was at Du Pain et Des Idées once again. The shop was
empty, except for the same attractive man who’d helped Chantal and me earlier.
“
Bonsoir
,” he greeted me, while his eyes subtly took me in, head to toe.
I flushed. Nowhere to hide; no throng of people. I smiled benignly and looked
about at the old-world elegance of the boulangerie. “We don’t have a very large
selection, as we are about to close. I’m sorry.” Warmth bloomed in his eyes. “I
recognize you. You are the
l ’escargot chocolat pistache
!”

“I am.” I felt pleased and surprised he remembered me. He
must have hundreds of customers per day.

“Did your friends enjoy their escargots?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him they were still sitting
on my kitchen counter. “They did.” Before he could say more, I apologized, “I’m
meeting a friend. Do you mind if I wait here until he arrives? I know you need
to clean up. I can wait by the door.”
He must be tired after a long day
,
I thought.

He said, “
Mais oui.
I never mind the company of a
beautiful woman,” and went about sweeping the floor of the shop.

I perched close to the door and looked out the large plate
glass windows. Sunset. Golden rays of sunshine began to give way to the sherbet
orange and lavender hues of dusk. A street light suddenly flickered to life,
causing me to jump. I laughed at myself.

My watch showed it was 7:58. The shop closed in two minutes.
I wandered to the counter and gazed at the gorgeous remnants of the day. I was
trying to decide whether to buy something or not when Sébastien rushed in,
concern filling his expression.

Before we could speak, the shopkeeper jabbed Sébastien. “A little
close, non?”

He immediately replied, gallantly, “Oui! If she gives me a
chance, I am undeserving.”

“If she doesn’t, I will ask her to give me one. One would be
all I need.” The shopkeeper, very handsome actually, smiled with confidence.

Sébastien acknowledged the man’s challenge with a nod before
offering his arm to me. Given this was our favorite boulangerie, I smiled
brightly at the man and said, as I slipped my arm through Sébastien’s,
“Goodnight.”

***

Outside, Sébastien apologized, “I am
sorry, but there is still a chance.”

We walked quickly down Rue Marseille and turned northeast at
the Quai de Valmy, keeping our pace up until we reached Jardin Villemin. There,
amidst apartment buildings and a school, we found a large open space filled
with flowers, fountains, and gazebos. The young trees were short enough that we
had an open view of the western sky. By the time we found an empty bench and
sat down, the sky was fading to purple and deeper shades of orange. White and
yellow flowers popped like neon dots in the growing night.

Softly, as if not to disturb my observations of the park, he
apologized again. “I am very sorry. Today felt like a waltz through a mine
field. Chantal, fashion shows, clients.”

His arm, resting on the bench just behind me, was hard to
ignore. Between the backdrop of Paris, the scent of fading flowers, and my
flagrant desire, I found myself staring at his lips and not the beautiful
sunset. He gave me what I wanted. He kissed me gently, a breathtaking kiss.

Sitting in the park surrounded by people, I agreed with him.
“This whole week has been a beast. Soon, things will return to normal. Or
better.” I offered him my lips, and then, after being thoroughly kissed, I
settled my attention on a group of young children randomly chasing each other.
I felt relieved he seemed comfortable with silence. I needed silence. It was as
necessary to me as breathing.

He pointed to a gaggle of geese flying overhead, their
passing announced by loud, honking calls. I watched the faint outline of their
bodies against the darkening sky. “It must be beautiful to fly.”

“I always wonder where they go. I suppose it must be Africa,
but my imagination wants them to go somewhere tropical. Maybe Indonesia.”

I enjoyed his flight of fancy then said, “In Seattle, we
always assume the geese fly south, to Mexico. I’ve never really thought about
where French geese migrate.”

“Speaking of migrating, I’ve been meaning to ask all week,
how exactly did you meet Tiziana?”

I laughed out loud and then told him, “It’s a great story.
There was a pub crawl for new students—which is how I met Charlotte. She and I
were new. We were in the Bear, the oldest pub in Oxford, where a bachelor party
was taking place. Charlotte and I met Marian because she was friends with the
bride-to-be and was spying on the groom, to make sure he didn’t get out of
line. One of the groomsmen happened to be Hillary’s brother. Keep in mind, we
had been in and out of several pubs already and were a little drunk. While we
were ordering a round of drinks, we heard, ‘Stripper! Stripper!’ being chanted.
The next thing I knew, Charlotte’s elbow collided with my kidney, and she was
pointing at Tiziana, who was being manhandled by Marian and Hillary. You know
Tiziana! She was wearing a dress that resembled a man’s white dress shirt, with
a long string of pearls and a pair of flashy stilettos.”

Throughout my story, Sébastien chuckled. “To be fair,
Tiziana was shocked. She was there to meet some girlfriends. You’d think a girl
who oozes that much sexuality and gets that kind of attention would get used to
being the topic of conversation… Back to the story. They frog-marched her out
of there, and we followed to offer some sort of help. Tiziana was clearly
surprised by the whole experience. But after everyone calmed down and Tiziana’s
friends found her, all of us went out for drink and have been friends ever
since.”

His eyes glistened with laughter. “I would have loved to have
been there. Tiziana
does
always seem to find trouble. Well, I should
say,
did
. I would imagine, now that she is older and married, things are
different.”

“Don’t hold your breath!” I turned the tables and changed
the subject. “How did you come to work for Vogue International?”

“Oh, I don’t. I work for Condé Nast.”

I snorted. “So, I’ve been utterly intimate with a man I know
nothing about!”

He gave me a reassuring look. “You know the important facts.
As for work, I’m a technology person. Condé Nast has an e-commerce project I am
working on right now.”

My surprise was waylaid when my phone rang. “I’m meeting the
girls for dinner,” I said in response to his questioning gaze.
Invite him or
not?
“We’re meeting at Brasserie Lipp. Tiziana’s into all things Hemingway.
She read
A Moveable Feast
and wants to go. Would you like to join us? I
can understand if the answer is no. Together we can all be a bit much.”

“I’d love to, and on our way you can tell me which shows you
are planning on attending tomorrow.”

Inside the taxi and headed toward the restaurant in St.
Germaine, he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it
against his thigh.

Sunday, 04
October:

Kenzo
/ Junya
Watanbe / Celine / Maison Rahibh Kayrouz / Roland Mouret / John Galliano / Akris
/ Leonard Paris/ Alexander McQueen

He gave me a sizzling look that made my heart flip. His
words made it flip again. “If I am very fortunate, I will see you first thing
tomorrow morning. No Chantal.” Then he passed me the paper, so I could use the
streetlights to see it. “Do you have any favorites?”

“My plan is to see Galliano and McQueen, and I haven’t made
my mind up about any of the others.”

“What about me? Have you made your mind up about me?”

Playfully, I scrutinized him. “I don’t know. The jury is
still out. We’ll see how the evening goes.”

He squeezed my knee. “Then I will work harder, to make sure
you have no doubts.”

***

Generally, there was a line out
front of the brasserie, as well as a strict decorum for gaining entrance and winning
a seat in the correct room. I looked around the crowded room and was once again
amazed by the power that Ted and Tiziana wielded. “You have pulled off the
impossible!” I joked.

“How so, darling?” Tiziana asked while wiggling in her chair
and finding a comfortable position. Her breasts were dangerously close to
toppling her neckline.

“Walking in straight off the street is unheard of, and we
are sitting in the first room, which is generally reserved for VIPs.”

She looked at Ted. “Well done, darling.”

He grinned lasciviously down at her and said, “Don’t thank
me. Thank them.”

Looking straight down at her jiggling mounds of flesh,
Tiziana replied, “Well done, ladies! Charlotte, we must thank you, as well.”

Charlotte was clearly not as used to her breasts providing
opportunities for her, because she flushed and waved off the comment.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her. I’d been feeling anxious
for her all week.

“Good. Not great, but good. I’m really enjoying myself, but
honestly, I’m glad to be off my feet most of the time.”

Liam squeezed her thigh and kissed her neck. “Sorry, luv.”

She smiled at her husband. “None of that. That brings on
labor.”

Smiling at her admonishment, he said, “Well, not
here
.”

Charlotte kissed his cheek. “Two weeks, in London, not
before.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I muttered something
about their
… openness. Charlotte and Liam overheard
me and were about to defend their oversexed selves when Sébastien interrupted.
“Chérie, isn’t it preferable to see couples in love rather than arguing or,
worse yet, ignoring each other?”

Hillary sidestepped the subject, happily remarking,
“Quintessential French brasserie. Fabulous.” She glanced about, clearly
fascinated by the walls covered in elaborate floral mosaics, belle-époque
chandeliers,
and ancient hand-lettered signs (including one that requested patrons
Kindly
smoke Cigarettes instead of Pipes
). My favorites were the African scenes
painted on the ceiling and the large decorated mirrors on the walls that
allowed clientele to discreetly “people watch” every part of the room.

I remarked to the group, “The last time any redecorating
occurred was in 1925, I believe. I think this space is magnificent. Probably
very similar to when Hemingway frequented here.”

Hillary asked, “Getting inspiration for your apartment?”

“No, just appreciating the genius of others.”

“My darlings, what should we order? Kathleen, do you have
any favorites?” Tiziana asked.

“As cliché as it may be, as an appetizer, the escargots are
fabulous. I think the
foie gras
is good, and the
soupe
à
l’oignon
is excellent.”

As we discussed the menu, the waiter appeared and asked what
we’d like to drink. I suggested the house Riesling, which received a nod from
Sébastien and everyone else.
Moments later, we had
two elegant carafes filled with wine that was poured and presented to each of
us.

Toasting our time together in Paris, we clinked our glasses.

I observed my friends, old and new, and felt overcome with
happiness. It was one of those rare moments when everything seemed to be going well.
I sighed happily then asked, “Who needs help with the menu?”

With general acknowledgements for assistance,
Sébastien and I set about helping them make their choices.
I overheard Hillary ask Sébastien,
“Are
pieds de porc
what I
think?” in a horrified voice, which made me laugh.

“Well, if you think they are pig trotters or pig feet, then
yes,” I said, confirming her suspicions.

Hillary groaned and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll pass.”

Marian’s expression was filled with incredulity. “Have you
ever tried pickled pig’s feet?”

“Why would I have consumed those?” Hillary looked aghast.

When the waiter returned, I took a
quick survey and set about ordering. The waiter stared at Tiziana’s cleavage
the entire time he madly scribbled on a piece of paper. What arrived at the
table twenty minutes later more or less resembled what had been requested: foie
gras, soupe
à
l’oignon, two grilled pig
trotters, and duck confit. Once that disappeared, more Riesling, fresh oysters,
and
salade
Niçoise
were delivered. Without
realizing it, three hours, hundreds of customers, and most of the menu had come
and gone.

“Lord, I’m full,” Marian groaned
while teetering in her heels on the sidewalk outside the brasserie. “What
should we do now?”

Hillary asked, “How far is it to
Tiziana’s place from here?”

I guessed, “Fifteen minutes by
taxi or a twenty-minute walk.”

Looking at the dark sky, Hillary
suggested, “Anyone want to walk? Burn off a few calories, see a little more of
Paris?”

We put Charlotte and Liam into a
taxi, then the rest of us walked.

All around us, couples walked arm in arm while Hillary and
Marian held onto each other, bemoaning the fact that they were single. I was
thrilled to bits to have
Sébastien beside me as a
light evening breeze wafted past us, carrying Tiziana’s perfume. We wandered
down Rue de Bac, across Pont Royal, alongside the Tuileries to the tree-lined
Champs-Élysées. The Arc de Triomphe was ahead of us as we passed Dior, Chanel,
Louis Vuitton, and Disney. Thousands of people crushed around us, gazing into
the fashionable shops, dreaming aloud.