Love under contract (2 page)

Gregor realized that Zara was trying to leave, but he would nonetheless see her again today. Julia, his girlfriend, wanted him to take her to the benefit party so that she could not only hear the latest gossip as was the norm, but also to see the vain little princess and the dress she would be wearing.

Gregor, who had spent a number of years in the fashion business, had always believed that he understood women, but they surprised him again and again. Women who were beautiful and successful in their own right nonetheless tried to copy this little aristocrat in every way – they bought the same clothes, they ran to the top hairdressers, asking for hairdos to look more  like her, and they starved themselves to have a similarly lithe figure – which was completely mysterious to him, especially since Julia was also a very beautiful and successful actress.

“Then we agree on this point, Your Highness . . .,” he said in a low voice and looked at Zara briefly before he turned. “Ms. Brighton.” He extended his hand. Anne smiled politely. “Good-by, Doctor Levy.”

No sooner had Gregor turned around, Anne grabbed Zara’s sleeve and pulled her out of the room, toward the exit. “Shit, Zara, that is absolute shit!” Zara laughed. “Calm down, what’s the matter with you?” “You didn’t recognize him. That was Gregor Levy!”  “But I did, at the end I knew who he was, thank you; you should have said something sooner!” They were standing in front of the hotel and Zara hailed a taxi. She opened the door. “Get in, we’ll stop at your apartment first.” Anne let herself fall onto the leather seat. Why did these New York taxis always have such a pronounced smell? Was it the scent packets hanging from the mirror? Disgusting; maybe it was Chanel No. 2?

“Can you tell that I’m pregnant?” Anne asked, as the taxi pulled away from the curb. Zara looked at her from the side – she was as slim as ever. “What do you think?” “Can one see it yet?” “No, not yet, but it’ll be obvious soon enough.” “Gregor is a friend of my father’s . . .” Zara sighed loudly. “Anne, you haven’t told your parents that you’re pregnant?” This woman was going to drive her crazy. Anne shook her head. “Then you should do it soon, before they find out from someone else.” She shook her head again.

“Are you still staying at Antonio’s penthouse?” Anne suddenly asked her. Zara nodded. “But probably not for long; the realtor is supposed to call me tomorrow to let me know if I got the apartment in Soho.” The realtor actually said that it was simply a matter of formality; Zara was prepared to pay a high rent. The money was the reason that she was still staying with Antonio. She actually lived on her own earnings plus what she got for organizing events for the Foundations. Her title, although it sounded good, was actually worth nothing. There was a family castle, but it cost her father more to maintain than what it brought in. She got her expensive clothes as gifts from the designers, or, more often as loans, since she was in the public eye and would thereby publicize their latest fashions – a kind of walking billboard. Looking at it from that perspective, it was very pleasant to stay at Antonio’s.

Antonio was her mother’s most recent husband, ten years younger than she, and a Hollywood star. He was actually the nicest of the husbands that she had married in the last few years. In fact, Zara liked him better than her own father, the first of the husbands. Nonetheless, if she stayed at Antonio’s apartment much longer, there would be unnecessary gossip. And she didn’t want that in New York; here she was the aloof aristocrat with a reputation above reproach.

Anne lived in an apartment not far from Zara’s lodgings, and after dropping her off, the driver continued on to Zara’s. He had been watching her in the rear-view mirror the whole time and no sooner had Anne stepped out of the taxi, he asked her: “Aren’t you Zara Valois-en-Beaujolais?” Zara almost laughed at the way that he mangled the pronunciation of her name as she rifled through her handbag in search of the apartment keys so he wouldn’t notice. Laughing at him wouldn’t be very refined behavior, so she simply murmured “yes.” “That’s what I thought because you have such a French accent.” He stopped in front of the apartment house – there were always some photographers standing around, so in addition to the doorman there was also a security man, who now opened the taxi-door for Zara. Not that the photographers were lying in wait for her. They were hoping that Antonio would arrive, although at the moment he was knocking about the French Riviera with her mother. Zara quickly handed the driver his fare, and stepped out of the taxi.

Jacques, her French hairdresser, was already there. Normally, he didn’t make house-calls, but he had known Zara forever, even before he had become famous here in New York, since the time in Paris where Zara went with him to every party. No one could create more extravagant hairdos.  He highlighted her dark blonde hair  in such a way that it looked as if it had been kissed by the sun; and even today, he had probably come up with something daring to go with her light-colored dress.

These events were actually supposed to be attended by Zara’s mother, but for years now she elegantly managed to avoid them by traveling or marrying, in alternate sequence. Just now a trip was under way, so Zara, in addition to her full-time job, had to look after various Foundations, their galas and benefits, to raise money. After almost ten years of experience, she was very good at it. Everyone assumed that she was the spoiled, rich girl, but actually it was entirely different. None of her friends slept so little and worked as hard.

In the foyer of the Ritz Hotel, Zara quickly looked at herself in the mirror. The flesh-colored dress was from the last Gucci-Collection, with long narrow sleeves and a neckline that plunged almost to her navel, held together with a golden dragon clasp, and embroidered with small crystals. Even her high heels were decorated with crystals. Jacques had arranged her hair tightly against her head, with a side-part. Strands of her own hair were wound around her ponytail , her eyes were made up with gray-black shadow and pencils, with only a colorless gloss on her lips. Zara didn’t like much make-up – it looked cheap, she thought.

As she walked across the lobby, the employees at the Ritz nodded in greeting. She knew everyone here; it seemed almost as if she lived here. Some of the guests whispered to one another. Naturally, everyone knew her from the society pages of various publications. Zara was a star.

After endlessly welcoming the guests –  many were present this evening since her mother’s name and also hers were always attractive when seeking support for charitable causes – she gave her opening remarks, elegantly reminding the attendees why all were gathered here. She couldn’t very well say “Take out your wallets – and hand over your money.” This time, as almost always, she was soliciting contributions for educational projects in the Third World, which in fact was important to her personally. She raised money for women’s projects. Zara was vain and arrogant, but she owed it to her family name to support those in need.

After a while, she would chat with some of the guests whom she knew by name, which astonished more than a few. Not a one knew that she accomplished this feat of memory simply by learning the guest list by heart.

Zara’s boss was also in attendance and greeted her warmly. He was one of the senior partners at the law firm, Bill Walters. “You always look enchanting, Zara . . .” Walters was old enough to be Zara’s father, but as she stood before him in that shimmering dress, he was not feeling paternal. He could fully understand his young lawyers’ reactions, who almost went crazy in her presence. Zara smiled, although the corners of her mouth were beginning to hurt. “I’d like to introduce you to someone . . .” He turned around and behind him stood a tall dark blond man with his back toward her. “Robert . . .” Walters tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned to them, dressed as everyone here, in an evening suit of fine wool, and she recognized him immediately. It was Senator Robert Brennan, the youngest senator from Massachusetts. Everyone said he was the second John F. Kennedy and that he should enter the Democratic primary race. Since many people saw him as the second J.F.K., he had a pretty good chance, and he also came from one of the finest and wealthiest East Coast families. He was good-looking and there were tales galore of his conquests.

Zara extended her hand, and he, the perfect gentleman, bowed slightly and smiled at her. He radiated a certain charm that often went hand-in-hand with power and money. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he said. “Senator, I am honored that you would attend my little charity fund-raising event!” Blah, blah, blah, she thought -- always the usual; she could do it very well. “We could use someone like you in the campaign,” he repeated and looked deep into her eyes. Zara did not avoid his look and he seemed to like that. Walters grinned at Zara. He knew that Zara would appeal to Robert; these two, that would be an ideal couple, he thought.

“I’ll leave you two alone, I think, dear Robert. You can get some good tips here about your campaign contributions; Zara has been doing this since she was sixteen.” Zara laughed. “Now you’re exaggerating,” she said. He grinned at her.  The old pimp, Zara thought; she had long ago seen through him.

Robert had asked Walters to introduce him to Zara. Up until now, he had only seen her from afar, and his passion for the chase was awakened – a genuine aristocrat, not one of those with an adopted fake name – no, a real blueblood, and beautiful as well – and she had a good reputation, not an easy mark. This was a challenge that tempted him almost as much as politics. Moreover, she had the goods to be the ideal wife in his situation – well-educated, Catholic, very good family, and when she smiled, his knees became weak.

Robert took Zara’s arm, smiled, and said, “Perhaps we can talk about that over dinner?” She could feel his fingers through the thin fabric of her sleeve. “I must admit that I don’t have my schedule memorized.” One has to play a little hard-to-get; she couldn’t very well immediately fall at his feet.

He was, at the moment, quite simply the hottest bachelor in America. “My God, your French accent is . . .” He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get rid of it at this point . . .” Baloney! The accent regularly brought scores of men to their knees; she would still have it after ten years in America, even if she had to practice to keep it.

“Then I’ll call you tomorrow at your office – and you can tell me then where you want to have dinner with me.” He grinned like a kid and squeezed her arm. “Great . . .” They would have continued flirting for a while if Zara hadn’t noticed Gregor Levy, arriving with a well-known actress on his arm. He wasn’t on her guest list, although the actress was. Who would have known that he would be the escort?

Robert followed her glance. Naturally, she had noticed Gregor; women by the dozen regularly fainted in his presence and he actually didn’t seem to notice. The women of Hollywood suited him best; he always arrived with a different actress, Robert thought. Julia Brettford was really a beauty even though her hips were a little wide when he compared them to Zara’s.

“Oh, Gregor – do you know him?” “Somewhat . . .” She turned around; actually she didn’t want to speak with him, but Robert had already waved and the two greeted one another like old friends. Well then, an opportunity to make oneself interesting, she thought, and opened her eyes wide, like Bambi.

Gregor had already noticed Zara much earlier, and had seen her at the podium. He had to admit that she could really speak well in public, especially since her French accent had a bit of an erotic effect, and perhaps that was what captured all the guests’ attention. The film that she had prepared was very professional; she must be quite experienced. Julia became very enthusiastic and whispered “Gucci.” Of course, women and their fashions!  “God, she looks fantastic; there’s not an extra ounce on her . . .,” she added. Gregor sighed. He thought Zara was far too thin, she looked like one of these anorexic models, hardly any hips or breasts; it could be that this almost transparent dress on a woman ten pounds heavier would not measure up to the expectations of the designer, but that was primarily due to the fact that most of them imagined boys in their dresses.

Robert, that politician – he had known him for a long time. While Gregor had ambitions on the economic front, Robert pursued the political. His grandfather had been a senator, and it wasn’t necessary for Robert to earn money; his family was stinking rich.

“You’ve met Zara Valois-en-Beaujolais, of course?” Gregor twisted his mouth into a mocking smile. “Well, I’ve had the honor.” Zara gave them a forced smile. “Unfortunately I have to take care of my guests, Senator, Doctor Levy.” Zara nodded in their direction. She had to get away!    She preferred not to spread out her family history in front of the senator – perhaps it wouldn’t sound very appealing coming from the mouth of someone like Levy – to whom she was the reserved aristocrat, and that’s what he should continue to believe.

Zara had barely turned her back when Robert said to Gregor: “Man, is she hot and I’m going to dinner with her tomorrow.” And unfortunately Zara also heard the answer. “That’s all only window-dressing – be careful, that is a spoiled, degenerate aristocrat.” “Well, good that you don’t find her attractive.” Robert gave Gregor a collegial pat on the shoulder. “What are you doing in New York? Are the rumors true that you’re turning your back on investment banking?” Gregor smiled. “Sorry, I can’t talk about that just yet, but it could be that I’ll soon be in New York more often.” Robert laughed. “And then you’ll return to your old profession?” Gregor pursed his mouth; “old profession” meant his career as a model. That would probably haunt him forever.

These spoiled children had no idea how difficult it was to acquire his education and his career, since unlike Robert or these pampered aristocrats, he had earned every dollar himself.

“Perhaps, Robert.” He looked around and noticed Zara chatting and joking with an elderly couple, and pocketing a check.  Their eyes met very briefly and she seemed to smile contentedly.

Of course Robert called, and Zara naturally had an evening free – she had to cancel another date – but he didn’t need to know that. She asked where he wanted to go and he suggested the Essex House. Alain Ducasse, one of the most admired chefs, was in charge of the kitchen there. Robert was sure it would be appropriate for a French noblewoman such as she.