Love under contract (4 page)

Gregor grinned. He had noticed that she wore contact lenses, so when she blinked just now, it was clear that she wasn’t as perfect as she pretended.

“Even I read your article in the
Harvard Business Review
,” he mentioned briefly, referring to the article she had published in the last HBR, in which she criticized criminal business practices and the lack of ethical standards

“Now don’t tell me! You’ve been reading my articles?” she asked, surprised. Apparently he’s interested in her – that’s a start.

“Don’t change the subject, I want to know.” This was really fun. She was still astonished that he read her writings; she had to size him up differently. “Okay, he’ll say that every time we went out, he had wild sex with me all night long.” Gregor laughed at the way she said it; with the French accent it sounded so marvelously indecent – and there was that feeling again – he wanted to kiss her. “That’s right. And? Is it true?” Zara looked at him with playful indignation: “Hey, I’m the arrogant little princess, did you forget that already . . . ” He shouldn’t get the idea that I sleep with every man I go out with.

Gregor made a face. “Yes, so you are; that means you haven’t slept with him yet. The poor guy!” He could imagine Robert, as he lusted after her and she didn’t oblige. How often had they been out together? “Well, my pity has its limits . . .” She looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s already so late; I have to go to pack my suitcase.” Gregor looked at her in surprise. “It’s Sunday . . .” “So it is, but I have to be in Paris this evening. I am, after all, a princess with many duties,” she replied with a tinge of irony, looking at him with her big green eyes.  She turned to Amos, who was clearing dishes on the counter to bid him good-by, “Shalom, Amos, ‘til next week.” “Shalom, Princess, he replied.” She looked at Gregor again on her way out, and said only, “Pity.” Gregor watched as she left, and wondered.  What did she mean by that?

Gregor turned to Amos and said, “She’s a little crazy.” Amos laughed. “Could be, but I like her.” “So does almost every other man,” he said quickly. Naturally she was aware of her appeal and played it, just like her mother, Gregor thought.

Amos shook his head. “No, I’m too old for that. She’s a decent girl, who works twelve hours a day, does these charity events for her crazy mother, and comes home at night to an empty apartment. “My God, Amos, I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t really empathize. She’s a conceited shiksa, who was born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth and a name that takes up a whole line on a page,” Gregor said dryly. Amos laughed and bent toward him, his eyes sparkling. Not only did he make a good cup of coffee and bake a good croissant, he was also a good judge of people. “Hey, Levy,” he said, “she appeals to you too, you just don’t want to admit it.” Gregor shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he replied quickly and finished his coffee. “Well, whatever you say.” Amos shrugged his shoulders and placed the clean cups on the shelf. Gregor continued leafing through the German newspaper. Without turning around, Amos suddenly asked, “I’ve heard that someone named Levy will possibly become the next prime minister of Israel. Are you related to him?” Gregor looked up at Amos’s back. “Hmm,” he muttered. At some point he knew he would be asked about that, he thought. “He’s my older brother,” he said slowly. Amos turned around and looked at Gregor. “Wow – does that mean you’ll also have bodyguards?” Gregor had never thought of that. “I doubt it, since few people know that Ben is my brother, and we don’t see each other all that often. Plus, the name Levy is as plentiful as grains of sand on the beach.” His parents and his brother weren’t very tolerant about his way of life. “In addition, it hasn’t been decided yet – they always argue in the Knesset, as you know yourself . . . and these political parties . . .  Gregor didn’t really want to talk about it, although Amos did. He found this man to be very interesting. After they had found out that not only were they both Jewish, but that they both spoke Hebrew, they became quite friendly. Amos had been surprised since the tall, blond man hardly looked like someone who would speak that ancient language and who was a Jew as well – with his blond hair and blue eyes. Amos also knew that he was a banker or something like that; sometimes he came to the café in a suit, and drank his coffee while studying columns of figures. But he never asked him what he did; most of the time, people told Amos everything at some point.

“You’re here in New York and your brother is in Israel; that’s strange,” Amos commented. Gregor again looked up from his paper. “Why, I wasn’t born in Israel – I’m from Frankfurt.” “How come your brother ended up in Israel?” “He was born there, before my parents went to Germany.” “To Germany, hmm . . .” He gave him an odd look, that said more or less, “Why Germany?” Gregor sighed. “Amos, my father is a rabbi, that’s why. He worked and taught in Germany for a long time.” Amos laughed heartily. He looked at the blond man in front of him, in the running shorts, the tight T-shirt, and didn’t see the son of a rabbi at all. “And so that you’ll give it a rest, I’ll tell you something else: I was also supposed to become a rabbi if my parents had had their way.” Gregor closed the newspaper and put the money on the counter. “And did you?” Amos asked, curiously. Gregor smiled. “Do I look like a rabbi?” Amos laughed and shook his head. “Exactly. ‘Til tomorrow, Amos.”

Gregor walked down the street towards his new house, and thought about the time when he left his parents’ home for good.  He had imagined a life other than theirs for himself. His religion, the Orthodox views, were left behind, and he went to Paris, against his parents’ wishes.  He was just eighteen years old at the time.

Zara arrived in Paris that evening and immediately drove to her mother’s apartment in the Place Vendôme. As the taxi drove through the dark streets, the trees along the beautiful Parisian boulevards were already shedding their leaves. She missed Paris very much, everything about it – the little shops, the people, the weather, the buildings. She sighed; it was almost time to return to the ease of her old life, to her friends. She had to accomplish her goal quickly. The taxi-driver looked into the rear-view mirror and smiled. “Problems?” he asked. Zara shook her head. “No, just homesick.” He had picked her up at the airport, she clearly spoke Parisian French, so she had to be at home now. “Paris is simply Paris,” the driver said and sighed loudly. “Yes, that’s true,” Zara replied as she looked out the window.

They drove by one of the shops that had once belonged to her family and was now owned by strangers. This made her think about Gregor Levy and about their conversation in the café. Why did he have to look like that? It would be far easier to hate him if he didn’t. And then, Robert, too! He called her a lot and she was happy that she wouldn’t be back in New York until Thursday; she needed some time out, she had to think of something else, and ponder whether and how she would carry on with Robert.

In addition to Paris, the most wonderful place in the world was here. The dust from the country road, between the vineyards and the soft hills adorned in the rich, full yellow of the past summer, swirled up around Zara’s Mercedes. From a distance, she could already see her father’s vineyard. There he dedicated himself to the art of wine and to his young wife, who was only a few years older than Zara. Philipp Valois had a great passion for young, very young, women. It had cost him his first career. He had been Minister of Economic Affairs in the conservative government when he betrayed his first wife, Zara’s mother, with a sixteen-year old. Not that the girl didn’t know what she was doing, but my heavens, she was sixteen! Zara thought of it every time she saw her father.

Then, last year, he married the blonde bimbo, as Zara secretly called her. This bimbo, who was coming toward her in tight jeans and form-fitting top, looked like a Claudia Schiffer-double. But Claudia would have been jealous if she would have seen her breasts. And they were supposedly real! As natural as Zara’s blond highlights – no one, obviously, has such a bosom with a double-D cup, and wears a size 6!! And Zara’s father believed her – how charming.  But just wait a bit; once she passes the age of thirty, he’ll trade her in for a younger model.

Zara got out of her sports-car to the usual greeting, with a little kiss on the left, a little kiss on the right. Although she was a bimbo, to be more specific, an English one, she was actually very nice in her simplicity. And perhaps, Zara hoped on her father’s behalf, she really did love him.

And here came her father, tall, very slender, narrow face and salt-and-pepper hair – he had inherited the forehead of his ancestors. In some circles it would have been said that Zara’s family was somewhat degenerate. Only a hundred years ago some members married their close relatives. Aunt Amelie’s jaw cracked so loudly when she spoke – simply deterioration. Zara was so blue-blooded that she had a record of her family tree tracing back over hundreds of years, complete with inbreeding. Taken from that point of view, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea that she should reproduce.

“My beauty!” Her father embraced his daughter and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How is my brilliant daughter?” They walked up the gravel path to the old manor – the family legacy, the little bit that still remained and hadn’t had to be sold off.

“Good, Papa.” He studied her from the side and thought that his daughter grew ever more beautiful; she looked so much like her grandmother, thank heavens, not her mother. How thin she is, doesn’t the girl eat? In the fitted gray pantsuit she looked damn thin, no hips, no bust.

The Claudia Schiffer-double came wobbling after them. Why do women buy themselves such high heels when they can’t walk in them, Zara thought fleetingly, but stopped herself from commenting. She gave her stepmother a sharp glance, but she didn’t even notice it. Had she gained weight, she wondered, and took note of the small bulge at her belly, noticeable in her tight jeans.

“And how are things going with your job?” he asked her, settling himself into the leather sofa in the great hall. “Good, thank you.” It always smelled a little strange here, like in a cellar. Zara suspected that the walls were damp. One could never heat these buildings, first, because there weren’t good heating systems to be had in any of them, and second, the fireplaces required a horde of servants – and her ancestors had already paid for feudalism, with their heads.

Philipp looked at his daughter. She never came without a reason, he thought, so what was it this time? “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Zara shrugged her shoulders. “Do I have to have a reason?” she replied. Although he wasn’t far wrong, if she were honest. “I just wanted to have a few days to think,” she finally said.

Her stepmother giggled. She had sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her husband and asked curiously: “Is it true that you might become the First Lady?”  Well, well – she read the gossip columns too. But then, she would probably not understand the business section, Zara thought.

Philipp raised an eyebrow. “A candidate for marriage?” he asked. Zara smiled a little. “He is the senator from Massachusetts and will perhaps become a candidate for the presidency,” she explained briefly. “Oh, and you have something going with him.” “Father, I don’t sleep with every man!” “My God, you’ve become a real snob. You should come back to France soon; I remember you a little differently!” he laughed. “I’m not at all interested in becoming First Lady; I’m happy to be a lawyer.” Philipp shook his head. “That’s not the right thing for you, to argue with thieves.” “Father, my field is business law; I do contracts, for example . . .” “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Zara sighed. Her father lived in his dreamworld. “Can I borrow your horse?” she asked. “Of course, with pleasure as always; the old hack will be happy – I hardly ever get around to riding anymore . . .” His young spouse giggled suggestively. Zara shook her head; what did her father see in this dumb blonde?

“How is your mother doing?” Zara looked at him. He always asked about her, but she didn’t know whether he was really interested or if he was asking just to be polite. “Well, I think, she’s traveling, as always.” Zara grinned, since she knew the question that would come next. “With that Italian-American? What’s his name?” It was always the same script, either he had Alzheimer’s or he did it on purpose, to show how unimportant his first wife had become as far as he was concerned. In the meantime, Blondie knew the name, and trumpeted: “Antonio Bertucci, Darling, that’s the actor . . .” “But he’s years younger than your mother!” her father exclaimed. He was right, but mother thought that he didn’t know that, and was therefore an even more frequent guest at the cosmetic surgeon’s. Her lips had acquired the breadth of the lifeboats of the Queen Mary and her bust was nearly the size of Blondie’s.

Philipp had a good memory; whenever he asked these questions, he thought about the woman that he had once married. She came from the same circles as he, was extremely young, a beauty, everyone was after her, but she had something so innocent about her. My God, how he loved her, like no other woman after her, but somehow they had grown apart. He couldn’t really explain it, perhaps he himself was at fault, the profession, his career, he had less and less time for her; and then there were the other women, who were always there and who idolized him, and then it was only a matter of time before she did the same thing, and took a lover. But in all these years he had never become indifferent to her, and especially since she had given him his only child, Zara.

She, mind you, developed with such ambition, which had always been missing from his side of the family. She studied like crazy, skipped entire school years, finished her degree two years before the others and wanted to become successful. His ex-wife wanted that once too, until she fell apart because of that pretty boy, what was his name, he thought hard, something like the name of the blue jeans label – yes, Levy. He had seen that name somewhere just recently. When she lost her heart to that blond chap, everything was over.

“Say, have you heard anything about the new CEO of LHM?” Zara was happy to note that her father did read things other than periodicals about wine. “I’ve already made his acquaintance,” she murmured. “Isn’t that the pretty boy who threw your mother out of her own firm?” And not only that, thought Philipp. Here the stepmother interjected: “His name is Gregor Levy.” Does Blondie read the business pages after all? Zara flinched. “Sorry, but I read about him because he’s dating an actress.” Philipp looked at his wife; her IQ was miniscule, but her measurements were extraordinary, he thought.