Trump Tower (63 page)

“There is, of course, a second bedroom,” Monsieur Fournier nodded to Alicia, as if to say,
Cyndi gets the great one, you get the merely very good one
. He even showed it to them. It was beautiful, Alicia thought, but not as imposing as the main bedroom.

He also showed them the main bathroom with the largest marble bathtub Alicia had ever seen.

“This is called the Imperial Suite,” Cyndi said to Alicia, “because the Czar used to stay here. The tub is that big so that when the Czar was out for an evening of clubbing, raping and pillaging, the Czarina could take baths with the Cossacks.”

“Speaking of Cossacks . . .” Monsieur Fournier raised his finger to make a point, then motioned for them to follow him. He led them to a secret passageway near the front door with a tiny balcony inside the suite that overlooked the entrance. “This is actually where the Cossacks stood guard to protect the Czar when he was here.”

The luggage quickly arrived, and with it a huge basket of fruit, two bottles of champagne, several vases of fresh-cut flowers and an enormous box of chocolates.

Monsieur Fournier assured Alicia if she needed anything at all, it would be his honor to serve her. He then bent down and almost kissed Alicia's hand, but took Cyndi in his arms and kissed both sides of her face. “You are a breath of fresh air. May you never ever change.”

When he was gone, Alicia extended her arms to Cyndi, inviting her to dance, and began singing softly, “Never never change, keep that breathless charm . . .”

Cyndi sang with her, “. . . won't you please arrange it ‘cause I love you . . .”

The two of them nearly fell over with laughter.

“Chocolates!” Alicia ripped open the box. “Not bad digs for two girls from the sticks.”

“Champagne?” Cyndi took two glasses while Alicia opened the bottle and poured.

“The suite where Coco lived,” Cyndi explained, “is much smaller. And anyway, it's not the same one she had at the end of her life. It's nice, but I have always preferred this one.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Always?” Alicia poured them both a second glass. “How many alwayses have you spent in this museum to French . . .
convoitise
?”

A grin came across Cyndi's face. “More than a few.”

“With who?”

“More than a few.”

“At the same time?”

“More than a few,” she giggled. “Let's take a bath.”

“Where are the Cossacks when you need them?”

“Bring the champagne.”

“And the chocolates.”

Cyndi ran the water in the huge tub—it took some time to fill because it was so big—while Alicia found bottles of bubble bath and emptied four of them in the tub. Then she filled their glasses, popped a chocolate into Cyndi's mouth, took one for herself, and the two of them raced out of their clothes.

Alicia lay back at one end, and Cyndi lay back at the other, facing her, champagne glass in hand. But even as big as the tub was, the spout was in the way and Cyndi couldn't get comfortable. So she sat up and, careful not to spill any champagne, crawled next to Alicia.

“Better,” she said, taking Alicia's left arm and wrapping it around herself.

Alicia filled up their glasses again, then sang in a whisper, “Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm . . .”

Cyndi looked up at Alicia and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You are the sister I never had . . . and the mother I never had . . . and the best friend in the entire universe I always dreamed of having. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Cuddled up close like that in the hot bubbly water, the two of them drank more champagne, sang slowly and softly, and within a few minutes, both of them were asleep.

“F
IRST THINGS FIRST
,” Cyndi announced once they woke up, soaped off, dried off, and got dressed, “
Les Deux Magots
.”

Alicia wore her Missoni jeans, one of Carson's button-down Oxford white shirts, tied at the waist and a New York Yankees baseball jacket.

Cyndi wore white Chanel jockey pants tucked into white Chanel knee-length boots, a white sweatshirt that read “
Bon Marche
” in big black letters—it means “bargain”—a little white jockey's cap, and big dark sunglasses.

Downstairs they hired a car for the afternoon.

It was a little after two when their driver, Roland, delivered them in his brand-new Mercedes to the entrance of the famous Left Bank Café on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Some of the Saturday lunch crowd had already left. But for Alicia, arriving there with Cyndi was like arriving at the Ritz all over again.

“
C'est pas vrai
.” A tall older gentleman in a suit and tie with a bushy gray mustache came running up to her. “
Mon amour . . . mon amour
. . .”—my love—“
Mon amour
. . .” He hugged her and kissed her and brought her to his table at the back, along the far wall.

Cyndi introduced Monsieur Pelletier. Alicia had no idea who this man was, except that everybody seemed to show him great deference. He ordered champagne and French onion soup and snails for them. The waiters fawned over Cyndi and obeyed every one of Monsieur Pelletier's commands.

Before long, they were joined by two other men in their seventies and two women around the same age. Cyndi whispered to Alicia that one of the women was a famous old actress and the man with her had been Minister of the Interior. She said that the other man was France's greatest opera star. But everyone was speaking French so fast and there were so many people hovering around the table that all Alicia could do was eat her soup, drink her champagne and feel really happy that Cyndi was having so much fun.

Then another man arrived, and he was carrying a huge photo album. He kissed Cyndi hello, slid onto the banquette next to her, thumbed through the album and started showing everyone at the table photos.

Cyndi pointed to Alicia and he showed the photos to her, too.

There was Cyndi in the
Deux Magots
laughing with Charles Aznavour, Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jane Birkin, pretending to pose with the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, clowning with Catherine Deneuve and Gérard Depardieu, making faces with an absolutely stunning Princess Caroline of Monaco, singing with Vanessa Paradis and Johnny Depp, and on point with the famous ballerina Rosella Hightower. There was Cyndi in the
Deux Magots
in the arms of the fashion legend Pierre Cardin, and with Jean-Paul Gaultier and Inès de la Fressange, in the arms of the director Roger Vadim, arm in arm with President Mitterand, leaning on the shoulder of the French soccer star Zinedine Zidane, sharing a secret with Carla Bruni, and lip to lip with the dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Alicia watched Cyndi laughing and babbling away in French with people she'd known in some previous life.

When Cyndi looked up and saw Alicia staring at her, she whispered, “And the laugh that wrinkles your nose . . .”

Alicia thought she was going to cry.

Before long, Cyndi whispered again, “We've got to go,” so Alicia motioned to the waiter for the bill.

Immediately Monsieur Pelletier waved her off. “Not when you are here with my lovely Cyndi.”

It took them nearly ten minutes of goodbyes to leave.

From
Deux Magots
, Roland took them to Hermès on the
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré
.

The two of them walked through the front door, and suddenly there was a shriek. It sounded like someone was being stabbed. A woman of a certain age, elegantly dressed, came running through the room with her arms open. “
Mon enfant
”—my child—“Cyndi . . .
mon enfant
. . .”

The woman threw her arms around Cyndi and began to cry.

Now Cyndi was crying too.

As the two women wept in each other's arms, she introduced Madame Bergenoir to Alicia—“the legendary queen of Hermès”—and the woman insisted that they have tea with her.

Cyndi said, “Of course, we would love to,” then pointed upstairs.

“Yes, yes, good idea,” Madame Bergenoir nodded, took Cyndi's hand and motioned for Alicia to follow.

“You'll like this,” Cyndi promised Alicia.

Upstairs, Madame Bergenoir brought them into a good-sized room that overlooked the Faubourg Saint-Honoré and was filled with antiques, most of them in leather.

The woman said that this was the private collection of Thierry Hermès, who founded the company—he was the official saddle maker to the Russian Czars—and his grandson Emile.

Not surprisingly, there were several dozen saddles, including a rare Persian saddle in ten different colors and dripping in gems, and lots of bridles, even a pair of stirrups used by Napoleon. But there were writing desks, including Emile Hermès' own large leather desk, and there was a rocking horse, and there were small carriages, and baby strollers, trunks, travel cases, purses, shoes and boots.

There was also a large floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with leather-bound books. Except, when Alicia looked more closely, it turned out to be a false front to a secret passageway.

“The Cossacks were everywhere.” Cyndi said.

After tea in the private Hermès museum, Madame Bergenoir brought them into a private showroom off the main floor where the day's shopping began.

Alicia bought a pink crocodile Kelly bag and two pairs of shoes. Cyndi passed on a Kelly bag—“I have seven”—but bought half a dozen scarves because, “You never know when that's all you want to wear.”

As they left, Madame Bergenoir handed them both a small Hermès bag. “Some things for you and for the men in your lives.” There was perfume and eau de cologne and two Hermès leather notepads.

They put their shopping bags in the trunk of Roland's Mercedes and jumped in the backseat. Cyndi announced the next address. Roland took them down the
Rue Royale
, along the
Champs-Élysées
, around the
Arc de Triomphe
and into the
Avenue Montaigne
, stopping right in front of Dior.

“This was their very first store,” Cyndi said. “Bring your new bag,” and after Alicia took it from the trunk, Cyndi led her inside.

“Why do I need the bag?” Alicia asked, but didn't get the question answered because walking into Dior with Cyndi was the same as walking in everywhere else with her. There were screams and hugs and kisses and all sorts of people shaking their heads, “
C'est pas vrai
.”

A tall man in his sixties, wonderfully overdressed for a Saturday afternoon, came rushing over to Cyndi and wouldn't stop hugging and kissing her.

When she introduced him to Alicia as, “The one and only Thibaut de Saint Marc.”

He told Alicia, with his perfectly practiced British accent, “And this is the only woman in the world who has ever broken my heart.”

“Oh, really?” Alicia said, getting the joke.

“Oh, really. Cyndi came to Dior from . . . them,” he said with disdain, referring to Chanel . . . “and I was over the moon. Ecstatic. A young boy falling in love for the first time. But . . .” He made an elaborate gesture, “But . . . alas, she left me for . . . them . . . and I have never been straight since.”

Cyndi got up on her toes and kissed the side of his face, then pointed to Alicia's bag. “Lipstick to match.”

He looked at the bag, “I know the color you want, but not here. It's impossible to find.” He nodded to Alicia. “I shall have it made for you and send it to you. Nail polish, too.”

“Custom-made lipstick?” Alicia had never heard of that before.

“And custom-made nail polish.” He assured her, “When you're with Cyndi, everything is possible.”

“Black cocktail dress for Alicia and belts for me,” Cyndi said, “that is, if you don't mind dealing with the public yourself.”

“It has been a very long time,” he assured her, and showed Alicia a gorgeous
black cocktail dress. She bought it and Cyndi bought two wonderfully ornate belts.

“You can't stop there,” Cyndi said to Alicia, and motioned to Thibaut, “Shoes for the dress, please.” But when he said to them, “Follow me,” Cyndi said something to him in French. He nodded and she told Alicia, “Be right back.”

She assumed Cyndi was going to the ladies' room.

Alicia tried on several pairs and was torn between two, then realized it had been some time since Cyndi left.

“Where is she?”

“She's fine,” Thibaut said.

That's when Cyndi reappeared carrying a Jimmy Choo bag.

“Where did you go?”

“Next door.” She pulled out a pair of black-and-yellow catwalk sandals with plexi heels that had flashing lights inside them.

“Fantastic,” Thibaut said, “model them.”

Cyndi put them on and walked up and down the floor with them—“Once a catwalk girl always a catwalk girl,” Alicia said—and after Thibaut applauded, Cyndi studied the two pairs of shoes that Alicia was considering.