Unraveled by Him (11 page)

I am so unaccustomed to the warmth of a male body, or loving tenderness from a man, that I find it heartbreakingly beautiful. For a moment, I am overcome by happiness.

In the night, there is turbulence, and even though I am half-asleep, I am conscious enough to be aware when, ever so carefully, Robert turns me to face him.

And for the first time since we met, he kisses me, kisses me as if he needs my breath, my tongue, my emotion, or else he will die.

When he pulls away from me, and I start to fall back to sleep again, I hear him whispering, “Miranda, Miranda, I’ve been longing for you my entire life.”

Chapter Five

This can’t be true. I can’t be in Switzerland with Robert Hartwell. I feel as if I’ve been spirited to Oz or some other strange planet. The light, even the air, seems different here.

And then there are the Swiss people chattering away in French. I can’t help asking myself, why French? Why not Swiss? But I don’t say that to him, because I know that if I do, he will give me one of his stern, school-principal glares and I’ll feel as if I’m three years old again.

I’m feeling so jet-lagged and bewildered, but I’m glad we’ve flown in so early in the morning. That gives me a chance to concentrate on everything else around me in this new and enchanting country. All utterly confusing, so different, yet so magical.

Robert is taking me on a tour of the city in the turquoise Rolls (license plate RH2) that was waiting for us on the tarmac. Attentive in the extreme, he points out all the sights of Geneva; the world’s longest wooden bench along the Promenade, the place where the first Geneva Convention on the rules of war was signed, the medieval tower, the Old Town, the Place des Nations, where the League of Nations was held in the thirties, all overlooked by the majestic Mont Blanc, the snow-covered mountain high above us.

We have lunch together at Luigia, in the Old Town, where we eat fettucini Alfredo under an illuminated glass dome and Robert talks to the waiters in such fast and fluent Italian that it makes my head spin with admiration.

Then we take a stroll in the Jardin Anglais, which dates back to the 1800s, Robert explains, and he shows me the beautiful flower clock there, and I love it. In fact, I love everything in Geneva, except for Lake Geneva, spectacular as it is, with its towering fountain gushing into the lake.

It’s just that driving around the lake with Robert in the Rolls, I suddenly feel guilty about Lady Georgiana, back on Hartwell Island, lost and alone. Does she know that I’m here with him? Does she know that I am about to replace her, if only for a night or two?

I know that whenever I stand up on my toes to kiss him, because I’m not tall enough to reach his lips, he is thinking of Lady Georgiana, of her long legs, her flawless body, and I feel so inadequate.

The Rolls is slowing now, and out the window I see the elegant arcades of the Rue du Rhône, Geneva’s most exclusive shopping street, filled with designer boutiques.

Amid all that elegance, it suddenly strikes me that all I’ve got with me are a couple of department-store dresses and some jeans and T-shirts!

“I thought we might pick out a few outfits for you while we are here, Miranda,” Robert says as the car glides to a halt.

This can’t be real. I must be dreaming.

But we’re now inside the VIP salon of one of Geneva’s most exclusive boutiques. Although to call it a boutique is the equivalent of calling the Empire State Building a garden shed. The walls are covered in apricot silk, the carpets are gold, and a vast apricot crystal chandelier hangs from the high, apricot silk–covered ceiling.

A tall, beautiful, doe-eyed redhead greets Robert by clapping her hands and gushing, “
Monsieur Robaire! Enchanté, enchanté!
” and I feel like she is about to kiss his feet.

“Mademoiselle Stone,” Robert says, introducing me.

She gives me a haughty once-over, then turns to Robert with a shower of rapid French that she must know is far too fast for me to understand.

The only word I can make out is
Chanel
.

Noticing my discomfort, Robert immediately switches to English.

“Anything but Chanel, you understand, Gigi?” he says, and I remember that the only designer Lady Georgiana wore was Chanel.

“Naturally, Monsieur Robert, this was made absolutely clear to me in your e-mail of yesterday, and all has been readied for you,” she says, her doe eyes fixed on him meltingly.

At her invitation, Robert takes his place on a massive thronelike red and gold velvet chair, looking like the king I judge him to be, and Gigi brings him a glass of brandy.

Then, to my relief, she leaves the room, with a yearning backward glance at him.

Within moments, she wheels a rail full of designer clothes into the salon, and I feel as if an overture should be played to herald the start of a major performance.

Meanwhile, I hover in front of the railing, spoiled for choice.

I know I should be enjoying this, but I’m not, as—aside from my discomfort at Gigi’s obvious designs on Robert—I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that he’s been here before, with Lady Georgiana, and I’m just trailing in the wake of her glamour and glory

Then Gigi leaves the salon again and returns with another rail, this time filled with lingerie.

“May I escort you into the lingerie fitting room, so you can have some privacy, Miss Stone?” Gigi says, and I’m not thrilled that he will be alone with her, even for a short while.

Luckily, though, I haven’t seen any indication that he is at all interested in her, and I’m surprised.

When I try on the lingerie, I discover that all of it fits as if it had been custom-made for me, and can’t help blushing at Robert’s intimate knowledge of my body.

Although he must have ordered the lingerie before we left the States and hadn’t yet seen me naked.

Only a veteran womanizer would be able to assess a woman’s bra and panty size so accurately without seeing her undressed first.

He was only a womanizer before Lady Georgiana, not after
 . . . Lindy’s voice chimes in my memory. I feel better and decide to enjoy my glamorous afternoon in Geneva to the max after all.

At the same time, I don’t drop my guard regarding Gigi, and when I come back into the VIP salon, wearing a black satin robe she suggested, I half expect to find her there sitting on Robert’s knee.

Instead, he is reading a French newspaper, and when he catches sight of me, his handsome face lights up.

“La Perla’s latest collection, Gigi, I presume?” he says.

Gigi nods.

“Perfect for Mademoiselle Stone. I’ll take one in every color, with matching marabou slippers.” he says.

In a flash, Gigi produces eight identical satin La Perla robes, and dainty slippers with feathers, in eight different colors, and I flush with embarrassment at Robert’s largesse.

“Robert, this is far too extravagant. And you are being far too generous. I just don’t think that I—”

Gigi gives me a look of contempt.

And Robert gives me one designed to make my blood freeze.

For a moment, I feel like a hick in the presence of such French and half-Italian (as Robert clearly is in the heart of him) sophistication.

“The gowns first, Gigi, then the day dresses,” he instructs, as if I hadn’t voiced a word to him about his spending so much on me.

As I go into the changing room, which is bigger than my whole apartment and lit in a soft apricot light, I hear him say, “And whatever Mademoiselle selects, please be sure to provide her with the matching Hermès bags. Plus a selection of Louboutin and Blahniks, so she can make her choice.”

And, for the next half hour, on Robert’s suggestion, while he sips his drink and Gigi stands next to him, an icy smile fixed on her face whenever she looks at me appraisingly, I model high-fashion outfit after outfit for him.

“Amusing to dress you against type,” Robert whispers to me when I try on L’Wren Scott’s iconic monochrome Head Mistress dress and, at his command, twirl in front of him.

“L’Wren Scott fits you like a glove, Miranda,” he says approvingly, and selects five of the gowns designed by Mick Jagger’s late girlfriend. “Collector’s items, all of them, and so flattering for you,” he says.

“I picture you in Valentino, Armani, and vintage McQueen, in particular. And something by Stella McCartney, as well,” he adds.

Gigi instantly springs into action, wheeling countless clothes rails into the salon, and I spend another happy hour trying on more designer fashions.

After Robert has finished selecting all the clothes—and I’m glad I left it all up to him, because I love everything and would have had a hard time deciding what to take and what not to—Gigi summons three strapping salesmen to carry our purchases out to the Rolls: L’Wren’s red carpet–style gold lamé dress, her black dress with a gold snake pattern swirling around it, her prim white broderie anglaise dress, her pink lace minidress, and her black and white Head Mistress dress.

And then the rest: a salmon-pink satin Stella dress, a vintage McQueen Prince Edward checked suit, a low-cut, bright-red silk Valentino gown, and a navy chiffon Armani dress with a neckline that emphasizes my cleavage.

Then Gigi escorts us to the door and bids a lengthy farewell to us in French, knowing full well that I won’t understand a word of what she’s saying. But I don’t care. I adore my new wardrobe, I know Mom will love all the clothes, and I promise myself to share some of them with her when I get back.

But how the hell am I going to explain where I got them?

We arrive at our eight-star hotel, or whatever it is, overlooking Lake Geneva. As Robert comes through the door, there is a great deal of bowing and scraping around him. As he is who he is, he doesn’t have to check in at the front desk like a normal person, so we are immediately escorted upstairs by the hotel manager.

In the elevator, I hold my breath to see whether Robert has booked me into a separate suite.

He has not, and I’m nervous but happy.

As the valet unpacks all my new purchases from the Vuitton trunk that Robert bought for me just as we were about to leave the store, I manage to whisk my shabby old Samsonite away from the valet and stick it in a wardrobe, terrified that he will open it and take out my Magic Wand in front of Robert.

Watching the valet unpacking for me, as if I expected it, I can’t help remembering that Lady Georgiana always traveled with a devoted personal maid who did everything for her, so she probably never packed or unpacked a suitcase in her whole life.

And I remind myself once more that next to Lady Georgiana, I am not anything special. Yet Robert seems to want me anyway, though I truly can’t fathom the reasons why.

He’s downstairs at the bar now, having a late business meeting. And I am supposed to join him for dinner in an hour.

I take a bath in the deep, Japanese-style tub and float there, looking at the view of Lake Geneva reflected in the mirror.

For a moment I remember my childhood. When I was about three years old, I was so small that my mother had to bathe me in the kitchen sink. And when she did, I would look out the window at the houses across the way, and at the people in their gardens, and wonder whether they could see me naked.

“You sexualize everything,” said the psychoanalyst my mother sent me to a few years later, when I started having my nightmare regularly and waking up in floods of tears.

I understood that the psychoanalyst was insinuating something, but I didn’t have a clue what that was. So I never saw her again.

After my bath, I examine myself in the mirror, and although I’m glad that my love of chocolate hasn’t caused me to put on weight, I have to admit that “petite old-fashioned girl next door” is probably the best way of describing me. Petite, old-fashioned, unsophisticated—basically the opposite of Lady Georgiana.

But does it matter?

I guess only time will tell.

I’m early for supper, so after I put on the beautiful gold lamé L’Wren Scott dress, I go out on the balcony and gaze down at the lights of Lake Geneva, so beautiful, so remote.

Geneva, Lady Georgiana, a lake, remote, far away. But is she really? It almost seems as if she’s here with me, whether I want her to be or not. And it feels as if she’s haunting me from beyond the grave.

I know that I’m being paranoid, but I just can’t shake Lady Georgiana from my mind. But as I go down to supper, I promise myself that from now on, I shall do everything in my power to try.

At supper, I can sense Robert watching me, assessing me, and I hope to God I’m using the correct knife and fork.

As always, he’s ordered for me. Starting with goat cheese soufflé, then steak Diane, followed by chocolate roulade. While we eat, he makes small talk, his mind clearly on the important meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning.