Rendezvous Page 8
Paige scowls at me. “You should.”
“I should what?”
“Feel perfectly fine.”
I pat the Birkin bag. “So you really are jealous because Gabin gave me the Birkin bag?”
“Jealous isn’t the right word…” She presses her lips together like she’s thinking.
“Well, I know you wanted a Birkin bag. Maybe you should’ve said something.”
“I should’ve said something?” Her eyes are angry. “What are you suggesting, Erin? That I should beg for a Birkin bag too?”
“Too?” I eye her. “Are you saying I begged for this bag?”
“How would you describe your behavior, Erin?”
I consider this, replaying the scene back through my mind. “I merely made a comment to you,” I tell her. “I was speaking in English and I was joking about how we could do some advertising for the Birkin bag and—”
“That was an obvious hint and you know it.”
“Fine, if it was a hint, I was hinting for your sake, Paige.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“I was. You know that I had no interest in a Birkin bag.”
“You expect me to believe that? I saw you practically drooling over that bag in the car, Erin.”
“Well, it is nice.”
“See!” She points her finger at me.
“See what?” I demand. Seriously, when it comes to fashion and Birkin bags, I wonder if my sister needs some professional help—or maybe a fashion-freak intervention.
“I just can’t believe you’d do that to me, Erin.” She actually looks close to tears and, once again, I’m reminded of our childhood.
“You know, I considered giving it to you,” I admit. “But Fran told me to keep it. Gabin seemed to want me to have it. And I kind of like it.”
“Well, it’s too big for you.”
“Too big?”
“Yes. You’re too short to carry a bag that size.”
“Who makes these rules anyway?”
“Never mind.” Paige turns and walks toward the restaurant.
I decide that’s exactly what I’ll do. I will never mind…which means I will not worry about Paige and her crazy handbag fetish. I slip the smooth leather strap over my shoulder and, holding my head high, walk into the restaurant. And I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but it seems like people are looking at me differently, like I’ve suddenly turned into a real grown-up.
“Since time is a bit short, I took the liberty to order for you two,” Fran tells us. “Can I assume you’ve sorted it all out?”
I simply nod as I unfold the napkin and place it in my lap. “I’m fine.”
“Yes,” Paige snaps at me. “We know that already.”
I turn to Fran. “You said this was your favorite restaurant,”
I begin. “Is that because of the food? Or because it’s so pretty, or what?”
She gives me a sly smile. “You really want to know?”
“Absolutely.”
So Fran begins to tell us a delicious story about how she lived only a few blocks from here and how she fell in love with a French man named Renny and this was their favorite restaurant, and how she’d been perfectly happy and was willing to live in Paris forever, and then he broke up with her and broke her heart.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” I tell her.
“It was very sad then. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. But honestly I’m thankful now. I don’t think I really wanted to live in Paris forever. And although Renny had seemed so loving and romantic and attentive, I later learned he’d been dishonest. He’d been cheating on me when I thought we were exclusive.”
“The dirty rat.” I shake my head.
“Yes. A rather sweet dirty rat.”
Fran and I continue to talk about things to do and see in this district and Paige occasionally contributes something, but it’s clear that her nose is seriously out of joint. And, I’m sorry, but this just bugs me!
When we get to the hotel, Fran stops me as Paige goes into her room. “Do you think she’s going to be in a snit about this all day?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because we still have a show to do.”
“I know.” I hold up my hands helplessly. “What do you want me to do? Give her the bag to pacify her?”
Fran frowns. “I’m not sure.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Paige is good at pulling it together when the cameras are rolling. You’ve seen her do it enough times before.”
Fran nods. “I suppose you’re right.”
But as I go in my room, I’m not so sure. I wonder if maybe I should simply take the high road and give Paige the bag. And, in fact, that would probably be the easiest route. I wish I could call Mom and get her opinion, but it’s too early in LA. I look down at the bag, running my hand over the leather. Really, what would it hurt if I handed over the Birkin? Well, except that it might simply reinforce the idea that if Paige pouts long enough and dramatically enough, she might still get her way. Seriously, isn’t it time we both grew up? I decide that, for now, I am keeping the bag.
As it turns out, I’m right. Paige does pull it together for our next visit at House of Chloé. No one would ever guess that she’d been having a pity party just a couple of hours earlier. No, Paige has magically transformed herself into sweetness and light. She even looks like a ray of sunshine in her yellow two-piece linen dress ensemble, which is, of course, a Chloé design. She seems to stand out even more than usual since all the fall fashions seem to be drab shades of brown, charcoal, and black. I get this, but it still feels a little strange when it’s springtime and there are flowers outside.
As the interview winds down, I can tell by Paige’s expression that she’s not that impressed with the Chloé fall collection. But then these clothes aren’t really Paige’s style. Still, she finishes the interview with her usual flourish and the Chloé people seem totally oblivious to Paige’s personal preferences, which is fortunate. We are presented with gifts, the crew wraps it up, and Fran calls it a day.
As we’re heading out to our cars, I’m wishing I could go with the camera crew instead of with my sister, who seems to be turning quite frosty again. At least to me anyway. She makes small talk with Fran, but when I tell her she did a good job just now, she doesn’t even say thanks. Of course, I’m aware that she’s still pouting over that stupid Birkin bag. But the worse she acts, the more determined I become to dig in my heels. I imagine us in a tug-of-war with the Birkin bag serving as the rope between us. As selfish and mean-spirited as it feels, I would rather see the designer bag torn to pieces than give in to my sister right now. However, I don’t really think that’s what Jesus would do. Still, I’m not ready to roll over just yet.
Chapter 9
“I have good news,” Fran announces as we’re riding back to the hotel.
Because Paige still seems to be quietly sulking, I ask Fran what kind of good news.
“We’re all set for a shopping day with Taylor and Eliza on Thursday.”
“That’s nice,” Paige murmurs.
“A shopping day in Paris,” I repeat for Paige’s benefit—like maybe she wasn’t listening. “You should be over the moon.”
“Sure, it’ll be fun.”
“Paige?” I lean over and stare into her face. “You’re still pouting over the Birkin bag, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
I roll my eyes. “You are too.” I hold the bag out to her. “Here, you want it? You can have it.” I dump the contents out onto my lap and shove the empty bag at her.
“I don’t want your stupid bag.” She pushes it back at me.
“No, I insist.” I toss it back into her lap. “Take it. I don’t want the silly thing if it’s going to make you miserable. It’s not worth it. Seriously, just take the bag and let’s move on.”
“I do NOT want it.”
“Yes, you do,” I argue. “For some reason it’s important to you, Paige. You know I couldn’t ca
re less about labels and designers. Just keep it.”
“I don’t want it!” She throws the purse at me.
“Girls!” Fran says sharply. “Chill out!”
Paige begins to cry. This makes me feel even worse. “Really…” I soften my tone. “I don’t want the bag. You can have it. Please.”
“I don’t want your bag,” she sobs as she opens her own bag, retrieving a tissue.
“What then?” I demand. “Why are you being so weird about this?”
“Because I want my own Birkin bag.”
I exchange glances with Fran and she just shakes her head like she sees our ship slowly sinking. While Paige quietly cries, I dig around the junk that’s in my lap until I find a rumpled business card from Hermès. I quickly dial the number and in stilted French explain who I am and ask to speak to Gabin. To my surprise, he comes quickly to the phone.
“Bonjour, Erin. How are you?”
“Je suis bien,” I warmly assure him in my best first-year French. “Et vous?”
“I am well,” he tells me. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to ask a favor,” I say slowly.
“Oui…I mean yes…anything.” His eagerness surprises me.
“Ma soeur—Paige—would like a Birkin bag too. Can you please put her name on a waiting list?”
“But of course, Erin.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“But she must give description…for couleur and leather. Not rose perhaps.”
I know that rose is pink. “Yes, I’ll find out and get back to you.”
“I am happy to help you, Erin.”
I thank him again and say au revoir, then hang up. “There,” I tell Paige, who is looking at me with a shocked expression. “You tell me what color and what kind of leather and whatever else there is to decide and I’ll tell Gabin to order it.”
“You can’t afford to buy a Birkin bag,” she points out.
I hold up my black bag. “If I sell this on eBay I can.” I frown. “Or nearly.”
She shakes her head. “No, Erin. You cannot sell your Birkin bag. I won’t let you.”
“It’s not up to you,” I firmly tell her. “Tell me what kind of bag you want or else I’ll have to decide for you, and I’m sure you won’t like what I pick out because I’m so conservative.”
“I’m sorry,” Paige says softly. “I really was acting like a baby. Let’s just chalk it up to jet lag and worrying about Benjamin.”
“Why are you worried about Benjamin?” I ask. “I mean, aside from the usual.”
“He sent me a disturbing message today.”
“What’s up?”
“He’s freaking over the court case. His attorney wants to make a settlement with Mia’s family and I guess the sum is pretty staggering. Benjamin’s afraid he’ll go bankrupt and lose the movie deal, and he thinks he’s already lost me. He’s just a very unhappy guy right now.”
“At least he could be done with it, I mean, if they settle.” To be honest, I’m not sure that Benjamin shouldn’t be tried in a civil suit, but I am so not going there right now. And really, I don’t know the details, and it’s possible a settlement would be the best for all of them. “Maybe if Benjamin settles, the whole thing will die down. The bad press will go away and he might still get his movie deal.”
“I guess that could happen. Really, it’s his problem.”
I nod. “But you still care about him, and obviously, he cares about you. I’m sure that’s stressing you out.”
“Yes…still, I’m sorry I acted so childish today.” She turns to Fran. “I’m sorry for being such a witch.”
Fran laughs. “Well, it’s a relief to know that more was going on than just a temper tantrum over a handbag. I was starting to get worried.”
“I plan to take a shower and just relax when I get back to my room,” Paige tells us. “I’ll have room service for dinner then go to bed early. By tomorrow I’ll behave much better.”
“I know you will.” Fran pats her hand. “We all will.”
Paige turns back to me. “And please call Gabin and tell him there’s been a mistake—cancel that order. Okay?”
As the town car pulls in front of our hotel, I promise to cancel the order.
“If I change my mind,” she says as we’re getting out, “I’ll just order the bag myself. Who knows, in a couple of years six grand for a purse might sound like a pretty good deal.”
I feel slightly faint when I hear this figure. “This purse costs six thousand dollars?”
“Somewhere in that neighborhood. And that’s only because it’s a frills bag. A nice custom bag might run around forty thousand dollars.”
I stare at the bag. “That’s crazy, Paige. How on earth could a handbag possibly be worth that much?”
She gives me what seems a slightly patronizing smile. “Style like that does not come cheap, Erin.”
Well, I’m not sure how to respond to that. Mostly I’m still in shock. All the same, I suspect that real style cannot be purchased—not at any price. Just then I hear my phone ringing and my purse is such a mess after dumping its contents out and then back in that it takes a few seconds to find my phone. When I finally answer it’s Blake’s voice I hear on the other end.
“Hey, I caught you,” he says cheerfully. “Am I interrupting anything? Are you in the middle of some big shoot?”
“No.” I sit on the bench outside of the hotel. “We just finished up for the day.”
“I just wanted to thank you for the boat.”
“Boat?” I frown as I try to figure out what he means. “Are you on pain meds again?”
He laughs. “The model sailboat that you—”
“Oh, yeah,” I say suddenly. “I almost forgot.”
“Well, it’s great. It’s sitting right here on my dresser and I totally love it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I guess I was hoping that all your pain and suffering would sail away into the sunset,” I joke.
“Actually, I wish that you and I could sail away into the sunset, Erin.”
I swallow hard, wondering just how much he can remember from his drugged-up conversation. “Uh…what time is it there, anyway?” I know I’m using time as a distraction, but I’m not ready to talk about sailing off with anyone just now.
“It’s early. A little past eight.”
“Right.” I launch into the story of Paige and me and the Birkin bag. This turns out to be pretty good entertainment because I make him laugh so hard he begs me to stop before his incision breaks open.
“You’re killing me,” he says.
“Sorry. Actually, part of Paige’s problem was that she’s worried about Benjamin. Have you seen him lately?”
“No, but he left a message. Maybe I should give him a call, eh?”
“Oh, would you? That might lift Paige’s spirits. She’s trying to keep him at a distance, but I know she really cares about him. And then it’s like he’s trying to reel her back in.”
“Oh, you Forrester sisters and the way you string your men along,” he teases.
“Yeah, right.”
We talk awhile longer and then I get another call. “Someone else is calling,” I say quickly. “I’ll bet it’s Mom—I should take it.”
“Go ahead,” he says. “Thanks again for the boat.”
But when I take the call it’s not Mom. To my surprise, it’s Gabin from Hermès. “Oh, I’m so glad you called,” I tell him.
“I am glad that you are glad,” he says happily.
“Sont vous bien?” I make a clumsy inquiry to his well-being.
“Oui. Bien. Et vous?”
“Bien. C’est un jour joli.” I know I’m stalling by saying it’s a nice day in my schoolgirl French. I’m trying to think of a graceful way to tell him that I made a mistake—that I want to cancel the order for the Birkin bag. He rattles a response in fluent French and the best I can make of it is that he’s talking about the weather.
“Oui, oui,” I tell him.
I know that means perfect, but I’m unsure as to what he’s referring to and so I decide it’s time to cut to the chase. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Je ne parle français très bon.” I do not speak French well. “Can we speak in English?”
“Oui. I mean, yes. But my English ees not so good.”
“It’s better than my French,” I assure him.
“So…uh…what time…to come to meet you.”
“To meet me?”
“Oui. For dinner.”
“Oh.” That’s what he meant when he said perfect—I must’ve agreed to have dinner with him.
“Ees all right? Am I too push-ee?”
I consider this. Gabin seemed the perfect gentleman. And his connection with Hermès is important. Why shouldn’t I have dinner with him? “Dinner would be nice,” I tell him.
“How about, uh, sept heures.”
I silently count on my fingers—un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept. “Seven.” I say. “Parfait.”
He asks which hotel and I tell him the name. “Voir-vous!” he says cheerfully.
“Yes,” I say, “See you.”
Of course, once I’ve hung up I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Just to be on the safe side, I decide to call Fran and see what she thinks. “It’s a wonderful idea, Erin,” she tells me. “Gabin seems like a very nice young man. Smart, creative, and well respected in the company.”
“You don’t think we need a chaperone or anything, do you?”
Fran laughs so loudly I have to hold my phone away from my ear.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Good. No, as long as you have your phone and taxi money—in case anything goes wrong. I don’t see how there could be a problem. I’m pretty sure I can count on you not to drink too much wine.”
“Too much? I won’t be drinking any.”
“Oh, Erin…” She makes a tsk-tsk sound. “Before you leave Paris, you must at least sample some wine.”
“Don’t hold your breath on that one.”
“Well, have a good time. If anything goes wrong, call me and I’ll rescue you.” She laughs again. “Not that anything bad is likely to happen. Just go have fun and be young! After all, this is Paris—and it’s springtime!”