“Yes, I do,” Nadia said, relieved that it hadn’t been worse. She thought it would rip her heart out, but it hadn’t.
“I was so worried about how you’d feel about it. It made me sick to publish it. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, but there was an incredible amount of pressure about it.”
“They’re the hot topic. You did it as elegantly as ever, Mom. I’m proud of you. I know it can’t have been easy to pull it off without being sleazy. It’s a pretty cheesy story to work with.” Rose had sat on the writer relentlessly, and had edited it herself several times. She felt as though Nadia had just lifted a thousand-pound weight off her shoulders.
“Your call means the world to me,” Rose said gratefully.
“I just wanted you to know that it’s fine, I’m okay, and I love you.”
Each sister had a different reaction to it. Venetia told her husband and her sisters that she thought it was disgusting and the writer was a little bitch. Athena thought Pascale looked like a whore in the lace dress. And Olivia read Nicolas’s responses and called her mother and said he was a “sick fuck” and she was embarrassed to know him. When Nicolas read it, and saw the photographs of him and Pascale, he sat and cried, knowing how Nadia must have felt when she read it. The only one who was okay with it was Nadia, because she had expected something so much worse, and she could see how hard her mother must have tried to rein it in and keep it clean and aboveboard. Rose was just grateful that Nadia didn’t hate her, and it hadn’t broken her heart, again. Like Nicolas, she just sat at her desk and cried, but hers were tears of relief. She would rather have died than hurt any of her daughters, and was so relieved that Nadia didn’t hold it against her.
Chapter 10
The day after Nadia read the interview that she’d been so terrified of, she felt strangely free, as though she didn’t have a care in the world and everything was going to be okay. It was the first time she had felt that way since May. She walked to her office, and was smiling when she got to work. Her assistant, Agnes, had read the article the night before too, and didn’t dare comment on it to her, not sure how she might react. She noticed Nadia’s good mood immediately.
Nicolas called her on her cell and she didn’t take the call. That felt good too. Somehow, she had turned a corner, and she couldn’t wait for her attorney to get back. She was ready to make a move. It had taken her three months, but she felt like herself again. She knew there would be hard times ahead, but nothing could be as bad as what she had lived through since May, when she read about his affair in the tabloids and then learned that Pascale was pregnant with his baby. It had been a nightmare, but she was finally waking up.
Venetia called to check on her, and Nadia told her she was fine, and her sister could hear it in her voice.
“You’re a better woman than I. I wanted to kill him when I read it last night,” Venetia said, still upset about it. Ben hadn’t liked it either and thought that flaunting the affair was in bad taste. He didn’t blame Rose. He blamed Nicolas for the whole thing. Rose had a business to run, and an editorial board and owners to satisfy. All Nicolas had to satisfy were his ego and his mistress.
“Poor Mom was so stressed out about it. I called and told her that I was okay, and I really am,” Nadia said cheerfully.
“I know she’s been worried sick about it. As long as you’re all right, that’s all any of us care about. And fuck him,” Venetia said, and Nadia laughed.
As soon as she hung up, her assistant told her there was a call for her, from a man who had called twice that morning before she arrived. “He was referred by a Mrs. Archer in London. He said she was a client. It must have been before my time.” Agnes had only worked for Nadia for a year, after studying interior design in London and New York. She was bright, young, and energetic, and loved working for Nadia, although Nadia hadn’t been at her best for the past few months, and business had been slow. “Do you want to take the call?” Agnes asked her. “His name is Gregory Holland.”
“Sure,” Nadia said, feeling revitalized. “Mr. Holland, Nadia Bateau. What can I do to help you?” He explained that he was an old friend of a previous client of hers in London, who had recommended her. He had just moved from New York, to run an American investment bank with a Paris office. He said he had rented a house in the sixteenth arrondissement and was hoping she’d have time to decorate it for him. His friend had warned him that she was busy.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the talent or the time,” he said with a deep voice.
“How big is it?” she asked, grabbing a notepad and a pen, and jotting down his name.
“Four hundred square meters. I believe that’s roughly four thousand square feet.”
“That’s a pretty big place,” she said. “Is your family with you?”
“No, I’m divorced. No wife, no kids. I’m originally from Texas. We like things big,” he said, and she smiled. “Could we get together and talk? I’m staying at the Ritz until I get settled. Would you meet me for a drink?” She had to get the sitter to stay late, but he sounded like an interesting prospect.
“I’d be happy to,” she said smoothly, wishing she had worn something fancier to work. She was wearing a plain Dior black pantsuit, but it was simple and professional and looked good on her.
“Six o’clock? The Bar Vendôme at the Ritz?” he asked.
“That sounds perfect. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be carrying a book and a red rose, and wearing a black hat.” For a minute she was afraid he was a nutcase, and then he laughed. “I’m six feet five, and have white hair,” he said easily, and she liked him even before meeting him. She hoped he had good taste, but if not, she could educate him.
“I’m five-feet-two, have dark brown hair, and I’m wearing a black pantsuit.”
“I’ve seen your photograph on your website. I’ll recognize you. See you at six.”
She was busy for the rest of the day. She spoke to several of her clients, had Agnes check on outstanding orders now that factories were reopening after the summer, and got an Uber at five-thirty to take her to the Ritz. The traffic was heavy crossing over to the Right Bank, but she arrived right on time, and walked up the stairs of the venerable hotel. It had always been her favorite hotel in Paris, even since the remodel. She knew it was the most expensive one, more so than ever after its facelift. So if he was living there, his budget for the apartment was likely to be a healthy one.
She glanced around the bar as she walked in, wondered how she’d recognize him if he wasn’t standing, and saw who he was immediately. He had well-cut white hair, was wearing a dark blue suit, an impeccable white shirt, and a navy Hermès tie. He stood up as soon as she approached his table, and he was as tall as he had said. He appeared young and athletic in spite of the white hair, and she guessed him to be in his early forties, if that. He had blue eyes, a wide friendly smile, and a cleft chin. He had movie star good looks.