I frown. “The continent?”
“Mostly Europe, darling. The Virgin Islands for a while, where he picked up a deep tan. Australia for a very short period. I heard he thought the people were too nice there.”
I want to laugh. I also want to cry. It sounds just like something Whit would say—that the friendly Australians were too nice.
“He’s been all over. Don’t you follow his Instagram?” Monty asks.
I wouldn’t allow myself. I blocked him immediately after everything that happened and I didn’t check up on him. No matter how badly I wanted to. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” Monty shrugs, but there’s something in the tone of his voice, the way his eyes twinkle.
I think he might know, but he’s not telling.
Once we’re finished, Monty pays for the tab—he wouldn’t let me split it, calling me his guest—and we leave the hotel, walking past the Van Cleef and Arpels window display slowly.
“God, their jewelry is exquisite,” he says, darting over to one of the windows. “Like little works of art.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agree once I stop to stand next to him.
He stares at it for a while, and something changes in his expression. As if he suddenly came up with the best idea. His gaze never leaving the window, he says, “If you could have any piece of fine jewelry, say a giant diamond ring or huge emerald earrings, what would you choose? What would be your most coveted piece?”
“A necklace,” I say without hesitation.
“A necklace?” He frowns as his gaze meets mine, seemingly disappointed.
“Yes. If the sky is the limit, I’d want it to be thick with diamonds, and it would clasp tightly around my neck, almost like a collar.” My mind wanders toward Whit, as it’s so wont to do. Still. Even after all this time. “I want it to be heavy, so I can feel the weight of the stones and the metal on my skin. And I want the person who gives it to me to see the necklace as almost…a claiming. As if they own me.” I clamp my lips shut, embarrassment quickly following.
I got a little lost in my fantasy there for a moment.
“Well, well,” Monty drawls. “That sounds downright kinky.”
My cheeks catch fire. “I told you before I like that sort of thing.”
And he’s the only one who knows about it—with the exception of Whit.
“Noted. So when your fantasy man comes to me one day asking what he should buy for you, I know what to tell him,” Monty says.
“I doubt my fantasy man will want to buy a diamond necklace for me,” I say.
Monty purses his lips, offended. “And why not?”
“My ultimate fantasy man most likely won’t want to be seen with me. I’m probably banished for life from New York society,” I tell him. My mother is more on the fringe, sneaking around with her lover, Howard. Always the mistress. Very rarely the bride.
Am I destined for that life?
No.
I won’t let it happen.
“Darling,” Monty drawls. “With me by your side? You will be the queen of New York society. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Forty-Four
Summer
The note—it’s more like a missive, like an old-fashioned calling card—is left tucked between my door and the frame. I notice it as I approach the door of my flat, my steps slowing, curiosity filling me. I tug at the piece of paper, impressed by its sturdiness. Thick, cream colored cardstock with elegant black embossed typeface.
An invitation.
You have been cordially invited to dinner
By
Montgomery Michaels the IV
At
Guy Savoy
Friday, April 22nd
Eight o’clock
Please RSVP
Smiling, I walk inside my flat, shutting the door and leaning against it as I type out a quick text to Monty.
Me: Got your invitation. RSVPing.
He answers quickly.
Monty: Perfect. This is by far the most delicious and expensive place you’ll ever eat.
Me: Of course it is. Who all is coming?
Monty: People.
That’s all he says. People.
Me: How many?
Monty: Enough to make it interesting.
Me: How should I dress?
Monty: Sexy elegance. I suppose I should’ve put that on the card.
Me: I can’t believe you went to so much trouble just for a dinner invite.
Monty: I don’t do anything half-assed. You should know that about me by now.
I send him a string of laughing face emojis.
Monty: You’ll need a new dress.
Me: I will?
Monty: Whatever you have in that tiny closet in that tiny flat of yours, won’t do.
I had Monty over yesterday for drinks before we went out to dinner. He hated every minute of it. Said my small apartment made him feel claustrophobic. I just laughed and let him whine for a while before we went and had dinner at one of the outdoor restaurants on the Seine. It was such a beautiful night, and we were surrounded by couples. Lovers.
It made me miss having a man in my life. Though I have no idea what it’s like, to be in a normal relationship. Something long-term and full of love. I’m young, almost twenty, I still have plenty of time.
But I long for that. For a man to look at me with hunger in his gaze. To reach for me as if he can’t help himself. I want to be adored. Ravished. Loved. I want it to be big and wonderful and messy and overwhelming.
I want what I had with Whit.
My phone dings with another text from my friend.
Monty: We’ll shop tomorrow. Do you have class?
Me: In the morning.
Monty: In the afternoon then. I’ll make an appointment. They’ll pull dresses for you and give us champagne and a giant dressing room for you to try them on in.
Me: That sounds wonderful. And expensive.
Monty: Money is no object.
Me: For you.
Monty: Tomorrow at this shop? For you too. Arrangements will be made.
I frown, staring at the phone. What could he be talking about?
Me: What sort of arrangements?
Monty: Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll send more details in the morning via text. You shall meet me there. And you will try on every single thing I bring you. No complaints. Understood?
Me: Yes Mother.
He sends me two rows of the middle finger emoji, making me laugh.
What is he talking about, arrangements have been made? I don’t understand.
But now I’m dying to know.
I arrive at the shop on the Rue Cambon at two o’clock on the dot. Three gorgeous, statuesque women dressed in severe black await me inside, all of them greeting, “Bon jour,” in the sweetest of voices.
“Bon jour,” I return, coming to a stop in the middle of the shop. It’s sleek and white, with very little clothing on display.
“Are you Mademoiselle Savage?” one of them asks me.
I nod, glancing around the store in search of Monty. “Is Mr. Michaels here yet?”
“Monsieur Michaels shall be here very soon. But we have plenty of dresses pulled aside just for you to start trying on. Would you like me to take you to your dressing room?”
“Please,” I tell her, following after her as she heads for the back of the shop.