The wound, which by the way, has proved to be no more than a scratch, really.
So now Louis has house privileges, or he’s had them for one day, at least. I’m not sure they’ll last. We spent all day yesterday running around, making sure he wasn’t chewing on anything he wasn’t supposed to. I nearly had a heart attack when we found him playing tug-of-war with the edge of an antique rug, but Cornelia just shrugged.
“I never liked that thing much anyway.”
His name fits him now that he’s been groomed. His fur is trimmed short and his face is much more handsome. He’s wearing a red collar around his neck that Cornelia and I found in a shop in town on Sunday, and in his mouth is a plush toy in the shape of a Starbucks cup. I almost can’t remember what he looked like a few days ago.
He leaps up onto my bed and turns in a circle to lie beside me. I’m not sure where he slept last night, but I have a pretty good guess.
“How long will we be there?” I ask Cornelia as I rub his back.
“Two weeks.”
The first thing I should think is TWO WEEKS IN PARIS?! What a dream! but the thought that strikes me first is What about Nicholas?
It’s so startling and frankly disturbing that I decide to retreat into it curiously. Why would I care about Nicholas and the fact that we won’t see him this weekend or next? Why would he pop into my head at all? When he left to go back to New York on Sunday, I barely noticed. I was busy not noticing as he loaded up his car and disappeared down the long drive.
He won’t miss me, I remind myself, and with that, I push aside my breakfast tray and comforter and leap out of bed.
We leave Rosethorn with three full Louis Vuitton trunks that Bruce and Frank have to hoist into the back of the Range Rover together. I’m wearing fitted black pants and one of Cornelia’s old Chanel blazers. An Hermès scarf is knotted loosely around my neck and my hair is pulled into a sleek low ponytail. I asked Cornelia why I needed to dress so nice just to sit on an airplane, and she replied, “It’s just how it’s done.”
I’m more glad than ever that while she wasn’t watching, I stuffed a pair of pajama pants into my carry-on bag. Just in case.
I realize on our drive down to New York City that we aren’t actually headed straight to the airport. Our flight isn’t until tonight, but Cornelia wanted to wake me up at the crack of dawn because she had a few errands to run in the city first. We stop in to visit a gallery so she can inspect an abstract painting she previously commissioned. We stay and talk to the artist and the gallery owner for a little while, looking at other paintings before Cornelia requests to have one other piece delivered to Rosethorn along with the first. After that, we head to lunch at Eleven Madison Park. We’re the only ones in the sprawling dining room, which I find odd considering how amazing the food is. Cornelia doesn’t mention until we’re on our way out that the restaurant has routinely been rated the best in the world and carries three Michelin stars to prove it. They only do dinner service, but today they opened up early just for us as a favor to Cornelia.
After that, we walk through Bloomingdale’s so Cornelia can pick up a few last-minute travel items, one of which is a designer bag she hands to me as we’re walking out of the store. The sales consultant offered to wrap it up and put it in a gift box, but Cornelia said there was no need. Apparently, she plans on using it.
I assume she’s handing it to me because she wants me to carry it, but then she says, “I’d like you to transfer everything you have in your ratty red purse into this bag so you can use it as your carry-on.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask, holding it out at arm’s length as if it’s a snake that might try to bite me. “I saw what this cost! It’s more than most people make in a month!”
“I think most people would just say thank you.”
“I can’t—”
“Frank, let’s head over to the airport. I’d like to relax for a little while before our flight this evening.”
Just like that, the discussion is over. My red pleather purse with its zipper that doesn’t quite zip anymore and its cross-body strap that’s been knotted together since it split in two a few months back is left in the back seat of the car when we arrive at the airport.
We’re met at the curb by a concierge from Air France. She leads us to an awaiting golf cart that whisks us from the entrance of the airport, through a private security screening, and then right past all the normal folk, straight to the La Première first class lounge.
I feel guilty as I walk inside, aware of the fact that I probably belong out there, loitering between the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels kiosk and Sbarro, next to the dude clipping his toenails in public. In the private lounge, there’s a full restaurant and bar, as well as a spa. Cornelia sits down in a quiet corner with a book, so I do the same, but I don’t do any reading. I people watch, glancing around me at all the lounge-goers and wondering how they can possibly afford to travel this way. They’re all dressed up. Most of the women are in heels and dresses with perfectly coiffed hair. There’s an air of respectability about them, and I’m suddenly grateful that Cornelia didn’t let me wear pajama pants like I wanted to.
We stay in the lounge until our flight boards. Another golf cart carries us straight to the tarmac, and then I’m escorted to a private cabin inside the plane. I’m visibly confused as I turn back to the flight attendant.
“How many other people will I share this with?”
She frowns in confusion. “This is your private suite.”
“But this is a room…in an airplane. It has a bed and a TV.”
“Is it not to your liking? I have one other suite available, but it’s slightly smaller and you won’t be across the hall from your travel companion.”
“Are there not just…like…normal seats? In a row?”
“Not in Première class. I’m sorry.”
She’s sorry. I almost laugh at that as she tells me she’ll be right back with champagne and a warm hand towel.
Wonderful, because of course I need a warm hand towel. How could I possibly travel to Paris without a warm hand towel!?
I think I’m going crazy.
I sit down in the chair across from the bed and look around my cabin in disbelief. Nothing about this makes sense. No one deserves this life, no one—least of all me. It’s why I fight Cornelia tooth and nail about every little luxury she tries to toss my way. It feels like too much, and while it’s nice, it’s not necessary. It doesn’t change who I am at my core.
When the flight attendant returns with the amenities she promised, I ask her how long it will take us to get to Paris.
“Flight time is around seven and a half hours. We should arrive at 8:15 AM Paris time. If you need anything during the flight, press that little black button beside your bed and I’ll be happy to assist you.”
I don’t press that button even once, too scared to bother her. I make do with the snacks that came pre-loaded in the cabin and the complimentary candy I swiped from the airport lounge. After I flip through the TV channels aimlessly for a little while, I search around the space, opening cupboards and doors. There’s a pair of pajamas with the Air France logo on them, brand new and freshly laundered. I slip them on and lie down on the bed, trying to ignore the feeling of anxiety starting to creep in.