“So?” Sophia asks me.
“Hmm… not bad. But it’s not too early to drink?”
“Too early for champagne? Never! Might as well celebrate your hiring with dignity, right?”
“Of course! It feels weird; I feel like a Pretty Woman 2.0.”
This feeling is reinforced when the saleswomen bring racks loaded with masterpieces of clothing into the private room.
“So, enjoy, my pretty! We’re going to burn the Amex!” declares Sophia, who is already falling for a superb red dress that is being carried for her behind a large paravent at the corner of the lounge.
This is crazy! There is not even a price displayed on the labels, as if no one cares how much it costs. I resolve to follow her example when I am offered clothes to try on behind the second paravent. I’m definitely going into Julia Roberts mode for the day. The most euphoric thing is that there is no Richard Gere or any male waiting to be rewarded for blowing his money on me. So, I don’t ask myself any more questions. My head spins a little at the end of the third cup of mimosa. My eyes are shining, and my cheeks are all rosy. I stare at my figure in an emerald-colored dress with a very low cut in the back and vertiginous nude sandals in front of the mirror.
“A hottie! It flatters your morphology, your complexion, your hair. Just perfect,” comments the saleswoman.
“I agree,” approves Sophia, who is staring at me now. “I know exactly when you will be able to wear this wonder…”
“Really?”
“Oh yes! We take it all on.”
I’m not sure I feel comfortable in something so sexy once out of this frame. We’ll see… Enjoy, as Sophia says!
She gives me a wink. Tipsy, I let go and take pictures. The slides follow one another, and I begin to hum the famous song from the movie with Julia Roberts while parading in my turn, “‘Tan tan tan tan, tan tan… Pretty woman, walking down the street. Pretty woman…’”
Soon, Sophia gets into it, too; I pose for her. We laugh like drunken teenagers shopping with an unlimited credit card.
So, this is his world?
8
Tiger
“Friction” by Imagine Dragons resonates loudly. In my jogging bottoms, barefoot, I remove my soaked T-shirt to finish my stretching. The traces, the few not buried under some of my tattoos, appear, barely discreet. Those who work for me never have the guts to ask questions about it. My two sports and close combat coaches are no exception to the rule. I dismiss them by mopping my forehead, which is beading with sweat after hours of intensive physical effort.
“Have a good weekend, Mr. Sexton. See you next time,” one of them greets me on the doorstep of my room.
I turn off the music and say, “See you guys later!”
Grabbing a bottle of water, I walk out of the room, the towel around my neck. I have to check my emails first to make sure nothing will disrupt the rest of my day. I spent most of last night dealing with an emergency at one of my branches. Didn’t have time to talk to Sophia about the resume… Knowing her, she might insist. We’ll have to make things clear if she intends to persist despite my refusal and show off this little French girl under my nose for six months.
The young lady won’t last that long… Sophia either…
Usually, on Saturdays, my wife spends the morning in one of her restaurants, shopping, or having brunch with some upper-class chick. I’ll wait for her to return and leave our talk on hold for now. I leave my private wing to go downstairs in search of the newspaper I left lying around after my morning coffee. As I pass him at the bottom of the stairs, I ask the butler for another coffee.
“Shall I bring this to you on the north or south terrace, sir?” ask this one.
Through the open windows, laughter punctuates this question. I check the time on my wrist and squint; my head turns to the butler.
“Is Sophia there?”
“Yes, sir. Madame is back. With… a new friend. A young blonde woman, sir.”
I rub my growing beard. Peter continues, “They are on the south terrace.”
So, Sophia went all the way and really hired her? I’m still puzzled by this phase that Murphy set up. But that would have been too simple if my dearest had stuck to my “no” last night. But nothing is ever that simple here…
And a young lady will now be living under my roof unless I kick her out myself right away and put the brakes on. This deserves an efficient and quick analysis. With an impassive face, I glance at the head servant and mechanically correct, “Our au pair, Peter. If she stays… She’s not a friend.”
Framed, clear, net.
For the moment.
“Very good, sir. And for your espresso?”
“In the library,” I decide. “Thanks.”
So, I move to the room downstairs, whose bay window looks directly onto the outside, which my wife has taken over with “her guest.” Phone in hand, I go there.
11:10 a.m. Let’s observe first before determining what’s next…
***
Océane
The exterior of this gigantic property alone impresses me. Everything is so perfect. The vast expanses of greenery maintained to the millimeter, the dimensions, the chic, and the beauty of the place. The whole is bathed in sunlight. I turn on myself, exclaiming, “Holy cow!”
The only problem is that it’s the middle of the day, and the mimosas we put on in the showroom are getting to my head. It radiates too much; I should have put on glasses. I think we bought some, right? I don’t know… We couldn’t stop laughing. And cup after cup, hearing Sophia keep saying to the sales assistants, “we’ll take that too,” seemed almost unreal to me. I have never been offered so much stuff in so few hours.
I feel like I’m stuck on a merry-go-round. In a bubble. With my arms spread out, I keep spinning, laughing: “That’s crazy! Maybe I’ll wake up.”
Dazed, I fell on the grass and burst out laughing. I think I’m tipsy. Sophia too. She sways, all seriousness gone, all pressure released. She’s put “The Fade Out Line” by Phoebe Killdeer on her cell phone, turned the volume up to the max, and is shaking with yet another drink in her hand. A discreet woman in uniform brings bottles and steps aside. Mrs. Sexton obviously hasn’t finished letting off steam, and I have to admit it feels great! Stop thinking; stop worrying about anything.
“Come on, Océane!” she invites me to join her.
I’m a little too drunk by everything going on since this morning. The shopping, the astronomical quantity of shopping bags that the servants have put up in “the lady’s dressing room,” this radical and destabilizing change of life makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s all the alcohol I’ve drunk in the last few hours? I get up, giggle uncontrollably, and start to wriggle in rhythm too.