Faking It (8 page)

“Ah yes, the inimitable Jean-Luc, bike riding phenom and leader of flabby American maggots.”

Did I just say that out loud? Judging from Fanny’s wide-eyed expression that would be a resounding
oui
.

I want to slap my hand over my mouth. Ugly confession: I turn wicked sarcastic when I am anxious.

Chantal’s brow furrows. Fortunately, Fanny intervenes, firing off in rapid French. I can’t follow her, but I imagine she is telling the perplexed couple to disregard anything I say, that I am suffering from a form of Tourette’s induced by extreme duress.

Chantal and Philippe look at me, their lips turning down in sympathetic frowns. Score one for Fanny. My brilliant best friend somehow managed to shift the focus from sarcasm to sorrow. I have developed this working theory: the French are genetically predisposed to feel sympathy for jilted women. Heloise and Abelard. Napoleon and Josephine. There’s definitely a precedent.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Philippe interrupts my thoughts with a jaunty salute. “I must go to zee cellar and select zee wine for tonight’s meal.”

“
Bon Courage, mon amour
!” Chantal taunts. “Beware those treacherous bottles.”

Philippe hobbles off, muttering something about the brutality of love, Dumas and Maupassant prancing at his heels.

Chantal shows us to our room, a grand chamber in the west tower with a sweeping view of the river valley. Although it is a warm June day, a small fire crackles in the fireplace. Silken curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor around an ornately carved bed. Rose petals arranged to resemble a still life cover a bedside table. A plate of plump strawberries sits beside a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

“Are you pleased?”

Pleased? I don’t think so. I want to burst into tears. My logical fiancé created a storybook setting for our honeymoon. We were supposed to be here together, sipping champagne, nibbling strawberries, and making love in that sexy bed. Instead, my compulsion to appear virginal has ruined everything. I wish I had never lied. Better yet, I wish I had never met Travis Trunnell.

Chantal hurries over to the table, seizing the champagne and pouring it into the flutes. She hands us each a flute of bubbly.

“Vivia, I know we just met, but will you allow me to make a toast?”

I nod.

“My brother-in-law likes to say, ‘Every story has an end, but in life, every end is a new beginning.’ So let us toast to your new beginning, Vivia.”

Fanny raises her glass. “
Salut
!”

I stare at the bubbles streaming inside my glass. I should feel buoyed, hopeful, but the truth is, I have never been comfortable with endings. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I want the story to continue even after Emma gets her Mr. Knightley. Without looking, I feel Fanny and Chantal staring at me, so I raise my glass.

“
Salut
.”

Chantal waits for us to finish our champagne.

“You are the last members of the group to arrive.” She takes the empty flute from my hand and places it on the table. “You will have an opportunity to become acquainted with your fellow bikers tonight. We gather in the great hall at seven for aperitifs. In the meantime, please make yourself at home. Perhaps you would like to take a nap, stroll along the path beside the river, or swim in the pool.”

“
Merci beaucoup
, Chantal.”

I want to tell Chantal that I appreciate her toast as much as her hospitality, but the lump in my throat makes it difficult to speak. Instead, I help her gather the empty flutes and champagne bucket and carry them to the door.

“Will you be joining us on the bike tour?”

Chantal chuckles.

“
Mon Dieu, non
!” She looks over my shoulder at Fanny. “
Comment puis-je dire ‘la haine’ en anglais?
”

“Hate.” Fanny answers.

“Ah,
oui
.” Chantal looks at me. “I hate riding the bikes.”

“Me too.”

We laugh and the painful lump in my throat dissolves.

“I will call my friend at Air France and check on your bags. Is there anything I can get you? Toothbrush? Nightgown?”

“Thanks, but I packed my toiletries in my carryon.”

“If her bags don’t arrive tonight, she will need something to wear for tomorrow’s ride,” Fanny says.

Damn Fanny and her athletic eagerness.

“I could always stay back at the château and join the group after my bags arrive.”

“Oh no,” Chantal protests. “You don’t want to miss Gordes.”

I don’t know what Gordes is, but it sounds alarmingly like gorge. Gorge, as in yawning crevasse located alongside mountain roads. I hear Jean-Luc barking at me in his drill instructor voice, telling me to ride-ride-ride.
“It’s only an unfathomable abyss waiting. Stop your whining, maggot!”

Chantal promises to return with appropriate riding gear and closes the door behind her. I turn to glare at my traitorous best friend.

“Thanks a lot.”

“What did I do?”

“Do you always have to be so freaking…organized?”

Fanny whistles. “Wow! Someone’s getting cranky.”

“I am not cranky.” I cross my arms over my chest but resist the urge to stick out my tongue. “I just didn’t need you butting your nose in, reminding Chantal I needed riding gear.”

“You can’t ride a bike in cigarette pants and ballet flats.”

“Why not? Audrey Hepburn did.”

“You are not Audrey Hepburn,
chérie
.”

Fanny grabs her cosmetic kit and heads to the bathroom. A minute later, I hear the shower turn on.

I shouldn’t have snapped at Fanny, but my fear of dying in a bicycle accident is growing to epic proportions. Hearing about the wonder that is Jean-Luc is not helping either. Frankly, I am skeptical about this Jean-Luc. What kind of man can drop everything to lead a bike tour? Doesn’t he have a real job?

Texas Sized Balls

If only Nathan were here. He would look at me with his serious blue eyes and all my fears would melt away.

Nathan.

With Fanny in the shower, I flop on the bed, close the curtains around me, and power on my beloved iPhone. I know Nathan felt my psychic vibes. He will send a message begging my forgiveness.

I stare at the glowing apple icon and wonder if my frequent e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter checks are becoming an unhealthy compulsion. The quiet is shattered by a wailing guitar riff and Ronnie Radke singing the chorus of “Pick Up the Phone.”

I click the mute button, stare at the bathroom door, and mentally prepare a defensive argument for my shameful behavior. Fanny is already upset with me for making frequent e-mail/text checks. She also doesn’t get my slight crush on Ronnie Radke, the heavily tattooed, eyeliner wearing lead singer of Falling in Reverse, with his slightly-effeminate facial features and razored hair, you might not get it either. Here’s the best explanation I can come up with: When I saw him strut across the stage at Slim’s in his black skinny jeans, I experienced lust at first sight. I have a secret penchant for bad boys. Ironic, isn’t it? Nathan, the Armani suit-wearing trust fund baby, is the complete opposite of a bad boy, and yet he is the one who broke my heart.

The bathroom door remains closed. Sounds of water splashing help to slow my adrenaline fueled rapid pulse.

First, I check my e-mails. I scroll through my messages, and a sharp pain stabs my heart when none of the messages are from Nathan.

Next, I check my texts. Nothing from Nathan, but Mum has texted me eleven times since my departure from San Francisco. Most of them are harmless inquiries of the “How are you holding up, luv?” variety. The final text, though, is classic Mum.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia. It’s your mum. Anna Johnson dropped off a casserole. She offered condolences and asked if you were gay. Is there something you want to tell me? Say hello to Fanny.

What in the hell is happening? Why do people keep asking if I am gay? Am I emitting some kind of lesbian vibe? Just because my wedding plans exploded like a Mentos dropped into a soda bottle and I am on my honeymoon with my best friend doesn’t mean I am gay. Seriously!

The balloon of hope inside me deflates. No e-mail or text from Nathan. Even though he hates Facebook, thinks it’s a “brain-drain for vapid, attention-hungry people,” I open the app and look at my wall. No posts from Nathan. I check my messages, but there’s only one and it’s from Travis Trunnell.

Facebook Message from Travis Trunnell:

Forget Nate. If you were mine, I would never let you go. I would fly over to France and pull you into my arms. We would drag the mattress from the bed, sleep on the balcony under the starry night, and make the neighbors jealous…

Oh. My. God. Who says things like that? Seriously? Who? The Texan with the bull-sized balls, that’s who. Several sarcastic retorts pop into my brain, but I don’t reply. The truth is, my heart is racing and I am hot all over. Travis’s unexpected reappearance in my life has been unsettling and kind of sexy.

Shit! Did I really just think that? What about Nathan? Sweet, reliable, steady, perfect-on-paper Nathan? Guilt stabs my heart. I am an awful faithless fiancée. Maybe I should swear off all men. Maybe I
should
give the lesbian thing further thought.

The shower turns off so I hurriedly open my Twitter app. The first Travelocity Ring photo has been retweeted 67 times and I have 312 new followers. WTH?

Tweet from Alexis:

My friend @PerpetuallyViv was dumped by her fiancé. Is she sitting at home weeping? NO! #LostFianceKeptRing #HoneymooningSolo #WomanScorned

Retweets from random new followers:

@GirlPower Go girl! #HooneymooningSolo? Now that’s #badass

@HungryInHolland When my ex broke up with me, I lost 23 lbs. #ExBoyfriendProblems #Bonus

@BourgeoisPrincess Your ex is a peasant. Prince Charming is still out there. #KeepHoping

What if @BourgeoisPrincess is wrong? What if Nathan was my Prince Charming and my stupid lie ruined our Happily Ever After? What if we get only one chance at True Love and if we blow it we are condemned to a life of longing and regret? I imagine sitting across the breakfast table from a flabby balding man, while a flock of runny-nosed children flap around us. Tears spill out of the corners of my eyes and slide into my hair.

The bathroom door opens. Fanny emerges, a cloud of scented steam circling her. I slide my iPhone under my pillow and bat the tears away.

“You don’t have to hide your phone, Vivian.” Fanny rubs moisturizer into her face. “I know you’ve been checking for messages.”

I sit up. “What do you mean?”

“Puhleez.” Fanny stops rubbing her face and stares at me. “So did you hear from Nathan?”

I shake my head.

“
Bâtard!
” She walks over to the bed, grabs my hand, and pulls me up. “Forget Nathan…at least for tonight. Go get cleaned up and let’s meet the other bikers. Who knows? Maybe one of them is the love of your life.”

Enter Hot Frenchman

I remember Fanny’s prediction the next morning as I am slipping on the skort Chantal let me borrow, and I can’t keep from snorting.

I can safely say I will
not
be making a love connection on this trip, unless I want to become an adulteress or pedophile. Out of a group of ten, only three are male: two married men traveling with their wives and one sixteen year old.

Chantal introduced us to the other riders at dinner last night. The Byrons, a family of four from Toledo, Ohio, said they believed in “strengthening familial bonds” by taking adventure vacations together. The parents seem like über overachievers.

Candace and Liz, two forty-something divorcees from Seattle, look like they know how to have a good time. They finished two bottles of wine before dinner. By dessert, they were laughing uproariously at a game they called “Sitcom Sex.” One would name an old sitcom and the other had to respond with the name of the star they would “boink”. Candace chose Zach from
Saved by the Bell
and Peter from
The Brady Bunch
.

“I like ’em young,” she declared, winking.

The Byrons looked a little creeped out.

The Rosenthals are a sweet older couple celebrating their thirty-fifth anniversary by taking this tour. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Rosenthal was charming and attentive to his wife, but he’s getting off pretty cheap. Thirty-five years of ironing his clothes, cooking his meals, listening to his same old stories, and all Mrs. Rosenthal scores is a long bike ride? Bogus.

Jean-Luc the Amazing wasn’t at dinner last night, so the conversation remained light. No war stories from his days on the Tour de France, no lectures about the challenges of long distance cycling. I have developed an ugly mental picture of Jean-Luc. He probably has leathery skin, veins that bulge, and an extensive collection of camouflage biker shorts.

Shoving my feet into a pair of borrowed biking shoes, I stand, looking at myself in the mirror.

“
Oh my God!
”

“What’s wrong?” Fanny walks into the bathroom and looks at my reflection in the mirror. Her eyes widen. “
Merde!
”

“I know, right? Could I look more ridiculous?”

The clingy skort is a bit too short, leaving my pale legs exposed. Paired with my “I like it Raw” T, it makes me look like a trampy teenaged alien.

“It’s not that bad.”

I grimace. “Are you kidding? Look at my legs!”

“What’s wrong with your legs? I wish I had legs that long and shapely.”

“Remember the movie
Signs
with Mel Gibson?”

Fanny frowns. “Yes.”

“Remember when Mel sees the alien for the first time?”

Fanny shakes her head.

“He’s in a corn field, and the alien sticks his long, ashy leg out. If they make
Signs Two
, I could double for the alien leg.”

“Whatever, Vivian.” Fanny laughs. “Why don’t you try on another pair of my biker shorts?”

“Thanks but I don’t think my ego stand it.”

I wish I could fit into Fanny’s clothes, but she’s petite and I am tall—when we stand next to each other we look like the Jolly Green Giant and Sprout.