Fly Me to the Moon (22 page)

Then in the evening we’d meet up at our favorite table at Bar Hemingway, where we’d share a quick drink before Jean Claude whisked us off to yet another amazing dinner.

And then after dinner . . . okay maybe the after-dinner part wasn’t so hot, but I was learning to deal. Besides, I could already see how all that swimming was starting to carve some definition into my arms and shoulders.

And now, left with only three short days before I’d have to head back to New York, I found myself already dreading the thought of saying good-bye. So on Thursday when Max finished work earlier than usual and insisted we go shopping before dinner, I was feeling a little melancholy as we strolled around the city, and he pulled me into the Versace boutique simply because I’d admired a dress in the window.

“Max, I can’t let you buy this for me,” I whispered, gazing longingly at the dress and knowing that not only was it outrageously priced, but that it had no role in my real life back in New York.

“Nonsense. This dress will be perfect on you,” he said, holding it against me and smiling.

“But where will I wear it?” I said, gazing into the mirror at the slinky black jersey knit with the sexy keyhole opening in front.

“You’re in Paris! You can wear this anywhere! In fact, if you like it, you’ll wear it right out of this shop! Try it on,” he insisted. “If you don’t like it I won’t mention it again. Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand and smiled.

Well, of course I liked it. I mean, who wouldn’t? And since the shoes I was wearing didn’t quite go, he bought me a pair of those too.

“But what about you?” I said, watching the salesperson throw my old clothes into a bag while ringing up the new ones. “We should get you something too.”

“How about this tie?” He reached for a colorful, wildly printed tie with gold Vs all over it.

“Kind of a wild tie, for a conservative investment banker,” I said, shaking my head and laughing.

“This will be my after-hours tie.” He smiled.

“Okay, the fact that you’d even have an after-hours tie just proves my point,” I said, watching as he handed it to the clerk.

“What are you trying to say? That I don’t have a wild side?” he asked, raising his brows.

But I just smiled and shrugged.

“Shall I prove it?” he dared.

“Knock yourself out.” I laughed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’ll show you,” he said, sliding off his old tie and putting on the new one. Then he grabbed the packages and wrapped his arm around me. “Come on. I know just the place.”

“Where we going?” I asked, exiting the shop and heading down the street.

“First I’m gonna leave these packages with Jean Claude. Then I’m going to give him the night off. Then we’re going to hop on the metro. And then I’ll show you my wild side.”

Walking up the metro stairs, I squinted at the dingy, unfamiliar neighborhood. “Where are we?” I asked.

“This is Pigalle,” Max said, throwing his arm around my shoulders as he led me past a funky mix of strip clubs, cabarets, trendy boutiques, and seedy bars.

“It reminds me of Times Square before Giuliani had his way with it.”

“It used to be nothing but brothels, bars, and artists. Did you know that Picasso once lived here?”

“Uh, for your information it still looks like brothels and bars, but I’m not so sure about the artists,” I said, walking past a sex shop and gaping at an all-dildo window display.

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t believe what the real estate is going for these days. Still, I have considered buying,” he said.

“So where are you taking me?” I asked.

“Where else? Dinner and a show.” He smiled.

. . .

After another amazing meal at a trendy little brasserie, Max grabbed my hand and led me down the crowded, seedy boulevard past a steady stream of peep shows and adults-only nightclubs, which just made me even more curious about what he could possibly have in mind. I mean so far, from everything I’d seen, this place was definitely out of our usual comfort zone.

“So how about just a little hint?” I asked, leaning into him. He seemed so excited about his secret agenda that I couldn’t resist trying to coax it out of him.

“No hints,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “You just have to wait and see.”

We continued walking down the bright and busy boulevard de Clichy, past numerous nightclubs and bars, and the second I saw it I knew. But not wanting to spoil the surprise, I didn’t say a word until that unmistakable red neon windmill was directly in front of us.

Of course! Max was taking me to one of the most famous cabarets in the world. “Oh, le Moulin Rouge!” I said excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to see that show.” I squeezed his hand and gazed up at him. Leave it to Max to find a classy place in the midst of all this.

“Complete tourist trap,” he said with disdain, pulling me right past it.

I turned back to glance at that well-known sign. “But . . . have you already seen it?” I asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

“No, and I don’t want to. It’s strictly for tourists, and a total waste of money. But don’t worry, I’m taking you somewhere far more authentic.” He nodded.

I just looked at him and smiled, thinking how he’d yet to show me a bad time. And then suddenly, we veered onto a dark, narrow alley, stopping in front of a windowless building with a single black door.

After nodding at a large, swarthy bouncer, Max slipped him some euros and pulled me inside. And as we entered a small, dim room with peeling wallpaper and a heavy red curtain acting as a divider,
I searched in vain for some kind of signage that would tell me where I was.

“Have you been here before?” I asked, searching his face for some kind of clue.

“A few times.” He shrugged, refusing to say any more.

And just when I thought I couldn’t stand the suspense, a pale, short man in a dark shiny suit, frayed white shirt, and an old maroon tie stepped through the curtain. And the second he saw Max he smiled and said, “Monsieur Dunne! How nice to see you. Your usual table, I presume?” Then he parted the drapes and led us into a small square room where an oval stage dominated the center, while cloth-covered tables with small flickering candles were arranged all around.

As we settled at a front-row center table, I was amazed at how Max always knew the best places and got the best seats. Then I gazed around the room, watching as it began to fill with casually dressed couples, groups of rowdy executives, and a few solitary stragglers.

“How’d you even find this place?” I asked, turning back to Max and watching as he studied the drink menu. “I mean there are no signs or anything.”

But he just smiled. And when the scantily clad cocktail waitress appeared at our table, he ordered a scotch on the rocks for himself and a glass of Bordeaux for me.

“Well, can you at least give me a hint about what I’m in for?” I asked, noting that the hand he had placed on my thigh was growing considerably damp despite the room being so cold.

But he just squeezed my leg and smiled. “Patience,” he said.

I knew I had to stop grilling him. I mean, obviously he wanted to surprise me. So I should just do my part, sit back, and stop questioning. I mean how many guys would go to this much trouble, just to show how spontaneous and fun they could be? I looked at Max and smiled. Man, I was lucky.

Once the tables were full, the lights dimmed even lower, and the loud, hard-hitting strains of a song I’d never heard before began
to fill the room. I watched as Max tossed back the rest of his drink and gripped my thigh even harder. And after leaning in to kiss him, I turned toward the stage to see an older man and a much younger woman who, except for a few strips of leather tied awkwardly around their torsos, were completely naked.

I just sat there, mouth gaping and eyes wide, as I watched them climb on top of a black leather ottoman, and then on top of each other.

Keep an open mind,
I scolded, eyes glued to the stage in shock.
This is probably some kind of performance art.

But after they
finished,
and the music changed to something softer and slower, a naked blonde with nothing more than a single white candle and a small book of matches took center stage. And then suddenly, I knew.

Maxwell Dunne had brought me to a sex circus.

“Max,” I whispered, trying to get his attention as he drooled over the woman and her multitasking candle. “Max!” I poked him hard in the ribs. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” He shook his head, then glanced at me briefly before turning back toward the stage, unwilling to miss a single moment.

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” I hissed, folding my arms across my chest, watching him watch her while completely ignoring me.

He was gripping my leg so tight it was beginning to hurt, so I peeled his fingers off, grabbed my purse, got up from my seat, and said, “I’m outta here.” I stood there, hands on hips, waiting for a response. “I said I’m leaving!” And this time it came out much louder, judging by the dirty looks and the “Shhh!” I got from everyone but Max, who was focused on the stage.

Shaking with anger, I beelined for the curtain, no longer caring if he followed or not.

“Mademoiselle? Is everything okay?” asked the slimy host in the cheap, shiny suit.

But I just brushed right past him and stormed out the door.

. . .

The second I hit the street I calmed down just enough to realize that it was definitely not in my best interest to be wandering around this part of town all alone in a tiny, snug designer dress. “Oh, great,” I mumbled, grasping my purse tightly while making my way to the corner, my eyes searching for potential muggers as well as a vacant taxi.

And I’d just made it to the end of the alley when I felt someone run up behind me. “Wait!” Maxwell shouted. But it was too late. I’d already nailed him with my purse. Though to be honest, I probably would’ve done it anyway.

“Hailey, stop,” he said, catching his breath and rubbing his shoulder.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I yelled, blinking back tears and glaring at him under the yellow glow of the streetlights.

“I just thought I’d show you another side of Paris.” He shrugged.

I stood before him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, debating whether I should take another swing. “Showing me Pigalle is one thing. But bringing me to a sex show is totally inappropriate,” I said, turning angrily and heading toward the boulevard.

“Hailey, I’m sorry. I just wanted to show you that I wasn’t all fancy dinners and five-star hotels. That I could be spontaneous and wild too.”

I stopped and stared at him, shaking my head in frustration. “Who’re you kidding? You’re a
regular!
You knew just where to find it, and the host knew you by name! You even have a
regular table,”
I said, watching him cringe and look away in embarrassment.

“So what now?” he asked.

“What now? I’m leaving. That’s what happens now!”

“Hailey, please wait.” He stood there looking tired and defeated. “Okay, so I’ve been here before. At least I’m not trying to hide it. Besides, you seem so open-minded, I guess I thought you’d enjoy it too.” He shrugged.

I watched him standing there, his shoulders slumped in shame, and I had to admit, part of me felt bad for him. I mean, maybe Max had brought me here because he knew I wasn’t satisfied. Or maybe he was hoping for a little understanding. Or maybe he was just a creepy pervert. But one thing was clear—he’d used really bad judgment. And because of that I no longer had a good excuse to stay.

Though I did have one to leave.

“Max, I think I should go,” I said, squeezing his hand softly and letting it drop at his side.

“Go where?” he asked, his eyes searching my face.

“Back to the Ritz. And then to the airport,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be too upset.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “At least let’s get a cab.’

We made our way down the boulevard, carefully guarding against any accidental physical contact. And when he opened the cab door, I slid all the way across the seat, making sure there was plenty of room for him. But then he reached for his wallet, handed the driver a fistful of euros, and walked away without once looking back.