Honeymoon in Paris (10 page)

“It’s best not to try to remember,” Fiona said, pressing her cheek up against the cool window, her eyes drawn shut.

After Marcel’s warning on the balcony earlier, I’d discovered the normally conservative and very British Fiona curled up in a topless ball underneath Marcel’s sheets. Fiona’s black dress crumpled up in one corner of the master bedroom and her heels and bra strewn in another confirmed my fear that outrageously high champagne consumption combined with Marcel Boucher’s irresistible allure had led her astray. And I could only assume that the jewel-studded thong on display in Marcel’s living room had belonged to Fiona, although I would never have pegged her to wear something so racy.

I’d helped her get dressed without saying a word, but the shame in her eyes had said it all. She loved Marc, her handsome doctor boyfriend, and they’d recently moved into an adorable apartment together in Lyon.

Fiona wasn’t a cheater. It simply wasn’t part of her character.

But, as I knew all too well, there are days when we look in the mirror and don’t even recognize ourselves.

Fiona was clearly having one of those days, and if only I hadn’t dragged her into my honeymoon mess, she never would’ve met Marcel and none of this would have ever happened.

Back on the Metro train, which barreled away from
la Tour Eiffel
, I squeezed Fiona’s knee, hoping she knew I would never tell a soul what I’d seen this morning. And hoping that she knew how awful I felt about my part in it. Lexi eyed Fiona, then raised a brow at me. I shook my head in response. She nodded in understanding.

Sometimes girlfriends are telepathic like that.

Lexi squeezed Fiona’s hand. “With situations like these, it’s best to leave the past in the past. So the two of you missed your train back to Lyon, and our boyfriends and Charlotte’s new husband are going to be pissed at us for a few days. We’ll survive as long as we keep our mouths
shut
about this whole Boucher brother business. When the boys ask why we look like hell this morning, we tell them that we had a little too much to drink, then spent the night in Charlotte’s luxurious honeymoon suite and overslept. That’s all there is too it. Sound good?”

Deep gray circles swallowed Fiona’s blue eyes as she finally lifted them to the group. “I’m in.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“It’s settled then. This secret stays with—” Lexi stopped when her cell phone buzzed inside her purse. She glanced at the caller ID, but immediately silenced the phone. Red blotches splashed across her cheeks as she lifted her gaze back up to us. “What was I saying again?”

“The secret?” I prodded.

“Oh, right. Keep it quiet, ladies. For the sake of all of our relationships.”

Lexi’s phone buzzed once more, indicating a voice mail. A few seconds later, she practically jumped out of her seat when we reached her stop. “That’s me!”

I shot her a questioning glance, but she dismissed it, kissed me on the cheek, and dashed out of the Metro, leaving two terribly hungover, memory-challenged friends in her wake.

TEN

Three hours and one more expensive high-speed train ticket later, the TGV pulled into the Part-Dieu train station in Lyon. Fiona and I grabbed our bags and rambled through the crowds in silence. The pounding of my temples was about all I could handle for the duration of our train ride, but there was something I needed to say to Fiona before we parted ways.

Just as we rounded a corner and the train station crowds died down a bit, I placed a hand on her arm. “Listen, Fiona, I just wanted to say I’m so sorry for getting you into this mess. If it wasn’t for all of my ridiculous honeymoon drama, this never would’ve—”

“I’m an adult, Char. You don’t have to take responsibility for this. Just please don’t tell anyone what you saw this morning. Not until I figure out what I’m going to do about it anyway.” Fiona’s mouth quivered, her eyes watering up.

“Do you remember what happened after we got to Marcel’s apartment?” I asked her.

Before Fiona could respond, the tabloid featured in the newsstand behind her head caught my eye.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, reaching for the magazine.

On the cover of the trashy French tabloid was a photo montage of my entire day yesterday. Our first encounter with Brigitte and Vincent outside the Château Frontenac Hotel, my private chat with Vincent, me climbing into Nicolas’ fancy sports car, and finally our girls’ night out stumbling into the champagne-studded limo with the Boucher brothers.

I flipped through the glossy pages to see what other prize moments they’d caught on camera. My heart sank when I discovered photos of me, Lexi, and Fiona following Nicolas and Marcel into Marcel’s swanky apartment building late last night (a moment of which I still had no recollection) and another picture of us girls emerging from the same building early this morning, wearing the same skimpy dresses we’d been wearing the night before.

The translated headline read: “Another Wild Night for Bad Boy Marcel and Brother Nicolas.” The article on the following page retraced the cover’s photo montage with grossly inaccurate descriptions of what had gone down yesterday, including but not limited to:

Brigitte Beaumont leaves media mogul Vincent Boucher to reunite with hotty ex-husband, Luc Olivier.

Devastated by Olivier’s infidelity, his new wife Charlotte Summers is seduced by the entire Boucher family. Which one will she choose?

Summers invites the girls to join her for a sleepless night chez Marcel. Will bad boy Marcel ever settle with just one woman?

A drunken Brigitte makes a scene at the premiere party of her new film, embarrassing Vincent and herself. She is later spotted fighting with Vincent in front of the Château Frontenac Hotel before storming off into the night, drunk and alone.

Well, that last one probably wasn’t so inaccurate.

Those damn paparazzi hadn’t missed a single moment.

“
Merde
,” Fiona mumbled shaking her head.

“So much for our story of what happened last night,” I mumbled. “I wonder if Lexi has seen this yet.”

“Never mind Lexi. What about Marc, Dylan, and Luc? They’re going to hear about this one way or another. What are we going to tell them?” I’d never heard Fiona’s tone so desperate before.

I didn’t even want to think about how we were going to explain these photos to our respective men.

Trying to whip up a story in my dazed, pounding head, I turned the page.

The final incriminating photo staring back at us made me realize I’d have to improve my story-telling skills if I wanted the four of us to get out of this unscathed.

The horrified gasp coming from Fiona’s lips echoed my sentiment.

A photograph of two blurry silhouettes wrapped in a passionate embrace on Marcel’s balcony was featured on the last page of the article. The picture had been taken at night, so it was impossible to make out
which
one of us was kissing one of the Boucher brothers.

Guilt washed over Fiona’s pale blue eyes as she ripped the magazine out of my hands and snapped it shut.

“We need to put our sunglasses on and get the hell out of here before someone recognizes us,” she ordered. “I won’t lose Marc over these pretty boy actors. I just won’t.” Fiona flipped her dark sunglasses over her eyes and took off through the station.

“Fiona!” I called, grabbing onto her elbow. “I know after what happened this morning, you’re thinking it had to have been you on that balcony, but we don’t know for sure that it wasn’t Lexi. She woke up murmuring Nicolas’ name and saying she loved him in French.”

“Right, but she woke up next to
you, not
in Nicolas’ bed,” she hissed. “And besides, neither of your significant others have a mother who will rake you over the coals for this, and who’s arriving tomorrow to stay for
twelve sodding days
.”

Fiona was right—Madame Rousseau, Marc’s dreadful mother, would never forgive Fiona for this if she got wind of it. Judging by the fact that the wretched old woman had easily found out about my
scandalous
Bella Magazine
article only a few months earlier, she’d be all over the fact that her precious son’s new girlfriend’s face was splashed all over the French tabloids.

“I have to get home to Marc. I’m telling him the truth,” Fiona announced. “That’s the only option.”

“But we don’t even know
for sure
what happened last night.” I sighed, exasperated. “The balcony picture might not even
be
from last night for all we know. These are tasteless tabloids that specialize in distorting the truth.”

Fiona looked as unconvinced as I was by my own words. “What about Nicolas? Do we know if he stayed the night? He wasn’t there when you woke up this morning, was he?”

“No, he was already gone.”

“You have his number; maybe you can call and ask him what he remembers about last night?” Fiona asked.

I thought of Marcel’s harsh warning on the balcony earlier this morning to stay away from Nicolas. That there was more to the story than I knew, and if I wanted to keep my marriage intact, I needed to stay out of it.

I decided now wasn’t the best time to freak out Fiona any further by telling her about that bizarre incident. “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said.

“God, what a mess,” Fiona mumbled.

I leaned in and gave Fiona a hug before we went our separate ways.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the Metro in Vieux Lyon, silently cursing the blaring sun as I started off toward Luc’s apartment—which was technically
ours
now. A few blocks down the cobblestone stretch of rue Saint-Jean, my phone buzzed.

Expecting to see Luc’s name on the screen, I was relieved to find my boss’ number. That relief quickly evaporated when I realized that Jean-Sébastien
never
called me on the weekends.

Oh, God. Had he seen the tabloids?

I answered the phone and dove right in.

“Jean-Sébastien, I’m so sorry,” I rambled in French. “You have to let me expla—”

“Charlotte, why are
you
sorry? What are you talking about?”

“Um… I… you mean you haven’t seen…?”

“Seen what?”

“Oh, never mind. Sorry! What can I do for you?”

A heavy pause traveled down the line. Why did I get the feeling that even though Jean-Sébastien clearly hadn’t seen my trashy tabloid action, he wasn’t calling to give me a promotion?

“Jean-Sébastien, what is it?”

“Your classes have been cancelled, Charlotte. In fact, I can’t believe this is happening, but unfortunately,
most
of the classes this semester have to be cancelled. Our enrollment is lower than ever, and we’ve been in big financial trouble for the last several months. Apparently taking language classes for fun just doesn’t fit into people’s budgets anymore. That or I’ve done a horrible job at running this school.” Jean-Sébastien’s usual upbeat voice was completely deflated.

“But we’re supposed to start class tomorrow. There has to be some way—”

“Unless a massive contract comes our way soon, we’ll be forced to close down the school by next semester. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

I turned away from the direction of our apartment and headed down a skinny cobblestone alley toward the Saône River. I couldn’t see Luc right now. Not yet.

“How long have you known about this?” I was careful to only allow a hint of panic to settle into my voice. I felt like screaming at the sky.

“I was hanging on until the last minute, hoping we’d have a high enough enrollment to at least make it through the semester. But we didn’t. It was wrong of me to wait so long to tell you. You’re an amazing teacher, Charlotte. You know you’ll have my recommendation.”

“Thank you. But what about you? Are you going to be okay? And your family?” Jean-Sébastien’s wife, Marie-Élise, had just given birth to their second son and had decided to permanently leave her job to be a stay-at-home mom.

“I will figure out a way. But for now, there is little to no hope that the language school will survive in the long term. I’m sorry, Charlotte. I wish I could give you a different answer, but that’s all I have for you today.”

I plopped onto a bench facing the river, hung up my phone, and plunged my head into my hands. I
adored
my teaching job at the language school. How could this really be happening right now?

Plus, with all of the financial ambiguity between me and Luc, the last thing I wanted to do was start off our marriage jobless and completely dependent on him for money. After witnessing my parents’ divorce and my mother’s subsequent undoing, I’d vowed I would never be dependent on a man. I would always have my own career, my own way to support myself. And despite Luc’s apparent savings from his days working in finance, he was still a professor with a young daughter, and potential future legal battles ahead of him with the One Who Shall Not Be Named.

Thinking back to my conversation with Lexi the day before, an idea popped into my mind. It was a long shot, but I figured anything was worth a try. As I sat facing the banks of the sparkling river, I drafted a quick e-mail on my phone to a contact back in New York. Then I picked myself off the bench, took a deep breath, and headed home.