Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (118 page)

‘Pardon?' The male voice came from just over her right shoulder, but Emmy, convinced that another hotel employee was preparing to chastise her for something, ignored it.

‘Excuse me?' the voice persisted. ‘Forgive me for interrupt-ing you.'

Emmy glanced up, remembering at the last minute to appear colossally bored and displeased with the interruption, but the moment she said ‘Yes?' in the most irritated tone she could muster, she regretted it. Peering down at her was a guy with the kind of classical good looks – thick dark hair, crinkly eyes, easy smile full of straight white teeth – that made him almost universally attractive. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous or movie-star sexy, but his pleasing appearance combined with his confident approachability made Emmy think that there wasn't a sane woman on the planet who would find him unappealing.

‘Hi,' she murmured.
Bingo
, she thought.
Tour de Whore contender number one.

He flashed another smile and motioned to the chair beside her with a questioning look. Emmy just nodded and stared as he sat. He was younger than she originally thought, perhaps even under thirty. Her lightning-fast appraisal – honed over so many years that it was now nearly instinctive – produced all positive points. Meticulously cut yet still casual navy cotton sweater over a white collared shirt. Good jeans that were blessedly devoid of deliberate rips, excessive fading, logos, studs, embroidery, or flap pockets. Simple but elegant brown loafers. Regular height, reasonably fit without being obsessive, well groomed but still masculine. If she had to criticize something, she might say that his jeans were a tad too tight. Then again, if one was going to seduce European men, tight jeans were an occupational hazard.

Newly emboldened by his approach, and not forgetting that the only men she'd spoken to in France so far all worked at the Costes, Emmy smiled. ‘I'm Emmy,' she said.

He grinned and offered her a hand. No rings, no bitten nails, no clear polish – all good signs. ‘Paul Wyckoff. I couldn't help but overhear what that jackass said to you …'

Dammit. There was no denying the obvious: Despite the painted-on jeans and the good manners and her fervent desire for it to not be so, Paul spoke English with an American accent. He was undeniably born and raised in the States, or perhaps – at the most exotic – Canada. She was bitterly disappointed.

‘… it's just incredible, isn't it?' he was saying. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how much people are willing to pay to be treated so poorly.'

‘So it's not just me?' Emmy asked, slightly relieved that the hotel hadn't singled her out.

‘Definitely not,' Paul assured her. ‘They're positively abusive to
all
of their guests. It's the only thing they're really consistent about.'

‘Well, thank you for that. I was starting to develop quite a complex.'

‘I'm glad I could help. The first time I stayed here, I was a paranoid wreck. My parents used to drag us all over the world – I practically grew up in hotels – but it only took a day here to make me feel like a bumbling idiot,' he said.

Emmy laughed, already forgetting about Paul's lack of eligibility. Which was lacking, of course, for game purposes only. It had taken less than four minutes of small talk to deduce that he would make the perfect husband. But no! No, dammit; she wasn't going to fall into that trap again.
Sex good. Attachments bad.
She repeated these four words as images of her dream Monique Lhuillier wedding dress (sleeveless but not strapless, floor-length, with a dusty rose sash cinching the waist) and her perfect menu (citrus heirloom tomato salad to start, followed by a choice of grilled ahi tuna or a Matsuzake beef tenderloin) danced through her mind.

‘Glad to know I'm not alone.' Emmy finished her coffee and licked the spoon clean. ‘Why did your family travel so much?'

‘This is where I should say “army brat” or “diplomat's son,” but really, there's not one reason. Mostly my parents are just schizophrenic about where they live, and they're both writers. So we were always on the move. I was actually born in Argentina.'

It took Emmy only a split second to understand the significance of that fact. ‘Does that make you Argentinean?'

Paul laughed. ‘Among other things.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning that I'm an Argentine because I was born in Buenos Aires while my parents were both working on books. We lived there off and on for a couple of years before heading to Bali. My father is English, so I'm automatically conferred UK citizenship, and my mother is French, but their citizenship laws – like their customer service – tend to be tricky, so I've never claimed that one. It may sound interesting, but I assure you, it's a colossal mess.'

‘It's just that you sound so … American.'

‘Yeah, I know. I went to American schools my entire life, literally from kindergarten on, in whatever country we were in. And I went to university in Chicago. It kills my dad that I sound like a born-and-bred American.'

Emmy nodded, trying to process it all. Or really to catalog every detail so that her triumphant e-mail to the girls that night would be airtight.

‘You ready for something a little stronger?' Paul asked. ‘You might need it after listening to me talk about myself for so long.'

‘What were you thinking?' she responded, deliberately heavy on the eyelashes and the forward lean.
Sex good. Attachments bad.

He laughed. ‘Nothing too crazy. Maybe switch from coffee to wine?'

They shared a bottle of something rich and velvety and so heavy with tannins it made Emmy's mouth pucker. A Bordeaux, she would wager, although she could no longer venture a guess to the particular vintage, as she'd been able to years ago, when she'd spent six months traveling all over France, working random restaurant jobs and visiting vineyards. Bordeaux had never been one of her personal favorites, but tonight she loved the way it tasted. They chatted effortlessly through another bottle, during which time Emmy envisioned their imminent honeymoon (an oceanfront villa in Bora Bora with an open-air sleeping pavilion and a private plunge pool, or perhaps a luxury African safari where they'd make love in their net-draped bed before a driver whisked them past elephants and lions in an imposing black Range Rover) only once. Things were quite flirtatious, actually, until Emmy asked – casually, she thought – how Paul felt about kids.

His head snapped up. ‘Kids? What about them?'

Was she not being as subtle as she thought? The wine must be clouding her judgment. She'd thought that asking whether he had any nieces or nephews would serve as a totally natural segue into soliciting his opinion about having his own kids one day, but perhaps this was more transparent than she had originally figured?

‘Oh, nothing in particular,' Emmy said. ‘They're just so adorable, aren't they? Although it does seem like so many people don't want them these days, doesn't it? And I just can't imagine that. I don't mean immediately, of course, but I definitely know I want them at some point, you know?'

Something about this observation seemed to remind Paul that he was late for his previously unmentioned plans.

‘Yeah, I guess. Listen, Emmy, I'm actually really late meeting up with some friends,' he said, staring at his watch.

‘Really? Now?' It was nearly midnight, but it felt like four in the morning. She was pleasantly drunk and mellow and determined to seduce Paul like the sexually independent and freethinking woman she was. Never mind that she really just wanted to continue their conversation upstairs, tucked under a comfy duvet while they languidly talked and kissed until sunrise. She would lay her head on his chest and he would play with her hair, occasionally cupping her chin with a strong hand and gently pulling her lips to his. They would laugh at each other's silly puns and share secrets and talk about all their favorite places to visit, hoping but not yet saying – after all, it was only their first night – that they would someday travel to all of them together. They would wake in the late morning and Paul would tell Emmy how adorable she looked all sleepy and disheveled and they would order room-service breakfast (flaky croissants, fresh orange juice, coffee with full-fat milk, and a whole plate of plump, juicy berries) and work out their plan for—

‘Hey there. Emmy?' Paul placed a few fingers on the top of her hand. ‘You still with me?'

‘Sorry. What were you saying?'

‘I was saying that I have to get going. I was supposed to meet some friends at ten, but I, uh, got distracted.' His sheepish smile made her heart skip a beat. ‘Any other time I'd invite you to come – I'd insist on it – but, well, it's actually a birthday party for my ex, and I'm not sure she'd be thrilled if I brought … someone. You know?'

The projector in Emmy's head came to an abrupt stop; the screen showing the two of them laughing as they raided her minibar for more wine was replaced with one where she alone watched the endless loops on CNN International, clad in her holey gray T-shirt, popping those massive French
framboises
by the fistful.

She managed a smile. ‘No, no, no. Of course! I totally understand. It would be weird and inconsiderate to show up with another girl. Plus, I'm really feeling the jet lag right now – Christ, it's hitting me like a ton of bricks. And I have such an early meeting tomorrow, so I wouldn't be able to go, anyway.'
Stop talking!
she urged herself.
You're seconds away from telling him all about the horrible ingrown on your bikini line you picked earlier today until it bled and now makes you look like you have herpes. Or the fact that all that coffee followed by all that wine is making your stomach feel a little funky, and while you're devastatingly disappointed that he's ditching you right now, you're relieved that you'll have a little time alone. Just stop speaking this moment!

Paul motioned to the waiter for their check.

‘No, please, let me,' she said, reaching rather forcefully across their tiny table. A remixed Shirley Basset song thumped from the speakers behind them and Emmy was surprised to see how thoroughly the entire lobby had transformed into a dark velvety lair of magnificent people.

‘I really am sorry to leave like this, but they're my oldest friends and it's been forever …'

‘Of course! Don't worry about a thing.' She had already accepted that she was going upstairs alone. The idea of falling into bed with Paul as part of a promise she made to her friends felt ridiculous. Who was she kidding? It just wasn't in her nature. Fine for other girls – fantastic, in fact, for people like Adriana – but Emmy just wasn't made like that. She wanted to know someone, know him in every sense of the word, and sex was something that naturally followed that process, not some impulsive act that took the place of it. Besides, she was here all week. Maybe they could meet again the next day for dinner … Oh, wait, she had evening meetings the next night. Well, then they'd have to meet for drinks afterward. Start at the hotel, perhaps, because it was the most convenient, and then roam some charming cobblestone streets before ducking into the perfect Parisian bistro for some late-night
frites
and Coca-Cola Lights. At that point, they would have spent hours and hours together, maybe even kissed under one of those romantic wrought-iron streetlamps – just gently, of course, a soft, whispery thing with no tongue and no pressure to take it further. Yes, that would be ideal.

He walked her to the tiny elevator tucked into a pitch-black corner of the lobby and stepped aside as an exceedingly attractive couple stepped off.

‘It was nice to meet you, Em. Emmy. Which do people call you?'

‘Both. But my closest friends have always used Em, so I like that.' She gave him her most winning smile.

‘Well, uh, I'm headed out in the morning, so I guess this is good-bye.'

‘Oh. Really? Where's home?' She realized she didn't even know where he lived.

‘Not home yet, unfortunately. I'll be in Geneva for the next two days, and then possibly Zurich, depending.'

‘Sounds busy.'

‘Yeah, the travel schedule can be intense. But, uh, well, it really was great to meet you.' He paused and grinned. ‘I said that already, didn't I?'

Emmy told herself that the lump in her throat was a combination of PMS and jet lag and too much wine, and had absolutely positively nothing to do with Paul. Yet she was afraid she'd cry if she tried to speak, so she merely nodded.

‘Get some rest, okay? And don't let any of the Costes people push you around. Promise?'

She nodded again.

He tipped her face up toward his own and for a second she was quite certain he was going to kiss her. Instead, he looked into her eyes and smiled again. Then he kissed her cheek and turned away.

‘Good night, Emmy. Take care of yourself.'

‘Good night, Paul. You, too.'

She stepped onto the elevator, and before the doors closed, he was gone.

‘Fatty! Fatty! Fatty!' the nasty bird cawed. It had awakened, like a human infant, at five-forty-five that morning – a Saturday! – and refused to go back to sleep. Adriana tried humming to it, feeding it, holding it, playing with it, and, finally, locking it in the guest bathroom with the lights off, but the little winged beast persisted in its verbal barrage.

‘Big girl! Big girl! Big girl!' it screeched, its head bobbing up and down like a dashboard dog.

‘Now you listen to me, you little fucker,' Adriana hissed, her lips nearly touching the cage's metal bars. ‘I am a lot of things – a lot of lousy, crummy things – but fat is
not
one of them. Do you understand me?'

The bird cocked its head to the side as if he were considering her question. Adriana thought he may have even nodded, and she turned to go back to bed, satisfied. She hadn't even stepped through the bathroom door when the bird cawed – more quietly this time, she would swear – ‘Fat girl.'