Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) (8 page)

I was thinking of how to respond when I saw skiers descending. “It looks like we have company.” He looked over his shoulder and up the hill toward them. No sooner had he done that than the cameras appeared from nowhere, and the skiers turned into paparazzi. “My god! They really are everywhere.”

He quickly reacted. “We’d better go before they get too close and figure out you’re the woman from the casino. Do you think you can make a run for it? I know the fog is bad, but I’ll stay in front, and you can follow me.”

“I’ll do my best.” And we were away.

I had never skied at such a breakneck pace. Essentially, we pointed our skies downhill and accelerated at an alarming rate. I kept chanting to myself, “You can do it, nice and easy, you can do it.” All the while, I could hear the sounds of skis and cameras clicking behind us. People were shouting, “Des,” “Mr. Bannerman,” “Brynn”—anything they thought might get our attention. Fortunately, they seemed to be losing ground from the sound of things, which added to my confidence. Occasionally, Des threw looks at me over his shoulder and then focused on the mountain.

I could see the sun beginning to break through the fog and hoped we were close to the bottom. My legs were starting to burn from the effort, and I really needed to go to the bathroom. “Keep going and think of something else,” I said out loud.

We burst through the fog and could see the chairlifts not too far off. People were milling around, and a few looked up as we emerged from the clouds. I quickly scanned the distance for Tiziana, Hillary, Kathleen, Marian, and Ted. I couldn’t see them and was hoping that they had made it safely down.

I was so busy looking around that I hadn’t noticed Des had slowed down. I plowed into him and knocked him over. We bounced around, sending ski equipment flying everywhere. By the time the world quit spinning, the paparazzi had caught up. “Oh, bugger,” my companion said between puffs of breath. I opened my eyes to see his beautiful blue eyes between me and the sky. I became aware of our limbs being entangled and his weight on top of me. Quickly fluttering through my mind was the realization that it had been some time since I had enjoyed that particular sensation.

Suddenly, several unknown heads came into view, all with cameras disguising their faces. “Oh, bugger is right,” I muttered, quickly covering my face with my arms. The noise was horrific as people shouted at us, asking my name, calling for Des to look their way.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted. I never got a response. Des hauled me up and led the way to a deluxe chalet, leaving our ski equipment scattered to the four corners of the world.

***

I woke up the next day with the certainty of several things. My body hurt like hell from my tumble at the end of the run; I had caught a cold; I was probably on the cover of the tabloids again; and Des Bannerman would be staying well away from me and anyone linked to me.

After lying in bed pondering the events of the last week, I heard a light rap on the door of my bedroom. “Come in,” I called. The door opened and four concerned faces peered in at me.

“We thought we ought to bring the papers up, so you could get it over and done with,” Hillary explained, her voice apologetic.

With a grimace, Kathleen added, “It would also seem that your fifteen minutes of fame aren’t over. We can’t see the forest for the paparazzi.”

I took the papers and scanned the headlines. Through the grayish light of the gloomy sky, I made out one picture of Des and me entwined intimately. Another shot was a close-up of a very distraught Brynn. The worst was a photo of Des and Brynn boarding a private plane late last night, both looking very weary.

I handed them to Kathleen and asked her to translate. The headline and photo captions inferred that we were so overcome with lust that we couldn’t take the time to return to our hotel room. Many articles pondered the state of the famous couple’s relationship, while others queried how long Des had been having the affair.

I took a deep breath and slowly blew it out while I shoved my hair out of my eyes. “What a mess. I wonder what she’s thinking.”

They all looked at me with concern. “You’re the one with problems. Des and Ms. Roberts have fled the scene, and you’ve been left behind to handle the whole thing. You need to figure out what you want to do,” Marian said as she sat down on the bed beside me.

“That just occurred to me!” I said to no one in particular while chewing my lip. We all sat in silence for a minute or two, absorbing how this vacation had taken on a surreal quality.

“Come on! Let’s have breakfast and coffee. Maybe they’ll all go away again, and we won’t have to figure out what to do,” Kathleen said as she pulled me out of bed.

The others were working in the kitchen when I arrived. I had used the excuse of needing to use the bathroom when, in reality, all I needed was a good cry. They ignored my puffy red eyes, and, over breakfast, we devised plans for the remaining few days of our time together.

“We could pack up and go to Saint Gervais Les Bains,” Hillary suggested. “They have fabulous skiing.”

“How about taking the train to Monaco?” Kathleen inquired. A newspaper had reported that Prince Miguel Alfonso Monte- whatever had left, as well. I shot her a look that told her how pathetic I thought she was.

“I really appreciate the support, but we’d spend all our time packing, rearranging our flights, and traveling. I think we should just take a stand and enjoy the rest our time here.” All four of them looked at me dubiously but seemed to accept my opinion as the decision.

A few chocolate croissants and several cups of coffee later, we had decided how to ride out the storm in Chamonix. I went upstairs and began to pull myself together. While washing my hair, I found a nice-sized lump on the back of my head. No wonder I had a headache. While drying myself off with a big, fluffy white towel, I made a mental note to buy a better helmet. I then gently rubbed some cream into my skin and took a few aspirin.

Every once in a while during my toilette, a paparazzi report was called up the stairs. I finally arrived downstairs to find my friends dressed in jackets and boots.

“Are you ready?” Tiziana asked.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Kathleen inquired.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea. Lambs to the slaughter come to mind,” Hillary remarked.

Pulling on my coat and boots, I looked at them. “Do I look ready?”

“Well, actually, you look like you did the day of our final exams at school,” Marian offered.

“Well, that doesn’t make me feel great! I was a bundle of nerves that day. I thought I was going to be sick. Just leave a clear path to the door, don’t let me ramble, and, if at all possible, don’t say a word,” I instructed the group. “If there’s trouble, I’d rather take the blame.”

With that, we opened the doors and presented a unified front to the paparazzi. Instantly, the cameras started to click, people started to shout, and I felt the urge to both vomit and wet my pants.

I took one step further forward than my friends, to separate myself from them. I pulled some notes out of my pocket that I had made at the breakfast table and addressed the crowd.

“Rumors that Mr. Bannerman and I have an intimate relationship are completely false. We met purely by chance twice. I would like to apologize to Ms. Roberts directly for causing her any discomfort.”

“My friends and I would like to enjoy the remainder of our vacation. We ask that you respect all those involved in this incident and give us privacy. Thank you.”

More shouting and camera-clicking continued as I turned and walked back into the chalet. Once inside, I raced to the bathroom. While I didn’t get sick, I had almost wet my pants. I pressed a cold cloth to my flushed cheeks and wondered how celebrities, politicians, and other public figures survived having their lives scrutinized.

“Are you okay in there?” Hillary called from the other side of the door.

I opened the bathroom door. “I am now!”

We spent the day avoiding the paparazzi pretty lazily. Blankets, books, a roaring fire, and plenty of chatting provided entertainment. Fortunately, there was enough food in the house to survive the day.

After eating leftover pasta for dinner, Marian turned on the television with the hope that there might be some program that we could understand. “Oh, look, there are cable channels with movies in English!” she said excitedly.

“What’s on?” I asked, ready to be mindlessly entertained.

Marian, in charge of the remote control, said, “Our choices are
Casino Royale
,
The Queen
,
Lady Chatterley
,
Little Miss Sunshine
,
The Bourne Supremacy
, and
Bridget Jones’s Diary
.”

Deciding to go with my request for an ass-kicking movie, we set about collecting food to nibble on before watching
The Bourne Supremacy
. Kathleen, having become completely Frenchified, unwrapped a room-temperature wedge of Camembert and another very smooth cheese made of sheep’s milk. Tiziana placed sliced fruit on a plate, while Marian and I brought an assortment of chocolate to the party. Hillary was content to sip a glass of white Bordeaux.

Just as the movie began, Tiziana’s phone rang, and she quietly answered and left the room. We were so engrossed by the chase scenes, people beating each other to a pulp, and how good Matt Damon was that we didn’t notice she hadn’t returned. It was when the credits were rolling that she sauntered back into the room looking like a cat that had drunk a bowl of cream.

“How’s Gianni?” we inquired. She looked a little dazed, gave a little shimmy, and reported that the world was a wonderful place.

Marian, who had spent the day peeking out the window to check on the paparazzi, got up and pulled the curtains back slightly. “Looks like the last few have finally given up.”

“Thank god for that,” Kathleen replied. “We would have had to tunnel into town for food tomorrow.”

The following morning, I stumbled down the stairs and made a pot of coffee. Then I sat in silence, holding a mug, and watched snowflakes fall. Eventually the others joined me, and we all talked about what the day’s plan ought to be.

I stretched my legs out in front of me and straightened my spine. “You know what? I’m through with hiding. I didn’t do anything wrong. I say we fluff ourselves up, go shopping, have lunch, and get back to normal.”

In support of my decision, we leisurely readied ourselves, collectively took a deep breath, walked out the door, and had our photographs taken by a plethora of paparazzi. The noise wasn’t nearly as deafening as the day before. We did our best to ignore all of it and drove off in our SUV without running anyone over.

“Bloody hell! They’re following us,” Marian reported.

“Of course they are. We have Des Bannerman’s lover in our car,” Kathleen teased.

“I suggest we treat them like annoying children. Ignore them and they’ll go away,” Hillary suggested.

Hillary’s comment made me wonder if it was going to be possible to wander the streets of Chamonix. I thought I might have taken an overly simplistic outlook on this. The image of a bull in a china shop flitted through my mind. Looking around the car, I could tell the girls were happy to get out of the chalet, so I decided not to give in to cowardice. I would follow Hillary’s lead and apply the “annoying children” concept.

Eventually, we found a place to park the car then spent a few hours wandering the shops to find gifts for family and friends. Eventually, starving, we sat down to eat.

After flouncing down in her chair, Kathleen jokingly asked, “Has anyone been counting? I wonder how many photographs have been taken today. The newspapers tomorrow will undoubtedly have an itemized list of all purchases we made, leaving readers to wonder if you’re buying bric-a-brac for Des’s house.”

“Don’t even say it, because it’s probably true,” I replied, unable to find the humor in it. “Could we change the subject? When are you and Gianni getting married?” I asked Tiziana, changing the subject.

After she recovered from choking on a bite of warm, crusty bread she asked, “Do you know something I don’t? Gianni hasn’t mentioned marriage!”

I sensed she wasn’t unhappy about the lack of a proposal.

My assumption had always been that this was the direction they were heading. They’d been together forever, they were Italian Catholics, and I assumed one or both would want children soon.

“Well, after all the phone calls and dreamy looks, I just assumed that the next time we’d all be getting together, you would be getting married,” Kathleen said.

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Tiziana answered, appearing more interested in the menu than anything else.

Lunch was an oddly silent affair. Generally, we have a lot more to talk about. To be fair, I spent most of lunch locked in my own thoughts. It was only when we were sipping coffee that I realized my friends were preoccupied, as well.

Grabbing Kathleen and Hillary’s hands, since they were within reach, I said to the group, “I’m really sorry! I’m responsible for all the bedlam. Do you just want to go back to the chalet?”

After pishposhing my concerns, there was no choice but to gracefully and gratefully accept reassurances. We paid the bill and resumed the day’s events with a little more enthusiasm than before. A few hours later, we schlepped our bags down the sidewalk in the direction of the car.

Some photographers offered to help Tiziana with her bags.

“Figures,” Marian said. “My arms could be dragging behind me, leaving a trail of blood, and no one would notice. Especially with her around.”

“It’s truly amazing, isn’t it? The paparazzi have been following us around because I’m the reported ‘other woman’ in Des Bannerman’s life, yet when they come in contact with her, they wouldn’t care if Des Bannerman and I were naked in the snow in front of them,” I added, reassuring Marian it wasn’t only her.

The rest laughed. “True, so true,” Kathleen and Hillary agreed, while Tiziana was oblivious as she gazed in shop windows.

Either the trip back was less eventful, or we’d become accustomed to having cars and motorcycles swerve around us and people call out our names. My favorite was a big German guy on a motorcycle two sizes too small for him booming, “Charlotta!” That fella was intimidating.