Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) (9 page)

That all changed as we unloaded the trunk of the car. The normal, tedious task was made much more challenging since there was a gauntlet of people stepping in our way, cameras flashing, and shouting. Eventually, we carried our purchases into the house.

“Thank the good Lord that’s over. I thought I was going to pee my pants, I have to go so bad,” Kathleen shouted as she dashed up the stairs to the bathroom.

“Could someone explain to me why she feels the need to inform us of her bodily functions?” Hillary said to Kathleen’s retreating back.

Marian laughed, “I can just picture the tabloids tomorrow, a picture of Kathleen running through the snow leaving behind a yellow trail. The title would be, ‘Charlotte Flees, Friend Pees!’” Everyone laughed; well, everyone but Hillary. She only raised an eyebrow and gave us a disparaging glare.

Returning to the previous day’s guard duty, Marian walked to the window and peeked out.

Kathleen had returned and was doling out glasses of white Bordeaux to everyone. Marian had just taken a sip from her glass when she gasped, “Oh my god, one of the paparazzi is coming to the front door. The nerve!”

“Well, don’t open it! All I want to do is enjoy this glass of wine and probably a few more,” I said.

I took a big gulp from my glass and headed to the kitchen to get the bottle of wine. Rejoining them, I continued, “I propose that next year we meet at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Not too much can happen there.”

Whomever Marian had seen approaching now tapped on the door. “Who is it?” she called out in a tone that asked, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“My name is Daniel LaRivière, I’m from the law firm of Chapdelaine & Dussault,” came the reply.

“Oh god,” I said for the thousandth time in the last three days.

All eyes in the room quickly swiveled from the door to me.

“What do we do?” Kathleen whispered after a few moments of silence.

“Well, darling, there’s only one thing to do. Open the door. We’ll take it one step at a time,” Tiziana replied, freakishly calmly.

There was a certain amount of logic there. After all, how long could we stay hidden inside?

Marian looked back at me, questioningly. I gave her a tentative nod and let out the breath I’d been holding. She carefully opened the door, leaving her foot behind it just in case the paparazzi made a rush and we had to shut it quickly. By now we were all standing up, gazing through the narrow gap, trying to size up our visitor.

“Well, he looks like a lawyer. I don’t see any cameras or tape recorders. Should she let him in?” Hillary asked.

I walked over to the door, taking deep breaths along the way. “Monsieur LaRivière, given everything that has happened, I’m sure you would understand our asking you for identification, to take off your coat and turn your remaining pockets inside out.”

“As you request, mademoiselle.” He entered, a business card in one hand, his black cashmere coat in the other. He placed his coat over the back of a chair and then deposited the contents of his pockets on the table. Hillary, Kathleen, Marian, Tiziana, and I watched him carefully.

“Should we pat him down to see if he’s wired?” Marian asked with a glint in her eye as she handed me his embossed business card.

My brain sent a message causing me to recognize he was pretty hot, while my nervous system encouraged me to flee.

That question was answered by Monsieur LaRivière. “Ladies, I can assure you that I’m not with the paparazzi or any other group associated with the media. If you allow me to open my briefcase, I believe I can answer all your questions suitably.”

It was only then we noticed the briefcase. So much for our detective skills! As he was looking at me, I uncertainly said, “Certainly.” Feeling the need to fill the quiet while he made a show of unlocking the leather case, I continued, “No one here has anything to hide.” I prayed I was correct.

“Interesting choice of words,” Monsieur LaRivière replied. “If I may explain why I’m here.” He paused briefly to make sure the documents were organized correctly and then continued, “I’m here to deliver documents.” This seemed quite ominous. The urge to flee grew bigger. Still looking at me, he said, “Could Ms. Charlotte Young please identify herself and provide me with a piece of legal identification?”

I felt five pairs of eyes on me, four pairs waiting with concern, one pair disinterested.

I stepped forward and took my passport from my purse, which was hanging on a hook beside my jacket. I briefly debated making a break for it but handed it over instead. After looking my passport and me over, Monsieur LaRivière handed it back with an envelope.

The stationery was quite heavy, indicating its high quality. My name was printed in an elegant font and the letterhead was from Meade, Jameson, and Kelly.

“Give us just a minute,” I requested.

“I think that would be best, mademoiselle. It would make certain that all your questions are answered.”

Feeling my friends peering over my shoulder, I turned the envelope over and carefully opened it. I unfolded the document and several important words leapt out at me. “Restraining Order,” “Charlotte Young,” “Mead, Jameson, and Kelly,” “Des Bannerman,” and “Benoît Durand.”

I folded onto the nearest chair. “I can’t believe this. I haven’t done anything.” The situation was continuing to take turns for the worse.

A week before, I had been an average person flying to France for a ski vacation. Three days before, the world thought I was Des Bannerman’s mistress, and today, I was a stalker being told to stay away from him.

Seeing my face turn from pasty white to green, Kathleen guided me to a bathroom. I could hear Tiziana talking to Monsieur LaRivière in the distance. Kathleen placed a glass of cold water in my hands and then draped a cold cloth on the back of my neck.

“The balls on that man. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered. Then, even more quietly, “You didn’t, did you?”

I snatched the cloth away from my neck. “Of course not!” I replied angrily.

I stormed back to the living room, Kathleen rushing to keep up with me. I overheard LaRivière and Tiziana in a heated discussion with her calling into question Des Bannerman’s legitimacy.

Upon seeing me, Monsieur LaRivière politely asked if I was all right. “I’m fine.” I tugged my sweater down and folded my arms across my chest. “Who are all these people?” I slapped the packet of documents on the table.

“They are the law firm representing Mr. Bannerman,” LaRivière replied. My last hope that Mead, Jameson, and Kelly were his friends faded altogether. No possibilities that this was a practical joke.

“Please explain to me why it was deemed necessary for Mr. Bannerman to have a restraining order filed against
me
?” Confusion resonated in my voice.

Monsieur LaRivière went on to explain that the individual filing the request listed “order of protection” as the explanation. The judge, in this case Benoît Durand, believed there to be sufficient evidence to warrant the restraining order. “In addition, I was instructed to draw your attention to the paragraph that states that if you hold any more press conferences regarding your acquaintance with Mr. Bannerman, he is prepared to take further legal action.” Mr. LaRivière finished his explanation less vigorously, starting to sweat a bit under the glare of five angry women.

Standing with my feet spread wide, my hands clenched in fists at my side, I snarled with anger. “Given the fact that we live on two different continents and that we don’t share the same circle of friends, I can assure you that it would have been extremely unlikely that we would have ended up in the same place at the same time, anyway. You may inform the necessary persons that I am not in the habit of foisting myself onto anyone. So, other than Mr. Bannerman coming to his senses and my giving a damn, I can assure you that I will stay the required distance away from him.” I finished at a much higher pitch than I had started.

Without a word, I handed Monsieur LaRivière his cashmere coat. With equal quietness, he placed the items on the table back into his pockets and snapped his briefcase shut. He slipped on his coat, made eye contact with me, and nodded.

“Anything else?” I dared him.

“No, mademoiselle. That is all. Once you read through the document carefully, you may call me with any questions,” he said quietly.

“I will call my own lawyer, thank you.” I glared with angry eyes at him, at which point he turned and left.

Not another sound was made for a full minute. I stood in the middle of the room, looking at nothing.

I felt warm hands on mine. “Oh, honey, I don’t even know what to say.” Kathleen spoke in a quiet, whispery voice.

“What is there to say? Meeting him was supposed to be impossible. It was all supposed to be fun. Fun and impossible! What in the world am I going to say to people when they find out that I have a restraining order against me? It was bad enough trying to figure out how to explain to people that Des Bannerman and I barely met. This is serious. Now I have to worry about police records, harassment charges…” My voice trailed off as I returned to my thoughts for a few moments. “What happened…?” My question was left hanging in the air, my eyes filled with tears.

Soon, I was wrapped in Tiziana’s arms as she whispered in my ear, “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

MY HOPE WAS THAT
, when I returned home to New York City, all this bizarreness would be left behind in Chamonix. The interest of the paparazzi had quickly dropped off upon Des’s departure. I waited for the tabloids to find out about the restraining order, but I was spared that humiliation, which made the last few days somewhat enjoyable.

A serious cold front descended on the mountains, so we left the slopes to the more intrepid explorers. With only a few days left, we spent time enjoying the village’s eateries, festivities, and nightlife.

One night, Marian was trying to get the barman’s attention and became desperate enough that I thought she might take her bra off and raise it like a flag. Just as I was about to intervene, a nearby voice said, “Aren’t you the girl who was having a roll in the snow with Des Bannerman?”

Looking through the cigarette fog, I returned my focus to within five feet of myself and gazed at the fellow. His clothes were nondescript, and his voice and body language made it clear he wasn’t trying to pick me up.

“Probably paparazzi,” Hillary whispered in my ear. “You have the wrong girl, we’ve only just arrived. We saw the articles in the magazines. Is she still here? We heard she left town right after Des Bannerman,” she lied boldly. The guy just shrugged his non-descript shoulders and left to troll the bar.

After that, my fifteen minutes of fame appeared to be well and truly over. We were enormously relieved when the attention returned to Tiziana, leaving us only the simple challenge of allowing one male at a time to vie for her attention.

Finally, the day arrived for me to fly home. My flight was scheduled for the evening before everyone else’s. Packed and teary-eyed, with my coat on and a taxi waiting for me, I confessed to my friends, “I really couldn’t have done it without you. Get the restraining order, I mean! You really should consider yourselves responsible. Not only did you help me find and meet Des Bannerman, you did bugger all to protect me from him. But don’t worry, I forgive you! Well, I’ll only truly forgive you if the next time we meet up, one of you has his balls in your hand!”

“Now, that’s the spirit! I’m glad you didn’t let it get you too down,” Marian said while giving me another hug.

Hillary pushed Marian aside. “I’m glad you finally met him, though. Perhaps now you’ll quit mooning over him. Move on to someone more worthy, like George Clooney.”

Kathleen moaned. “Next time we come here, I expect you to help me meet Prince Harry. He doesn’t seem to mind mixing with the riff-raff.”

“Don’t worry, darling, we’ll never let that horrible man hurt you again. We’ll be certain he knows how terribly he’s treated you. We’ll talk soon, bella!” Tiziana reassured me as she embraced me and gave me a peck on each cheek.

“Be good to yourself!” the girls called as I stepped into the taxi.

Famous last words,
I thought a few days later when I stepped through the etched glass doors that divided our offices from the corridor.

For reasons unimaginable, every wall and bulletin board was covered with photographs and articles about my tryst with Des Bannerman. Des and me at the casino, Des and me at the theatre, Des and me getting in the car, Des and me standing in the fog, Des and me entwined in the snow, Des and me looking shocked. It was overwhelming and over the top.

“I’m going to find out who the hell is behind this and sue their ass off!” I muttered under my breath as I tugged one of the most offensive magazine covers off the wall.

As I was about to turn around and leave, I heard my name called out. “Charlotte!” It was Faith Clarkson, the owner of the PR firm that I worked for.

My stomach clenched, sweat broke out on my forehead, and I willed myself to be calm. I turned around on an elegantly-shod foot, tugged down my suit jacket, and forced a relaxed smile on my face. “Ms. Clarkson?”

“Charlotte, I see you’ve enjoyed your vacation. Would you please join me in my office?” Her face was deadpan, and her invitation was really only a veiled demand.

“I’ll be right there. I’ll just go put my coat and briefcase away,” I said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel.

I hurried to my office, trying to prepare myself for the upcoming assault. My secretary was sitting at her desk when I walked through the door.

“Hello, Evelle. How have you been?” I asked perfunctorily, as I crossed the room to my office. As I hung up my coat and put my briefcase on my desk, I called over my shoulder, “Could you please bring in my messages and anything that I need to review?”

I looked up to see Evelle standing in the doorway with everything I’d just requested. Her eyes had a bit of a weird look about them, and she just stared at me.

“Thank you, Evelle. Is there anything else?” I broke her out of her stupor.