The Lion's Den(44)
The men go silent. Finally John speaks, switching to English. “I understand your concern, but it’s unnecessary. The collapse was tragic, but it was the fault of the contractor, who altered the plans after they had been approved. Lionshare was cleared of any wrongdoing.”
From where I’m crouched next to a chair retrieving my ring I sneak a glance up to see solemn nods around the table.
“What are you doing?” Wendy says from right behind me. I start, knocking my head on the table, and she laughs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She’s holding my bag, Claire at her side, the photo shoot over. “I dropped my ring,” I say, displaying the ring on my finger, “but I found it.”
Wendy hands me my purse. “Did you hear? John has a surprise for all of us!”
“It’s in town,” Claire offers.
“Great!” I hope for the best as we make our way toward the Suburbans.
The polo players triple-kiss us all goodbye before climbing into their white Lamborghini and roaring off in a cloud of dust, and for once John’s men stay with him and the execs, leaving us girls nearly unaccompanied, save our drivers. A minor miracle.
Rhonda has a headache (no mystery there) and Amythest claims one as well, so the two of them head back to the boat in the first Suburban while the rest of us pile into the second. After all the rosé and limoncello consumed at lunch, everyone is in a good mood, squealing like preschoolers as we jostle down the bumpy road. “Papa Don’t Preach” comes on the radio, and Summer calls out, “Turn it up!”
Before long, we’re all singing along, dancing in our seats.
“I feel like I’m at a bachelorette party!” Wendy cries.
“Too bad we don’t have a stripper,” Claire pipes up, laughing.
Spiciest thing I’ve ever heard her say. She must’ve had as much limoncello as I did. I grin at her, trying to get back into the spirit of things.
“Hopefully soon!” Summer answers.
“You got us a stripper?” Wendy jokes. Brittani hoots in celebration.
“No, dumb-dumbs. Hopefully there will be a wedding soon!” Summer laughs.
“Yeah, all we gotta do is get him to leave the old hag!” Brittani chimes in. “Maybe she’ll just die. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Brittani!” Summer chides her sister with a playful swat. “I was talking about Wendy! Mine’s gonna take a little more time.”
“Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid,” I tease.
“What’s that mean?” Wendy asks.
“Little by little, the bird makes its nest,” I translate, proud I was able to come up with a French proverb suitable to the moment.
“What are you trying to say?” Summer fixes me with a not-altogether-friendly smile.
I jab my finger in the air. “Paris ne s’est pas fait en un jour!”
“Paris wasn’t built in a day.” Summer rolls her eyes. “Why are you speaking in French mottoes?”
“I thought they applied,” I say, taken aback. “And we’re in France,” I add lamely.
“We’re all friends here.” She pats my knee. “You don’t need to prove how smart you are.”
Her tone is affable, but her words are combative. Regardless of the fact that she herself was speaking in French proverbs the day before yesterday, my intelligence is one of the reasons she’s always liked me, or so she said. I guess I should be grateful for this window into how she sees me now.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” I don’t know how to complete that sentence. Make conversation? Re-create our former camaraderie? Pretend I’m not nauseated by the superficiality of my erstwhile friends?
“Next thing we know, you’ll be quoting Shakespeare,” she gibes.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed. I catch myself before my laugh escapes, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. It’s only afterward that it occurs to me to wonder if she meant anything more with that gibe. Has Summer been reading my emails? No, surely not. It must have just been a lucky shot.
Before the convivial mood in the car can sour, we pull up to a storefront on a cobblestone street. The driver opens our door and hands us down one at a time.
We stand in front of a small boutique with a selection of bohemian beachwear hanging in the window and a sign that reads LE REVE, and in smaller print underneath, MAILLOTS DE BAIN.
“Swimsuits,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it, lest the others think I’m showing off. Though any idiot could gather that the shop sells swimsuits by the window display. Oh my God, maybe I am insufferable. I resolve to keep my trap shut for the rest of the day.
A pretty French girl about our age opens the door of the shop and says, “Entrez, mademoiselles,” with a smile. “Aidez-vous à faire du champagne.”
I do not translate, but do take a glass of champagne from the tray on the faded teal table next to the door as we all file into the shop, and the other girls follow suit.
Everything in the store is flawlessly shabby chic, in shades of distressed beach colors—white, sand, seafoam, turquoise. The racks are made of driftwood and display a collection of tiny bikinis with exquisite detailing: embroidery over a floral pattern, well-placed transparent lace; some even have elements of leather. A rack to one side has a sign that says PRêT à PORTER, VENTE! €500. “Ready-to-wear, sale! Five hundred euros.” I can only assume John is paying for this surprise, because certainly none of the rest of us is.