Liv, you are magnifique. Until next time.
I slap my phone down on the desk, screen side down like closing a book. End of story. I can’t go down this road. I’d witnessed the hell of Bex’s divorce and, despite everything, I’m just not ready to go there with Ethan. I can’t imagine starting over at this stage of my life. I turn to my computer, pretending to work, attempting to get back on track, but quickly succumb to the story of Francois.
Even though it was a fling, I can’t help but want more texts, more dinners where we’re each other’s desserts, more attention, more “magnifiques.” I do a Google image search of Francois Duval, not for the first time or the fifteenth time. I’ve lost count. It’s become a compulsion since we first met a few months ago. I search images in the past week, past twenty-four hours. What the…? There’s Francois with his hand around an undeniably cool young thing at a gallery opening he attended last night before he’d met me for dinner. Who is that? Must be some D-list British royal celebrity because she looks vaguely familiar. I can’t keep track of all the titled Ladies, Dukes, and Duchesses and their pouty offspring who populate the gossip columns here more than most actresses.
I peer intently into the screen, squinting my eyes and trying to get a better look at the mystery woman. A dark shadow crosses my mind. What the—Is that Emily, the intern? She’s wearing a black slinky cutout dress that shows off her toned physique, and a pair of chic gray ankle boots. A shiny curtain of chestnut hair cascades over her cheekbones, partially obscuring her face that’s turned upward to Francois. They look cozy…too cozy. His hand is melded to her hip and in silhouette, they’d be one shrouded shape—no gaps, no distance between them. Bex is right. What am I doing? Did I think I was special? Magnifique?
I can’t do this. I’m too old (and married!) to be swooning around after someone, especially a French artist. It’s just too cliché. Bex was right, I need to get a grip and delete Francois. But that accent…that kiss.
Startled by my phone ringing, I jump. Ethan. Great, perfect timing. Swallowing my guilty conscience, I answer the phone.
“Hi, Ethan,” I say with fake cheerfulness—why hasn’t this three-shot latte kicked in yet? “How’s the trip going?”
“Hello, darling. Listen, I’m terribly sorry, but this case is turning out to be more complex than we’d imagined. Alan thinks it’s going to be at least another week in this desert oven. So I won’t be able to meet you in Provence after all. I’m sorry, darling.” Ethan’s crisp delivery belies no trace of emotion other than extreme politeness. He’s like a nervous, amateur actor doing a Hugh Grant imitation.
My heart sinks, though I’m not exactly surprised. This isn’t the first time a weekend away has been spoiled by a case. I’d booked a beautiful suite in a renovated farmhouse in the lavender fields of Luberon. Ethan was going to fly from Dubai to Nice, rent a car and drive out to meet me. My flight was due to leave tomorrow from City airport. I knew he’d forgotten about the trip when we talked about it at the charity gala last week. And I held on to that hurt and anger in order to justify the night with Francois. Still, I didn’t want to give up hope and in my foolish heart of hearts I thought maybe, just maybe, Ethan and I would actually get away together. Maybe distance from London and the rut we seem to be in could help turn things around for us. Certainly more so than those therapy sessions with Emma.
“Oh, um, that’s okay, darling.” I try to sound upbeat, while thinking that “darling” must be the most overused word in strained British marriages. “It sounds like a big case.”
“Why don’t you take Clarissa instead and have a shopping weekend? Alan’s already checked with her and she’s free.”
Is he serious? Even after the snide remarks she made to me at the gala event he’s still suggesting a girl’s getaway with Clarissa, the mean girl of Treadwell & Sloane wives. Clarissa, who despite being ten years too old, is still mad that she’s not Kate Middleton. Uh-uh, no way. Why is Ethan always trying to set us up anyway? Is it his and Alan’s not-so-secret plan to fob us off on each other so they won’t have an ounce of guilt about making these “Darling, I’m sorry” calls? That I’d be too busy shopping and brunching to notice my invisible husband is missing. Besides, what kind of shopping does he think Clarissa and I would do in the countryside of Provence? There’s only so much lavender soap you can buy. The whole point of this long weekend away was for Ethan and me to get time together, for him to at least look me in the eye, talk to me about something other than a client or a case, and maybe even caress me, run his hands over my body instead of his damn laptop. After our failed therapy sessions, we’re in do or die territory and he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Um.” I’m stalling. I can’t face being alone in the country with Clarissa. “I’d rather wait until we can go together. I should be able to cancel the reservation without a charge,” I say, distracted by what’s brewing in my subconscious. “Hope the case goes okay.”
We hang up after exchanging a mutual “Bye, darling” in an everything’s fine and dandy voice.
The prospect of a long three-day weekend suddenly free of any plans has me thinking, and not with my head. I swipe back to the text message from Francois and imagine what a “next time” would entail. “Liv, don’t go there,” I say to myself. But the freedom of a next time is so damn tempting. I think of Bex. I envy her freedom—she could do this any time. Which is why I don’t get why she spends most of her nights with Netflix. Bex is gorgeous, so warm and charming. Could it really be that hard out there as a single woman? Isn’t it a fun, secret sisterhood? Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” for God’s sake! In our twenties, living together in Atlanta, we practically had to hire a bouncer to keep the guys away. Well, that was almost twenty years ago. I shiver at the thought.
“Hi, Liv.” Emily waves to me as she prances by my desk. I hadn’t really given her much notice in the office before. All the interns blur into one. It’s not that I actively try to ignore them, it’s just that their bright-eyed eagerness is salt in the wound to the fact that I’m getting burn-out with my so-called career. It’s not like being in ad sales for a media company is my dream job. Does anybody do their dream job anyway?
I eye Emily suspiciously. Could she have been born in the 2000s? Maybe UK child labor laws are different than in the US. Spiced turmeric oat milk latte, my ass. She walks down the hall like it’s a catwalk and I can’t help but admire her fringed boots with a perfect heel—not too high, not too low, sturdy enough to trot around town but still with a sexy edge. The fringe tassels bounce to the rhythm of her stride, matched in movement by her smooth as glass mane that dances along with each step. Watching her, I start to feel sick.
I turn back to the computer screen and pull up the image search of Francois, leaning in to look at the gallery photo. She’s not wearing those glasses, but I sure as hell recognize those boots. Dammit, it is her. Francois and Emily, the intern. My cheeks burn with indignation and embarrassment. Maybe she’s his daughter? But no father holds his daughter like that. How many women (girls!) has Francois texted “magnifique” to in the last week? That’s it. I delete Francois from my phone.