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“Two weeks.”
The first thing I should think is TWO WEEKS IN PARIS?! What a dream! but the thought that strikes me first is What about Nicholas?
It’s so startling and frankly disturbing that I decide to retreat into it curiously. Why would I care about Nicholas and the fact that we won’t see him this weekend or next? Why would he pop into my head at all? When he left to go back to New York on Sunday, I barely noticed. I was busy not noticing as he loaded up his car and disappeared down the long drive.
He won’t miss me, I remind myself, and with that, I push aside my breakfast tray and comforter and leap out of bed.
We leave Rosethorn with three full Louis Vuitton trunks that Bruce and Frank have to hoist into the back of the Range Rover together. I’m wearing fitted black pants and one of Cornelia’s old Chanel blazers. An Hermès scarf is knotted loosely around my neck and my hair is pulled into a sleek low ponytail. I asked Cornelia why I needed to dress so nice just to sit on an airplane, and she replied, “It’s just how it’s done.”
I’m more glad than ever that while she wasn’t watching, I stuffed a pair of pajama pants into my carry-on bag. Just in case.
I realize on our drive down to New York City that we aren’t actually headed straight to the airport. Our flight isn’t until tonight, but Cornelia wanted to wake me up at the crack of dawn because she had a few errands to run in the city first. We stop in to visit a gallery so she can inspect an abstract painting she previously commissioned. We stay and talk to the artist and the gallery owner for a little while, looking at other paintings before Cornelia requests to have one other piece delivered to Rosethorn along with the first. After that, we head to lunch at Eleven Madison Park. We’re the only ones in the sprawling dining room, which I find odd considering how amazing the food is. Cornelia doesn’t mention until we’re on our way out that the restaurant has routinely been rated the best in the world and carries three Michelin stars to prove it. They only do dinner service, but today they opened up early just for us as a favor to Cornelia.
After that, we walk through Bloomingdale’s so Cornelia can pick up a few last-minute travel items, one of which is a designer bag she hands to me as we’re walking out of the store. The sales consultant offered to wrap it up and put it in a gift box, but Cornelia said there was no need. Apparently, she plans on using it.
I assume she’s handing it to me because she wants me to carry it, but then she says, “I’d like you to transfer everything you have in your ratty red purse into this bag so you can use it as your carry-on.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask, holding it out at arm’s length as if it’s a snake that might try to bite me. “I saw what this cost! It’s more than most people make in a month!”
“I think most people would just say thank you.”
“I can’t—”
“Frank, let’s head over to the airport. I’d like to relax for a little while before our flight this evening.”
Just like that, the discussion is over. My red pleather purse with its zipper that doesn’t quite zip anymore and its cross-body strap that’s been knotted together since it split in two a few months back is left in the back seat of the car when we arrive at the airport.
We’re met at the curb by a concierge from Air France. She leads us to an awaiting golf cart that whisks us from the entrance of the airport, through a private security screening, and then right past all the normal folk, straight to the La Première first class lounge.
I feel guilty as I walk inside, aware of the fact that I probably belong out there, loitering between the Auntie Anne’s Pretzels kiosk and Sbarro, next to the dude clipping his toenails in public. In the private lounge, there’s a full restaurant and bar, as well as a spa. Cornelia sits down in a quiet corner with a book, so I do the same, but I don’t do any reading. I people watch, glancing around me at all the lounge-goers and wondering how they can possibly afford to travel this way. They’re all dressed up. Most of the women are in heels and dresses with perfectly coiffed hair. There’s an air of respectability about them, and I’m suddenly grateful that Cornelia didn’t let me wear pajama pants like I wanted to.
We stay in the lounge until our flight boards. Another golf cart carries us straight to the tarmac, and then I’m escorted to a private cabin inside the plane. I’m visibly confused as I turn back to the flight attendant.
