That was what I was thinking as I dialled Laurent Dubois’s contact number from his website. I sat with my legs crossed on the sofa and the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, while looking at a photo of Laurent Dubois from Wikipedia.
“Mr Dubois does not take work calls on the weekend, I’m sorry,” the woman on the other end of the line responded. “Inany case, you should contact Emile Khan first; if necessary, he will refer you to Mr Dubois.”
I had called the only contact number I found online, which Google showed belonged to the company the Dubois family used to manage their operations. I checked to be sure I was contacting the right place before proceeding.
“It’s not for work,” I interrupted before the woman could recite the hours when Emile Khan would be available. “I need to speak with him. In person, if possible.”
Silence. I feared the woman was going to hang up and think I was crazy, when she responded:
“Are you with the police?”
A good question. Was I? I’m not dumb enough to admit that I pretended to be the police in front of the police, so I’ll skip that part.
“We cannot assist you,” she concluded after I had explained.
“Wait…”
The line went dead. I was on my own now.
I pressed on with my search. The man lived on the outskirts of London. Interesting. In a mansion surrounded by an impenetrable metal fence, according to Google Maps. Not so interesting.
Laurent Dubois owned two luxury fashion stores located on neighbouring streets near Buckingham, but according to the comments from one of his former employees (it’s amazing what you can find online), Dubois himself never shopped there. Eloïse did, though. Again, interesting. And, according to the Twitter user @fanclubeloisss, the businessman’s daughter had visited the first of his stores two days earlier.
She was looking for a dress to wear to the gala her familywas hosting after the Belleviste de Bordeaux basketball game, the team owned by Laurent Dubois.
Another search. The game was that same night in the French city.
Another search. There was a direct flight from London —I checked the time— in four hours.
There were no tickets left for the event. The resale for the game started at two hundred pounds, while tickets for access to the Dubois’s charity party (with after-dinner, VIP spots, maybe a photo op with Igor Hassan?) reached up to 1000 pounds. I contacted one of the resellers. I assured him the money was real and explained that the only reason I couldn’t pay online was that the ticket was a gift for my husband. I didn’t want him to find out by noticing the charge!
He replied that he had two tickets available. “I’m sure you’d prefer it to be a date! You’re a lucky woman!” I reserved both. I didn’t care as long as I could get into the exclusive Dubois party. We agreed to meet in front of the Palais des Rois de Bordeaux at 6:00 PM, an hour before the game started.
The plane ticket came out of my savings account, even if it pained me. Fucking rules.
And so, I found myself spending Saturday morning preparing for a last-minute trip to France. I had nowhere to stay and no return ticket, but I had a plan in mind: find Laurent Dubois, discover where the money came from, sort out the mess I’d gotten myself into.
Gina arrived home just as I was struggling to fit everything into my carry-on luggage. Her hair was styled in two braids wrapped into a high bun, and her red bangs fell chaotically over her forehead. She sat on the sofa, silently watching me dash from one side of the house to the other. I was too busytrying to find a decent outfit for the party to pay her any mind. What on earth does one wear to these things? I calmed down by telling myself I would arrive in Bordeaux at two in the afternoon, which would give me enough time to go shopping for a nice dress before the event started.
“What are you doing?” Gina asked, bored with the spectacle.
“Packing my stuff.”
I dropped the backpack on the sofa and sat with her. She handed me a brown bag.
“Churros,” she explained.
“I’m going to France in three hours,” I replied.
Gina nodded. We ate the churros in silence, no chocolate to dip them in because she claimed Westerners liked things too sweet, carefully avoiding any grease stains on the sofa. When we finished, wiping our hands with paper napkins, she closed her eyes tightly.
“Hangover?” I asked.
“It’s not that,” she said, clenching her jaw, “it’s just…”
I knew that expression. It was the same as saying, “Don’t kill me, Vera, but I accidentally shrunk your blouse in the wash,” or “I used up all the toilet paper and forgot to tell you we’re out. Oops.”
I braced myself for the disaster.
