I hoped he would play along, and the kid seemed to realize there was no husband involved, because he nodded and straightened his blazer with his hand. Bastian’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. Eventually, he extended his hand towards him and said, switching back to French:
“You look very young. Since Vera isn’t introducing you, I’m Bastian Saidi. You are…?”
The kid shook his hand.
“Alex, eh. Alex Craimant.”
No amount of makeup in the world could have hidden my expression, or Bastian’s, or Eloïse’s.
“It’s better to go in soon, mate,” said the kid.
We followed them to the porch. A suited man scanned our tickets, and we arrived at an area with tables full of flags, giant felt hands, green caps, and other overpriced fanitems. Charity party. Right. Most people were buying flags, ignoring the hot dog stand, and going straight for the champagne. Fancy alcohol and basketball. What better way to spend a Saturday night?
Pierre dragged me to our seats without giving me a chance to examine the other guests.
While Bastian was mingling at the private party with THE (in capital letters) famous Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore, I had come accompanied by My Skater Pre-Teen Friend Named After Poo. It had to be a fucking joke.
Chapter 18
Enzo had honoured his word, and now I had a detailed description of a basketball game on my phone. It was going to be four periods of about 10 minutes each with breaks in between. The visiting team, whose name I couldn’t remember, came out first; their five players were dressed head-to-toe in purple. When the Bordeaux team, the Belleviste, came out, our side of the stands erupted into a deafening roar accompanied by a sea of green.
The VIP section, where the party guests were watching the game, joined in the collective euphoria, leaving theirchampagne glasses on the small wooden tables attached to the seats.
I had never seen a stadium like this. Then again, I had never been a special guest at any event before. I relaxed in the wide, comfortable seat while Alex shouted and jumped around like one of the fans.
“That’s Marc Rideaux!” he shouted, pointing to a massive man who looked too tall to even fit through my front door.
Not that I was imagining him coming through the door of my house.
I smiled and nodded, putting the phone away. I had thanked Enzo, but with my enthusiastic companion keeping me company, I wouldn’t need extra information about the game.
I looked for Bastian and Eloïse. As if they wanted to distance themselves as much as possible from me (something impossible, as the seats were assigned at the entrance), they sat at the far end of the VIP area, right at the front. There was a group of people around them, but none of them was Laurent Dubois.
The match lasted for a while, and I sat in silence until the moment of truth arrived at eight in the evening. The game ended with cheers for the Bordeaux Belleviste, who had won by two points in the final seconds. The team left the court, and the attendees began to leave the stadium. It was party time.
A group of hostesses dressed in green flooded the VIP area. Some of the Dubois party guests had already gotten up from their seats, impatient for the game to end and the fun to start. I was feeling the same, to be honest.
I had located Laurent Dubois. He was turned awayfrom me, accompanied by a tall, thin woman. They chatted with Eloïse and Bastian, which didn’t surprise me. Laurent Dubois knew that his beloved daughter was dating him, but… Did he also know that Bastian was part of Saidi? Or had they decided to keep that precious information hidden?
From the way the man’s shoulders lifted with his relaxed laughter, I guessed that was another secret of my colleague. First, he hid it from André, then from Laurent Dubois. Maybe that information would be useful to me someday.
I could have walked in their direction, pretended to greet Bastian, and let him be forced to introduce me to Mr Dubois… but my date had other plans. Alex ran after one of the hostesses, grabbing my arm.
“Allez!” he said.
He looked like a kid in a candy store, ironically, because in a way, he was.
“If you wanted to come so badly,” I asked, following the other guests. I had lost sight of Dubois again. “Why were you selling the tickets?”
“Oh…” he said, widening his smile. “I won them in a raffle. I saw the price at which other people were selling them and… I couldn’t resist selling them. I needed that money.”
I knew. Even though he thought I didn’t. How I’d love to tell him that the money he had was not mine but the host’s. I could almost picture him bolting out of the stadium, hot dog in hand, if he knew.
With a sigh, I followed him inside. White stone columns stood at each corner, supporting a ceiling adorned with small, dim lamps. The low tables, scattered with sculptures of fallen lotus flowers glowing with embedded light bulbs, added to the delicate ambience. The entire room seemed to breathespring’s freshness, even as winter loomed just around the corner. Roses, tulips, and climbing vines adorned every surface, and the round tables were draped in expensive white cloths featuring Art Nouveau patterns, save for one bold purple exception.
“But,” Alex said, pulling me from my thoughts as we searched for our seats at tables GC48 and GC49. “You didn’t have to say you wanted both tickets. I mean, I know I’m here using one of the tickets, but I kind of need the money for both…”
“You can keep it. I don’t want the money.”
