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Moments later, we emerge from the small bathroom, adjusting our black-tie finery around us. A few of the partygoers are standing outside the door and give us sidelong, knowing glances. But nobody judges. This is Paris, after all.
Chapter 17
Jordan
Leaning over the wrought iron balcony railing, I rest my chin on my fingers and stare into the crowd below. People walk by in a hurry or slowly, smoking or not smoking, holding hands or not holding hands. It seems like gigantic dogs are the new trend this year. Everyone has to have one: malamutes, huskies, chows with their alien-blue tongues curling out to cover their smiles.
I could get a dog, I think. I think a dog would really enjoy some of our finer furnishings. But just to be different, I'll get a little one. A Chihuahua… no, a miniature pinscher. Min-pins are just the cutest little things, like the elf version of Dobermans.
The corner bakery is situated just so that the updraft brings me a delightful waft of yeasty smells every few minutes. I wish I could eat bread all day. That would definitely be a way to pass the hours.
I am just about to go in and rearrange some dining room chairs again for the fifteenth time when I see a lady with hair the color of a copper drum. It shines so brilliantly that even from way up here, I am momentarily entranced.
A redhead? I wonder if I could look that fabulous as a redhead. And maybe so many people wouldn't recognize me anymore.
It doesn't take long before I'm sitting in the bathroom with the box of hair dye in my hand, trying to find the English language directions on this huge sheet of paper that seems to fold out for yards and yards.
I mix up the batch and squirt the chemicals all over my head, knotting it on top with a duckbill clip and then carefully walking around the flat for thirty minutes without getting any on R’s prized stuff. I can just imagine what he would say if he came home and found a big coppery splotch in the middle of his big, white throw rug. He'd be incensed. He’d probably punish me, I think, and squirm a little.
After it's all washed out, dried, and falling in a fringe in front of my face, I just stare at it for a while. Why didn't I ever do this before? I look amazing as a redhead. It curls over one eye like Jessica Rabbit, bouncing under my chin in a cute little curl. A couple swipes of auburn-tinted eyebrow pencil and I look brand-new. Reborn.
And reborn with a little bit of sass, I comment silently. I give myself a couple of hip-pops in the long mirror and shake out my hair, pantomiming a coquettish, come-hither laugh. I can't wait for R to get a load of this.
I hear a knock at the door and wonder if he's forgotten his key, practically skipping to open it for him,
“Oh, um, —”
It's not him. I rock back in confusion. “Mr. Maillot?”
The portly, sneering little man we met at the Louvre looks me up and down slowly as he stands in the doorway. I can see his fingers moving inside his trouser pockets.
“How did you get up here? Didn’t the doorman…”
He waves his hands, cutting me off. “Are you alone?” he interrupts impertinently.
I cross my arms in front of me, barring his entry into the flat. He is apparently unimpressed, just shoves past me and looks around like he owns the place, like he belongs here. He cranes his neck to peer into the kitchen, and then into the bedroom.
“Monsieur King is not here?”
“He will be home any minute!” I lie. I'm not entirely sure how I can have this man ejected from my flat. 911? Is that it even a thing here?
He stops in the middle of the dining room, then pulls out a chair and drops his wide bottom into it. His legs fall open at the knee, leaving his crotch thrust in my direction as though daring me to look at it. I swallow my disgust and avert my eyes.
“Oh, Mr. King. Always getting the best of things, isn't he?”
“Yes, well, he'll be home shortly. He's bringing me lunch,” I inform him. I mentally catalog the heavy objects in the room that I might be able to use to bash his head in, given the chance. I'm not especially strong, but I'm not especially forgiving either. One false move…
“You know, it's funny,” he begins, “I expected you to recognize me too. Isn't that droll? I mean, of course you wouldn't… But for a moment, was a little offended you didn't!”
He chuckles as though I am supposed to know what he's talking about. I get myself a glass of water from the kitchen and sip at it, watching him over the top rim. I don't offer him anything.
“Yes, well,” he begins again, his tone clipped and businesslike. “I'm here to make you an offer, as I'm sure you know.”
He is sure I know? I wonder. What am I missing?
“I will pay you double,” he enunciates, nodding proudly at the end as though he said something very impressive.
I can't help it; I begin to get curious. I say, “Double?”
