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“Would you like me to send her a note on your behalf?” Angie asks. “Something friendly and reassuring, perhaps accompanied by a small gift?”
“Do it,” I say.
Camille emerges from the changing room in her old clothes. She’s holding to her chest one of the dresses and one of the pairs of shoes I’d asked her to try on. Just as I expected, she chose platform pumps that are comfier and more stable than stilettos. She went for the gown with the highest neckline, longest hemline, and flare sleeves.
I pay, and the three of us exit the boutique.
We continue our purposeful stroll. In a shop near Opéra Garnier, I order a small, frameless pair of glasses for Camille that doesn’t hide her elfin countenance like her current thick, big and square specs do. Rudy will pick up the new pair in a few hours.
We don’t shop for jewelry, because I’ve already purchased the gold and diamond necklace Camille will wear to the reception. Call me a coward, but I didn’t want a public row with her about spending so much on something so superfluous.
After taking the time to admire the magnificent opera house, I guide the ladies onto the beautifully festooned Boulevard Haussmann toward one of thegrands magasins.
“Are we done shopping?” Camille asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “You need more gowns.”
“But our wager was only about the one for the reception,” she protests.
“As Madame Emissary, you’re going to attend a bunch of receptions over the course of the next year,” I point out. “You can’t show up to them in layered sweaters.”
She pouts but submits.That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
“I can’t pick any more gowns for you,” I say. “But I can take you to Galeries Lafayette and appeal to your sense of responsibility.”
“Meaning?”
“It will please me if you choose a dozen dresses and coats that would allow our preferences to meet in the middle.”
To my utter surprise she mutters, “Fine.”
The MESS agents that compiled her file weren’t wrong after all. Despite her quirks and eccentricities, she has a reasonable streak that comes out every now and then.
We reach the opulent Galeries Lafayette that stretches over many blocks of prized real estate. Every holiday season, they delight passersby with their grandiose, meticulously designed, and extravagant Christmas displays.
This year, the windows are extra-inspired. They feature an enchanted winter landscape. A cheerful cast of animated toys, Santa’s deer, sleigh and elves, and other mythical creatures dance to music-box-style tunes. The figures move in a way that’s cute and interactive, which adds a layer of magic for the children who come to see them. To the adults, it’s a feast for the eyes, ears and even the nose. The clever designers have incorporated the faint aroma of fresh pine into these displays. I can smell it.
And that explains why, instead of going into the department store, we linger outside. Camille, in particular, insists on checking out as many displays as we can. She goggles, smiles, and marvels at the imaginative scenes playing out before us.
Didn’t you tell me you hate Christmas?I’m itching to ask her.
But I don’t. She’s having too much fun.
When, at last, we walk in, I steer her to the high-end boutiques in the hopes she won’t find anything too ungainly among their expensive collections. The plan works well for a while. The first five gowns she buys with my card are too demure for my liking, but they’re classy and well cut.
Then, while Angie and I wait beneath the Christmas tree hanging under the store’s central cupola, Camille walks out of a boutique with a shapeless tunic that looks like a psychedelic soutane.
She takes in my lengthened face. “Why so sour?”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t you be if the person who’s supposed to be your ally were trying to sabotage you?”
She gazes at me.
I brace myself for a quip.
She shifts her eyes to the dress and then back at me. “Is that what you think I just did? Tried to sabotage you?”
“No, of course not,” I say. “You wouldn’t be so cruel.”
