Даниэла Стил - The Affair

Nicolas called her on her cell and she didn’t take the call. That felt good too. Somehow, she had turned a corner, and she couldn’t wait for her attorney to get back. She was ready to make a move. It had taken her three months, but she felt like herself again. She knew there would be hard times ahead, but nothing could be as bad as what she had lived through since May, when she read about his affair in the tabloids and then learned that Pascale was pregnant with his baby. It had been a nightmare, but she was finally waking up.

Venetia called to check on her, and Nadia told her she was fine, and her sister could hear it in her voice.

“You’re a better woman than I. I wanted to kill him when I read it last night,” Venetia said, still upset about it. Ben hadn’t liked it either and thought that flaunting the affair was in bad taste. He didn’t blame Rose. He blamed Nicolas for the whole thing. Rose had a business to run, and an editorial board and owners to satisfy. All Nicolas had to satisfy were his ego and his mistress.

“Poor Mom was so stressed out about it. I called and told her that I was okay, and I really am,” Nadia said cheerfully.

“I know she’s been worried sick about it. As long as you’re all right, that’s all any of us care about. And fuck him,” Venetia said, and Nadia laughed.

As soon as she hung up, her assistant told her there was a call for her, from a man who had called twice that morning before she arrived. “He was referred by a Mrs. Archer in London. He said she was a client. It must have been before my time.” Agnes had only worked for Nadia for a year, after studying interior design in London and New York. She was bright, young, and energetic, and loved working for Nadia, although Nadia hadn’t been at her best for the past few months, and business had been slow. “Do you want to take the call?” Agnes asked her. “His name is Gregory Holland.”

“Sure,” Nadia said, feeling revitalized. “Mr. Holland, Nadia Bateau. What can I do to help you?” He explained that he was an old friend of a previous client of hers in London, who had recommended her. He had just moved from New York, to run an American investment bank with a Paris office. He said he had rented a house in the sixteenth arrondissement and was hoping she’d have time to decorate it for him. His friend had warned him that she was busy.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the talent or the time,” he said with a deep voice.

“How big is it?” she asked, grabbing a notepad and a pen, and jotting down his name.

“Four hundred square meters. I believe that’s roughly four thousand square feet.”

“That’s a pretty big place,” she said. “Is your family with you?”

“No, I’m divorced. No wife, no kids. I’m originally from Texas. We like things big,” he said, and she smiled. “Could we get together and talk? I’m staying at the Ritz until I get settled. Would you meet me for a drink?” She had to get the sitter to stay late, but he sounded like an interesting prospect.

“I’d be happy to,” she said smoothly, wishing she had worn something fancier to work. She was wearing a plain Dior black pantsuit, but it was simple and professional and looked good on her.

“Six o’clock? The Bar Vendôme at the Ritz?” he asked.

“That sounds perfect. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be carrying a book and a red rose, and wearing a black hat.” For a minute she was afraid he was a nutcase, and then he laughed. “I’m six feet five, and have white hair,” he said easily, and she liked him even before meeting him. She hoped he had good taste, but if not, she could educate him.

“I’m five-feet-two, have dark brown hair, and I’m wearing a black pantsuit.”

“I’ve seen your photograph on your website. I’ll recognize you. See you at six.”

She was busy for the rest of the day. She spoke to several of her clients, had Agnes check on outstanding orders now that factories were reopening after the summer, and got an Uber at five-thirty to take her to the Ritz. The traffic was heavy crossing over to the Right Bank, but she arrived right on time, and walked up the stairs of the venerable hotel. It had always been her favorite hotel in Paris, even since the remodel. She knew it was the most expensive one, more so than ever after its facelift. So if he was living there, his budget for the apartment was likely to be a healthy one.

She glanced around the bar as she walked in, wondered how she’d recognize him if he wasn’t standing, and saw who he was immediately. He had well-cut white hair, was wearing a dark blue suit, an impeccable white shirt, and a navy Hermès tie. He stood up as soon as she approached his table, and he was as tall as he had said. He appeared young and athletic in spite of the white hair, and she guessed him to be in his early forties, if that. He had blue eyes, a wide friendly smile, and a cleft chin. He had movie star good looks.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I just got the final paperwork on the house this weekend, and I’m anxious to get started. It’s in a great location, the building has full concierge services, which is convenient for me. It’s actually a house within a building.” As soon as they sat down, a waiter came to the table. Nadia ordered white wine, and he had scotch. He was a classic American, the best of his breed. Handsome and in great shape. He looked like someone who went to the gym regularly, and probably had one of his own. His suit was perfectly cut. He was businesslike, efficient, had an impressive job, and sounded like a straight shooter. She could hear a faint hint of Texas when he spoke, but very little, and he wanted the job finished yesterday.

“That’s a big house for one person,” she commented, as he showed her the plans and the pictures he had brought with him. They looked interesting.

“I like a lot of space, and I entertain frequently for business. I need the name of a good caterer, by the way.” He was all business and no frills, and she liked dealing with clients like him. They knew what they wanted, didn’t get emotional about it, and rarely made mistakes.

She wrote down the name of the best caterer in Paris, and a smaller one that was good for intimate dinners, and handed the slip of paper to him. He took it and put it in his jacket pocket.

“I lived in London for five years,” he told her. “I’m looking forward to Paris. That’s the advantage of no wife and kids. I’m free to move around. I don’t have to worry about schools, or anyone complaining about leaving home. How long have you lived here?”

“I’ve been here since I was twenty. I came to go to the Sorbonne, and stayed. I was…I’ve been…I am,” she corrected herself, “married to a Frenchman.”

“That sounds a little vague, past or present?” he teased her, and she blushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry, it is a little vague at the moment. We’re separated.” She didn’t want to tell him her personal life, which was unprofessional, but she had fallen into it.

“That’s too bad. I’ve been divorced twice. It’s not fun. Fortunately, no children. I married my high school sweetheart the first time, and she turned out not to be such a sweetheart,” he said with a grin. “The second time I married a powerhouse in finance. Brilliant woman, lousy wife. She cheated on me with my trainer. That’s a little low rent for me. Actually, we got divorced and she married him. And now I’m here.” He seemed very matter-of-fact about it. She didn’t tell him about Nicolas and Pascale. “Do you have kids?”

“Two girls.” She smiled. “Seven and ten. Now let’s talk about your house. Tell me about your dream house. If you had a magic wand, what would you want?” She liked giving people their dreams and improving on them.