“Oh, yes. Fi
ne. I’m just enjoying the scenery.”
“So, woman of mystery, what will you tell me about yourself? I must have earned some information by now, don’t you think?”
“I’m crazy about dark chocolate,” I said.
“We’ll make sure you get some of the best Belgian chocolates today, then. You’re from New York?”
“I was born there, but it’s up for grabs where I’m from,” I said.
He shook his head. “This is really going to be a challenge.”
“Would you have it any other way?”
“No,” he said.
“Yes, you would,” I retorted. “Like any man, you want everything to be easy when it comes to a woman.”
“Oh, I do, do I? Where did you get all this experience, or should I say clock it?”
“How many times do you have to put your finger on a hot stove before you realize you shouldn’t do it?”
“Is that what you think a man is, a hot stove?”
“No, not all. Some are cold soup.”
“Well, that’s not always so bad. There’s gazpacho.”
I smiled. Let him win his point, I could hear Mrs. Brittany whisper. If you continually frustrate and defeat the man you’re with, he won’t be with you long.
“Touché,” I said.
Despite how vague I was about myself, I could see he was feeling more relaxed with me. As we drove into Monaco and Monte Carlo, he pointed out various highlights, the palace and the museums. Once we turned up toward the world-famous casino, I was impressed with how pristine everything was. I tried not to be a bug-eyed tourist, but I had not been out of New York and America very much and only when I was much younger. I couldn’t help but be excited and struggled to keep from sounding unsophisticated. I didn’t want him to know anything about my past if I could help it.
Everyone seemed to know him at the Café de Paris. He had what I assumed was his favorite table, off in a corner. Most of the clientele looked as successful and wealthy as he was. Everywhere I turned, women and men were in stylish clothes, bedecked with expensive jewelry, and exhibiting that joie de vivre that came with having no real worries. The music in this restaurant was laughter. Smiles glittered. Everyone was on his or her own stage, asking the rest of us to look at him or her and be envious.
“You were right,” I said. “Three is a good time for lunch.”
“Oh, it gets crowded when the cruise ships come in, but I knew there was none in today,” he told me as we were seated. “You like rosé wine?”
“For lunch? Absolutely.”
“Any favorites?”
I looked at the wine list and chose a particular Côtes de Provence rosé I knew. Once again, he looked impressed. Was everything I did being checked off? I felt as if Nigel Whitehouse was sitting at the table to our right, watching my every move. Would I always feel that way, always think that someone from Mrs. Brittany’s world was looking over my shoulder, evaluating every gesture I made, every word I spoke?
We ordered our food. Because I had mentioned Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon, our conversation centered on books and the theater. Just recently, Professor Marx had gotten me up to speed on the London theater scene. Paul was unaware of a particular playwright’s new production and was once again surprised at my knowledge.
“How do you keep up with all this?”
“Like anyone else, newspapers, television. That’s no mystery.”
I turned the conversation to business, his company, cosmetics in general. He was surprised that I knew his company was on the New York Stock Exchange, but my father had been touting the stock to his clients for some time. We discussed what affected the rise and fall of some company stock value. I felt grateful to my father for his constant lectures about the economy at our dinner table, especially when I considered that economics was Paul’s major at the Sorbonne. I could almost feel his first good impressions of me growing stronger with every passing moment. It was like watching the mold of a beautiful statue harden with its eyes full of you.
I looked around, nudged by my paranoia, which was rapidly becoming my new shadow, clinging to everything I said and did. I wasn’t nervous, however. In fact, I was surprised and pleased at how quickly my self-confidence was growing. If this was my first test in the field, I would ace it for sure.
“So how do you know Mrs. Brittany?” he asked me as we finished our dessert. We were sharing a tiramisu.