He’d picked her up on his motorcycle and driven her across the bridge to Staten Island, taking her to a tiny restaurant in St. George called Enoteca Maria, where every night the kitchen was run by a different old Italian grandmother. They’d spent their first real date eating chicken feet while a ninety-year-old woman, her body made mostly of bosom, screamed at Bess that she was too skinny before presenting her with a single cheese ravioli the size of a bagel. It was everything that Bess never knew she’d always wanted, and the past few weeks had flown by, the appearances and events a mere blur between dates and free clothes.
The landing gear growled up through the carpet as it kicked into place. The women buckled themselves in. A few short minutes later, they were pulling up to the gate, grabbing their coats and carry-ons, pulling out their embossed passport holders, and moving through immigration in a daze.
Molly came out from coach and helped them stack their suitcases onto an aluminum cart, and the trio made it through customs without incident. Luckily the crowd on the other side was made up of only bleary-eyed families waiting for their loved ones, instead of photographers waiting to capture them carrying their own bags. The cameras, Cat knew, would be waiting outside the hotel.
A slight man with dark hair and eyes held up a card with “ONO/BONNER/BEALE” written on it in marker. He walked them to his Peugeot, a half-minivan, half-SUV, and somehow loaded their bags into the tiny trunk and back row of seats.
They turned onto the Avenue des Champs-élysées and rode the magnificent boulevard all the way to the Place de la Concorde, then rounded the Tuileries to H?tel Le Narcisse, the venerable five-star situated on the north side of the gardens. A bellman in a sharp navy uniform, including a tiny hat trimmed in gold tassels banded onto his head, escorted them inside.
Le Narcisse, formerly owned by the Sultan of Yemen, had been the subject of a boycott for years until the sharia-law-loving sultan was forced to relinquish many of his assets to a class-action lawsuit for his USVI-based LLC initiated by over five hundred sex workers who claimed they’d been held by him against their will for periods of three months up to five years.
In a magnificent twist of fate, the sex workers—both men and women—now collectively owned H?tel Le Narcisse and the Plaza Greque in Paris, Hotel Genesis in Rome, the Beverly Glen Hotel in LA, the Boston Hotel in London, and a half-dozen other exquisite properties. The entire Boston Collection, as it was known, was now managed for them by the Diogenes Group; and Diogenes, in turn, was a subsidiary of Lucas Holding, BV—the massive and privately owned company inherited by Lou’s ex-husband Alexander.
The remainder of RAGE’s full-time staff would arrive tomorrow and stay through the weekend, a delivery on Margot’s summer promise, and Lou had helped Molly arrange a takeover of the fifth and sixth floors at a significant discount. Cat prayed for a room of her own, but she thought it was probably unlikely, given how distant and awkward Lou had been with her lately—it had been weird after Callie died in Cat’s arms at Lou’s apartment, and then just plain bad once Cat had been given Hillary’s December shoot. Thankfully, Lou wasn’t due to arrive for several days, claiming obligations with her children until the end of the week.
As Cat had expected, dozens of photographers were positioned across the street from the hotel. The men leaned against the iron fence of the Tuileries as they awaited the arrival of the incoming flock of editors, models, buyers, designers, and socialites who were in Paris to buy, talk about, think about, covet, reject, and obsess over clothing. This industrial whirlpool of stuff would suck them all in while the men in the background counted their money—because all the labels Cat would see this week, the forty-plus “top” luxury brands that would “compete” during Paris Fashion Week, were owned by just six companies, all of them privately owned and commanded by men.
Cat rotated a few times for them before saying, “Au revoir—un plus juste’avant le d?ner,” swirling her finger to indicate she and Bess would be back and dressed in new outfits before dinner.
“Merci, mesdames,” the photographers responded politely.
As soon as they entered the elaborate lobby, its ceilings hung with crystal chandeliers and the damask furniture in the style of Louis XVI, a small man with polished black hair and a perfectly fitted navy suit appeared.
“Bonjour, mesdames, Mademoiselle Ono, Mademoiselle Bonner, Mademoiselle Beale, bienvenue à H?tel Le Narcisse.” He switched to English. “We are so happy to have you. We have a special treat for you. Our best suite, if you can perhaps take some photos of your stay?” He mimed taking a selfie. “Yes?”
Cat, Bess, and Molly all nodded.
“Okay, wonderful, here we go.”
He made his way across the marbled lobby and led them to a private elevator. They rode up to the seventh floor, where the doors opened into a cavernous marble entry hall. The concierge moved quickly, his polished dress shoes tapping sharply on the floor, and brought them through an elaborately carved and painted wooden door into the most decadent hotel room Cat had ever seen.
“No wonder they got their heads cut off,” Molly said under her breath.
The windows looked out over all of Paris between casements of gilded, handcarved molding. A white grand piano, a painted antique harpsichord, and a scattering of silk sofas and chairs were placed around the enormous living room. The floors were carpeted in alabaster wool so fine that Cat was afraid to step on it. Tasseled white and beige Persian silk rugs had been placed underneath all the furniture, carved and polished woods that had the delicate, dollhouse look of the final French monarchies. Every single object in the room had been either gilded or inlaid—or both. A kennel of one’s own, thought Cat.
“Mesdames, this is the Eurydice Suite. It has three bedrooms. Mademoiselles Ono and Bonner, you will be sharing a very nice bath; Mademoiselle Beale, you will be in the pink room. This suite is the crown jewel of H?tel Le Narcisse. It is done in a Charles X style, the penultimate king of France. Follow me, please.”
He brought Cat and Bess to the first of their adjoining rooms, painted an opulent royal blue with a canopied king bed. “Mesdames, in here?” They peeked into the enormous wood-paneled closet and marble bath that adjoined it with its exact twin, another king bedroom done in green, then nodded enthusiastically.
“I’ll go green,” Cat said, walking through to the other side.
“Very good. Mademoiselle Beale, follow me,” the concierge continued.
Bess kicked off her shoes, hopped up on the blue bed, and started jumping. Cat saw her and laughed. “Get down!” she yelled. “He’s gonna catch you!”
Bess winked, bounced up and down a few more times, then sprang onto the floor. “Come on,” she said, running into the green room, grabbing Cat’s hand and leading her into the marble bath. She climbed fully clothed into the empty tub, a Jacuzzi-sized marble pool that could easily seat six, facing the domes of Sacré-Coeur through the window.
“I’m going to pass out in here later,” she declared. “This is ridiculous.”
Cat sat on the tub’s edge, picking up bottles of bath products by Panacea, a boutique brand from the UK. They each uncapped one labeled “Tangerine Dream” and breathed in the bright scent.