Chapter １２

That shuts him up, and I would've been proud of what I said if I wasn't so damn angry. A million thoughts rush around in my head, and most of them are just confusing and contradict each other.

Yes, I care for Sterling. I thought he cared for me too. But then why would he have sex with Paula? And why am I going on a date with Vincent?

It's not a date! We're just friends.

And why shouldn't it be a date if Sterling and I aren't a real couple? We're only married on paper.

Because I guess a part of me hoped that it could become real. And maybe I don't want it to be real because then what I just saw would be Sterling cheating on me. And I would be cheating with Vincent.

But if nothing was real between any of us, what's the harm?

The harm is this: I feel betrayed on every turn.

I exit the mansion and find a black car running outside, and the driver opens the back door for me. Vincent isn't inside. I sit down to wait for him, but the driver gets in as well and puts the car in gear and begins to drive.

"Aren't we waiting for Vincent?" I ask him.

Without turning his head, the driver says, "Mr. Vandeclerc said that he'll meet you at the restaurant and instructed me where to take you."

His full name is Vincent Vandeclerc? I wonder what his middle name is. Probably something boring, like Phil.

I lean back and enjoy the ride into and through the city. The driver makes the trip very smooth and quick, and before I know it we're in front of a fancy restaurant called Lanterne d'Étoiles. The driver helps me out and I enter alone.

The place smells like old tobacco and leather. An odd aroma for a restaurant. It would be better suited for an old bookstore. The maître d' takes my name and finds me on a list, then takes me to a small table where he gives me a menu and tells me my waiter will be with me shortly.

Everything on the menu is outrageously expensive. Fifty dollars for a plate of escargot. I grimace at the thought of eating snails and wonder if I'll have to eat them if I'm going to keep pretending to be high class. Most of the menu is in French, and I can read almost all of it thanks to some college classes. There's nothing I would consider appetizing on this menu except for the salads.

My waiter appears and tells me that his name is Pierre. Of course it is. He pours me a glass of red wine and asks if I'd like anything else to drink.

"I'd like a glass of water, actually," I tell him, and he blinks like that was the most ridiculous thing he's heard all day. "And bring a glass of scotch, as well." I know that's what Vincent drinks.

"Madam, I feel I must warn you against mixing wine and liquor in one's belly…" says Pierre without the slightest hint of a French accent. That's probably not even his real name.

"Oh, the scotch isn't for me. My friend should be here shortly."

"Of course. And can I bring you a starter of our escargot? Our chef prefers to roast them rather than sautée them, which I find brings out a smoky flavor that is otherwise absent in such a dish, and is really rather delicious when paired with our 1943—"

I hold up a hand. "No, thank you. I think I'm going to end up just having a salad. I had a big breakfast."

"I see." He looks disappointed but nods to me and disappears.

I look around for Vincent. The restaurant is strangely empty. I would have thought that they would be busy for lunch. But maybe it's early. I check the time on my phone, and it says 12:42. Not early, then. The brunch crowd should just be leaving and the luncheon eaters should be filling this place. Maybe they don't like snails.

Pierre comes back with the glass of scotch and asks if I'm ready to order.

"I'd rather wait for my friend," I say. "But in the meantime, do you have any bread, or…?"

"Certainly." Pierre spins around and disappears again.

He comes back two minutes later with a basket filled with hot bread, and a small platter with freshly whipped butter. Vincent still hasn't come, but I don't think he'd mind if I have some bread while I wait.

Some time passes and I check my phone. 12:54. Vincent is really late. What's also strange is that I have no messages from him, no word of explanation. I begin to wonder if he's coming.

I go to grab another slice of bread and see that it's empty. My eyes widen. Did I eat the whole basket? What will Pierre think?

A shadow passes over the table and I look up in horror to see Paula.

"Is this seat taken?" she asks, then sits across from me. "I see you enjoy the bread here. Where's your waiter?" She turns her head around and flags a passing busboy down, who promises to find Pierre.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Paula, trying to keep my face straight and without too much emotion.

"I came to save you some embarrassment. Oh, is this for me?" She takes the scotch and sips at it, then frowns. "Ew. Never order scotch at a French restaurant, my dear." She puts the glass down and sighs, then looks back up at me. "I guess you know by now that Vincent isn't coming."

I try not to look disappointed. "You came all this way to tell me that?"

Pierre appears at the table and Paula orders a bottle of 1947 Sauvignon Blanc and a plate of the chef's famous roasted escargot.

"And perhaps another basket of bread," she adds, and winks at me.

Neither of us speak until Pierre returns with the snails, bread, and wine. "Will there be anything else for the moment?" he asks.

"No, thank you, Andrew," Paula says.

The waiter blushes and walks away with his shoulders hunched. Paula laughs.

"He hates when I use his real name."

I know I shouldn't but I take another piece of bread and lather it with butter. I need to get the smell of roasted snails out of my mind. "So why did you come, Paula?" I ask, then take a bite and chew. It helps me mask my desire to scream at her.

"I thought we could talk," she says, poking a snail with a strange tool and plopping it into her mouth. "I'm sure you have questions. I have answers."