Page 70 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Bernie and I, however, had far less refined plans: he immediately found the cottage’s bar, I found the sauna. Don’t ask me which one we started with, but eventually we both ended up in bathrobes, sipping whiskey in the jacuzzi while snow fell lazily outside.
Bernie didn’t say a word the whole time — just a couple of grunts that might have meant“pass the glass”or“this is the life,”but it was impossible to tell. I, on the other hand, decided that, in that moment, whatever Tess was scheming could wait.
There, sunk in hot water, mountain cold pressing at the windows, with a hot-tub partner who resembled a commemorative statue of a disgracedjazzman, I thought that maybe real luxury was exactly this: doing absolutely nothing useful.
Then Tess appeared in the doorway of the living room.
She wore a long black dress, perfectly fitted, with a slit designed less to break hearts than to violate several traffic laws at once. Her hair was swept up into a chignon that screamed“I’m here to conquer the world,”and her lipstick was so red that, if I’d been a paparazzo, I would’ve risked my eyesight trying to focus on it.
She gazed at us calmly, but her eyes held a peculiar light.
Bernie, slumped like a commemorative statue in honor of forgotten hangovers, let out a guttural grunt that could have meant anything from“nice dress”to“turn up the temperature.”
Tess didn’t react. She just stepped forward, her heel striking the parquet like the gavel of a judge sealing a verdict.
“It’s time,” she said, without raising her voice.
Then she turned, the slit of her dress swaying like a curtain ready to rise, and disappeared down the hallway.
43
Three hours passed.
Three. Hours.
And there I was, parked on the couch like a forgotten knick-knack, plaid over my knees, with a movie on in the background that halfway through I could no longer remember if it was a thriller, a comedy, or a documentary about Montana beavers. Meanwhile, from the next room, Bernie was producing a repertoire of nocturnal noises that ranged from “truck engine downshifting” to “stag in rut”—a symphony that would have made Beethoven blush.
Every now and then, I checked the clock above the fireplace, just to make sure the hands hadn’t stopped out of solidarity with my boredom. Three hours since Tess had gone out with Ryder. Three hours in which anything could have happened: a shotgun wedding in Vegas, a runaway escape to Mexico, or simply a two-thousand-dollar bill slapped onto our tab.
I was about to resign myself to a sleepless night when suddenly the door opened. Heels on parquet. The scent of expensive perfume. And there she was—my roommate—sweeping back in as though she’d just shot a lipstick commercial, ready to ruin the movie’s plot and, most likely, my digestion.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you’d be in bed with him.”
Tess slammed the door behind her like a gong strike and planted herself in front of me with the look of someone about to announce the end of the world. “Bea, you could never guess what happened to me tonight. Not in a million years. Not even if you sat here for a million years trying. Never.”
“He stuck you with the check?”
“I would’ve paid it gladly, trust me.”
“Mh-hm… well, are you going to tell me or do I need to hold a vigil till dawn?”
Naturally, Tess never got to the point. Never. First, she had to drag you onto a panoramic hot-air balloon ride, narration ticket included.
“So,” she began, “I arrived at the restaurant exactly forty-seven minutes late. Not forty-six, not forty-eight. Forty-seven. And at that instant, time stopped: forks suspended midair, waiters frozen, even a couple in mid-argument hit the pause button. I was Halley’s Comet, and Ryder was the farmer staring up at me through a pair of binoculars.”
“That’s… your version of events, of course.”
“No, Bea. That’s theobjectiveversion of events. For a moment, I was no longer the Contessa’s favorite protégé—”
“You’re the one who says you’re the favorite.”
“For Christ’s sake, can you let me finish?”
“Fine, fine. Go on.”
“I wasn’t her exceptional pupil anymore. Iwasthe Contessa. Éloïse de Saint-Rouge herself, in flesh, bone, and stilettos. She must have possessed me, Bea, because I was simply flawless. Actually—flawless is an understatement. I don’t want to disrespect anyone, least of all my dear mentor, but I think I may have surpassed her tonight. And you know I never, ever use the word ‘surpassed’ lightly. The shades I brought out… well… hey, why are you making that face?”
“Not to disrespect anyone either,” I shot back, “but by now your dear mentor would be in the master bedroom, smoking a cigarette while Ryder sleeps peacefully on her chest.”
