Page 92 of Damaged Mogul
Bad girl. Bad girl.
I continue my story. “I was having lunch at Les Deux Magots Café in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood,when a distinguished Frenchman asked me if he could sit at my table. He had a short window for lunch, and all the tables were occupied. I accepted. My French wasn’t great at the time––I’m still not fluent, but I speak it better now than I did back then––so, I didn’t expect much conversation. My lunch companion surprised me. Jean-Philippe Dutronc had studied in London, so his English was decent. Lunch came and went, and we sat there talking, drinking coffee, and eating pastries. Eventually, he had to go. He asked to see me again. We had a great connection. He wasn’t a pretty boy, and he wasn’t tall—he was only five-seven. Yet, he had that irresistibleje ne sais quoiso many Frenchmen have. He was twenty-six and one of the youngest literature professors at the Sorbonne University?—”
“How old were you?”
“I was nineteen.”
He nods.
“Jean-Philippe was well-traveled and a charmer. I was upfront about wanting to take things slow. He agreed. So, we dated, kissed, and fooled around. Eight months into our relationship, I felt I was ready. He’d been so patient. I figured going all the way would be the ultimate birthday gift for a guy. Well… that’s what an article in a girly magazine told me.”
“You got cold feet?”
“No.” I close my eyes, reliving the humiliating events.
Gage places a hand on my knee, and my eyes pop open.
“What did the fucker do?”
“After we savored a catered meal at my place, Jean-Philippe suggested a sexy shower to ease me into it. As we were stepping out of the shower, his phone rang. He apologized, wrapped a towel around his waist, and rushed out of the bathroom to silence it. I was taking my time drying my body, thinking he’d come back to join me. After a while, I got worried. When I stepped into my bedroom, he was getting dressed.”
“What happened?”
“He had to go.”
“Why?”
“I inquired to find out if a family member got in an accident, had suffered from a heart attack, or worse, died.”
“It was none of the above?”
“It was the last thing I ever imagined.”
“I’m not even going to try to guess.”
“His wife’swaters broke—she went into labor early?—”
“Wife?”
“Yup,” I nod. “His sister-in-law was rushing her to the hospital. He had to scamper off so he could be present for the arrival of his son.”
“What the fuck?”
“Yes. Jean-Philippe was married.”
“He never told you?”
“No. I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he assured me, I was hisonlygirlfriend.”
“He never wore a wedding ring?”
I shake my head. “No. That would’ve sent me running the other way.”
“Motherfucker.”
“To my horror and dismay, the guy I’d been seeing was leading a double life,” I say. “Apparently, it’s the French way.”
“The French way? What the fuck?”
