Page 18 of Rosé with My Fake Fiancé
Thinking of Mémé, the cash from tips in my pocket, and the party tonight, I detour over to her place. I have time before I meet Tessa and her friends. They complained about starting late, but I assured them that if we showed up when they wanted, the party wouldn’t have even started yet.
When Mémé opens the door and spots me with the takeaway I picked up on my way over, she reprimands me for the thousandth time. “You don’t have to knock, Luc. You have a key. Use it,” she grumbles.
“I never know what you are up to in here. Don’t want to walk in on anything indecent.”
I mean a gentleman caller, like the kind I walked in on a few months ago, but Mémé snorts. “Soon, you’ll be taking care of me, changing my diapers and spoon-feeding me. Get used to seeing it now.”
I roll my eyes. Mémé is nowhere near needing that level of care. She should be dating, not worrying about me caring for her when she needs it—if she needs it. Mémé, like most French women her age, smokes and drinks and walks all over the city and is svelte and energetic. Since retiring, she’s much happier, and I’m proud to provide for her now.
“Wine?” she asks me as she heads to the kitchen.
“Please,” I say. While she’s occupied, I pull my tips out of my pocket and slide the bills under a book on the coffee table. She might not find it for a while, but if she’s caught on that I’m leaving extra money around for her, she’s never said.
“Shouldn’t you be driving tonight?” she calls. I walk into the kitchen, my heart aching when I see the Styrofoam containers on the counter. For as long as I’ve remembered, Mémé has found every way that she can to pinch pennies, including washing and reusing disposable containers and never wasting food.
It’s not that those things are inherently bad, but she takes it too far. One cabinet overflows with these containers. Sometimes I clean out her fridge for her because I worry about her health. I’ve seen her more than once cut mold off of food and eat what remains, and at her age, she shouldn’t be taking that risk.
“No, I’m going to a friend’s party tonight,” I say, addressing her question about my evening plans.
“A girl’s?” she asks.
I kiss her cheek as she hands me a glass of cold white wine. “An engagement party at Siempre. But with a woman, yes.”
Mémé’s eyebrows raise. “Siempre? Fancy.”
“She is.”
Mémé, with her impeccably clean Dior outfit, one that she’s owned for at least a decade but bought at a second-hand shop, looks me over. “What are you going to wear?”
I grimace, but before I can even say anything, she’s picked up her phone.
“Bernice, darling, do you have some time?”
8
Tessa
After a second dayin a row of walking around Paris, this one complete with two museums, catching up with my friends, and laying in the sun, we have to take a nap. Thank goodness European parties start late.
When the alarm goes off, Jade rolls over and whacks me in the face, trying to shut it off. We’re sharing the bed I rumpled thinking about Luc, though the sheets are clean now. I turn off the alarm, take Jade’s pillow, and throw it at the other bed.
“Time to get up, bitches,” Jade says through a yawn.
We turn on music, order a bottle of wine from room service, and start throwing around clothes. Jade arrived in Paris with only a small carry-on bag while Sara and Emma over-packed. But I shouldn’t have underestimated Jade; from her tiny carry-on, she pulls out skinny cropped pants, a shimmery tank top, and strappy heels.
This afternoon, after touring the city and a very late and long Parisian lunch, we went shopping. Since Sara’s wardrobe is ninety-five percent yoga pants and Emma leans toward mom jeans and flowy floral dresses, we needed to get them something to wear for the night.
My outfit is a black bandage dress. I squeeze into it and admire the cut in the mirror, smoothing my hands down the wide-hip-and-soft-belly hugging material. At forty-two and a lot of therapy, I’ve learned to love my body, despite what the world—or even my mother—tells me. She used to call me “pear-shaped” and insisted I got it from my dad’s side of the family. Looking at myself now, in this sexy dress with my best friends and a very hot fiancé—even if he is fake—I give the rest of the world a big fucking middle finger.
Jade’s the first one ready, her hair up in her signature high ponytail, the streak of gray a stark contrast to her thick, dark hair. She wears a pair of skinny cropped pants and a shimmery top hugging her slim frame. Her eyes are smoky and dark, accentuating her bronze skin, and she turns her attention to convincing Sara to let her do her makeup. Sara rarely wears makeup, but finally gives in.
“Tessa, do you think Veronica will be there?” Jade asks. Sara sits in front of her, eyes closed, while Jade applies eye shadow. I’m twisting Sara’s long dark hair into a bun at the nape of her neck to combat the Parisian summer air and the heat of the club later.
I frown. James’s mom doesn’t like to travel, and she wasn’t there yesterday. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in months.” I didn’t just lose James with the breakup; I lost his mom, too. With my own mother’s declining mental faculties, Veronica and I had gotten close.
Emma emerges from the bathroom in the dress she bought this afternoon. It’s a bright red faux wrap, which flatters Emma’s height and build. There’s a wide matching belt that accentuates her waist, and it is very low cut, so I picked out a black lace cami to go underneath.
We wolf-whistle at her until she blushes and smacks my shoulder with the back of her hand playfully. I give her a fishtail braid, her mostly gray hair draping over one shoulder and teasing the top of her breasts.
