Page 24 of That Weekend in Paris
Raising her chin, she walks through the foyer, following the noise of conversation humming beneath the music coming from strategically placed Bose speakers. She reaches an enormous room where several large, beautiful leather sofas are scattered around, the size of the room easily handling them.
Industry faces she immediately recognizes are engaged in conversations around the room. Her gaze instantly finds Holden Ashford in the far right corner. Gorgeous, famous Holden Ashford. He’s talking to Sam Parker, the label head, and they appear to be having a fairly intense conversation. She wonders for a moment if Barefoot Outlook, Holden and CeCe’s band, is considering a label change.
She hopes not, simply for the prestige they bring to the label. But it would be nice to see the jackass who runs it take the blow. Holden laughs and shakes his head then, so maybe not, she decides.
A black, white, and tan dog with long legs trots into the room just then. Riley doesn’t know much about dogs. She’s never really cared for them, but she knows that people like people who like dogs. So she squats down and coos a hello. “You must be Hank Junior,” she says, recognizing his face from the magazine articles she’s read about this family. This dog is very much at the center of it. He allows himself to be petted, but his ears drop a little, and his tail stops wagging. And she wonders if he somehow knows that she doesn’t usually pay any attention to his kind.
Apparently, he does, because he trots off again. She watches him go, stopping by a group of women talking. And then she sees CeCe MacKenzie-Ashford bend over and give him a hug. “Hey, there, sweetie,” she says.
The dog’s tail begins to wave back and forth, and she envies that dog for a moment. He’s so clearly loved by CeCe, knows his place in this home. It hardly seems fair that a dog could have all that. But then she doesn’t doubt her own ability to land exactly what she wants. It’s just a matter of time. Klein lives in this same sphere of incredible wealth and notoriety. And one day, not too long from now, she’ll belong here, too. Both of us will, she acknowledges silently, placing a hand at the center of her belly and giving it a deliberate pat.
Klein
“But, instead of what our imagination makes us suppose and which we worthless try to discover, life gives us something that we could hardly imagine.”
?Marcel Proust
IT’S AFTER ONE A.M. when I get back to the hotel.
The doorman greets me with exuberant cheer, hotel guest protocols clearly mandating whatever the customer requires is met with complete staff approval. Including post midnight cheer.
I slip into the elevator, start to tap my room floor number, then hesitate and push another floor altogether.
I wait as it glides to a stop and opens. I step into the silent hallway, consider the wisdom in my decision, and start walking before I can talk myself out of it.
At her door, I again hesitate, then rap once, hard.
No answer.
I try again, three consecutive knocks. I hear footsteps on the other side, sense her looking through the door’s peephole.
A few seconds pass, and I am sure she’s weighing the wisdom of opening the door to me. And rightly so.
But then the locks click. And the door swings in.
She’s wearing one of the hotel’s luxurious robes. It’s pulled close against her neck and belted tight at the waist. She stares at me with wide blue eyes, eyes I’ve thought about at times in my life when I knew better. When she wasn’t available. When I wasn’t available. Her lips, deep red, full lips, are parted slightly, as if she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say.
“Hey.” My voice rasps out the word, the effects of the concert still evident in my hoarseness.
“Hey,” she says, surprise and a question underlining the response.
“You’re still up.”
“Sort of.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Ah, no,” she admits.
“Jet lag?”
“Maybe.”
I’d like for her to elaborate, wonder if I have anything to do with her inability to sleep. I decide I’m being arrogant, and say, “I’m still jazzed. Wanna talk?”
“Here?” she asks, throwing a hand back at the room.
“Yeah. If that’s okay with you.”
