Back home, I’d tried a little Google stalking and found nothing, no evidence of him or of the marriage he had paid me £5,000 for. If I hadn’t had that envelope of cash, I would have wondered if the entire encounter was some sort of jet lag/alcohol-induced fever dream. He had certainly haunted my dreams since.
He still owed me £15,000. Given I didn’t have the collateral, I wasn’t sure I would ever see him again. I’d charge him interest if he ever showed up again but I owed him a debt myself. I’d even talked with a lawyer about a divorce after about six months. Since Ian hadn’t paid me what he owed me, he shouldn’t get the benefit he wanted.
I liked lawyers. He wouldn’t lift a finger before I paid him or offered an alternate consideration. A secret marriage didn’t hurt me any – it wasn’t like I planned on marrying someone else. It just wasn’t worth it to try and end the thing.
Ian had opened my eyes and helped me reevaluate the potential value of my time and attention. With everything my mom had taught me about men, and that eye-opening experience with Ian, I’d grown my college fund to well over $50k thanks to a couple of sugar daddies.
I snapped my fingers. Even thinking of the term had me cringing. That I’d kept it off my face was reason for a slight celebration. Playacting a co-ed inexplicably interested in middle-aged men well over the hill had a certain ick factor, but I couldn’t argue with my bank balance. Another year and I’d have more than enough money.
“You must really love him to smile like that,” my seat mate said. “Young and in love? I envy you.”
She didn’t need to know I’d been thinking of the money. I offered a happy smile and watched out the window as Paris grew larger. We said our goodbyes before customs, before I’d even gotten off the plane, really. At least there were some benefits of age and infirmary.
Once customs gave me the all-clear, I made a beeline to the nearest bathroom. My travel outfit of leggings and a baggy top got shoved into the bottom of my carry-on. I slipped into the dress I’d been asked to wear – he’d bought it for me after all – and set up my makeup kit in front of the mirror.
My phone buzzed and danced along the counter. The screen said MOM. Damn, she and Sal weren’t supposed to get home until the weekend. Did she know where I was? After disappearing on her back in Glasgow for just one night, she’d become downright nosy and oddly overprotective.
“Hi Mom,” I said after tapping the speaker button, “how’s the cruise?”
“Are you in Paris right now?” she demanded.
Okay, she already knew or at least suspected. Should I lie? Try and bluff my way out of it? Why? I was almost 21, I could go wherever I liked. Before I could reply, the restroom door opened. A woman stepped through with a phone to her ear. She spoke French into it.
“Yes,” I admitted as I pulled a tube of pink lipstick from my kit, yet another ‘generous gift.’
“And why are you in Paris of all places?” she asked.
“Did Junior blab on me? That’ll save me from having to buy the little annoyance a souvenir.” I changed the subject, or tried to.
“No, and Sal and I will deal with that when we get home.” Mom almost took the bait but kept her focus. “And you didn’t answer my question. You can’t kid a kidder, Emma. I know all the tricks.”
I’d moved on to my eyes now, applying even more pink. For the amount of money I’d leached off this ‘sugar daddy,’ I’d have donned a hell of a lot worse. The lips in the mirror curled into an innocent smile.
The woman who’d entered the bathroom a few moments earlier frowned at me. I would have too if my naïve charm hadn’t needed work.
“No answer?” Mom reminded me of her call. “Emma, I know you can handle yourself, but traveling internationally can be dangerous for young women. Sal told me about the Bratva, how they snatch co-eds off the street there.”
“I’m not a co-ed since I haven’t gone to college yet,” I snapped, the blushing schoolgirl in the mirror turning harpy, “and I’m not exactly alone.”
“A boy?” she asked, flipping a switch between nagging mother and gossip hound in two words.
I’d never really brought a guy home to meet my mother and the annoyances. The relationships I’d had tilted widely toward the casual side. If I had an itch to scratch, I’d scratch it. Mom was holding out for some fairy tale wedding, a whirlwind romance. Never had an interest until Ian had offered £20,000, plus interest now. Hell, given the whimsical way she described her own shotgun wedding to Sal, pregnant with another man’s daughter, my own ‘marriage’ to Ian would have her tearing up.
“It’s just casual, Mom, don’t start picking up wedding magazines,” I said as I brushed my hair.
“Men don’t fly casual flings to Paris, Emma,” Mom chided. “How old is he? Boys your age don’t usually have the money to fly a girl to Paris.”
“He’s a little older, but like I said, it is casual,” I replied.
“So he’s wealthy?” Her voice rose half an octave with the last word. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
Fair point. Other than her oddly overprotective urges since I’d disappeared after the wedding last year, Mom shared my outlook on life and men. Hell, she’d taught me to think that way. I’d learned it from watching her over the years.
“Oh, shoot,” Mom sighed and the gossip queen gave way to concerned mother, “I almost forgot why I was calling.”
“Mom?” I stared at the phone. The sorority pledge in the mirror pouted like she’d lost the last spot on the cheerleader squad to that bitch Madison.
“Your father, your real father.” She whispered the word ‘real.’ Imagining Sal standing nearby in their cruise ship cabin hearing that tickled me. Then Mom continued. “He’s in the hospital. There was a traffic accident. He must have fallen asleep behind the wheel. He took a turn at full speed and went off the road.”
