I feel guilty, tremendously so, for putting him through that.
And finally, when we did get divorced, it was a nightmare with paparazzi chasingAubert, which is why I want to stay out of the limelight as much as possible. Perhaps being away from France would be a good thing for him. Safer.
“Everything okay with your mother?” I ask casually. I don’t want to lead him into his answer.
He shrugs wearily. “She’s…angry with you for the divorce, with me for supporting it.” He shakes his head and then gives me a sad smile. “It’s to the point that I don’t want to see her. I’ve been coming up with excuses whenever she wants to meet.”
I take a breath. Simone’s persistence is a familiar pressure, but hearing Aubert say it aloud twists something in me, like I’ve failed him.
“I just want you both to be happy,” he says quietly, guilt clouding his expression. I know he’s torn between loyalty to his mother and his refusal to see the world through her eyes.
“Iamhappy, Aubert.” I clamp my hand on his, squeeze. “You worry too much.”
“Non! That would beyou, Papa,” he counters with a crooked smile. “You worry all the time…especially when it comes to seeing a woman. You’re like some monk. It’s weird and emotionally unhealthy.”
I laugh, startled. “A monk?”
I wasn’t a monk a week ago, and an image of me taking Tara from behind in the shower flashes. She has generous curves that I have touched, caressed, and indulged in. I shift uneasily. It is bad form to have a hard-on when talking to your son.
“Oui,” he insists. “You should see women, Papa. Be happy. I don’t want Maman thinking she still has a chance because you’re single.”
I’d been single, content with it. Until that night with Tara—her bangles catching the light, her laugh spilling over the music, the way she turned a Paris cocktail bar into a secret between us.
I stifle a sigh when I think about how I accused her at the Pyramid. I’m so fucking paranoid that I attacked her. It was wrong. It was unfair.
I owe her an apology.
“I’ll consider it,” I soothe, my chest feeling heavier than the Alps around us.
Aubert stretches his long legs. “But, please, don’t pick someone boring, Papa. You know…like Uncle Philippe? His new girlfriend looks like she was ordered straight out of a catalog—twenty-two, all lips and fillers, can’t hold a conversation, and is glued to her social media.”
I bark out a laugh.
Philippe Badeaux has been my closest friend since boarding school—more of an uncle to Aubert than any other actual blood relation.
The Badeaux family has been in banking since Louis-Philippe sat on the throne; finance runs in his veins the way wine runs in mine. Philippe can read a balance sheet the way a conductor reads a score—instinctively, flawlessly, and with a touch of arrogance.
And yes, his latest conquest is a model who lookslike she was airbrushed into existence. Sigrid is not exactly a brilliant conversationalist, but then, Philippe doesn’t keep company to debate monetary policy. For him, the markets and his lovers share the same rule:high risk, high reward.
Sigrid isalsoa fashion influencer. A job title that didn’t even exist when I was growing up. In some ways, I suppose that’s progress—society moving forward, new opportunities for ambition. Still, I can’t help but think that social media, especially the gossip side of it, is the devil’s own invention.
“I’ll try my best.”
Aubert grins. “But…you know…if you’re looking for a good time. A model might be?—”
“Shut up,” I say good-naturedly. “Mon fils?*, I’m not discussing this with you.”
“I’m eighteen, Papa, you know I’ve had sex, right?”
I groan and look up at the sky as I roll my eyes. “I hope you used a condom.”
“Yes, Papa.” Then his eyes light up with mischief. “Maybe next time I should buy a pack for you and?—”
“Enough of that!” I cut him off, laughing. “Let’s get back to the slopes where I can kick your ass again.”
* Yes (French)
* Thank you (French)
