Gustave
The auction ended in a blur of applause and champagne. But what kept me at the Fondation was Simone and her relentless socializingwithme.
Merde!
It took an hour for me to get rid of her, so by the time Philippe and I stepped through the inconspicuous entrance of the Jockey Club de Paris, I was exhausted.
Wasn’t the whole point of getting divorced that you didn’t have to spend time with your ex-fucking-wife?
But after the debacle of the tabloids snapping pictures of Simone screaming at me last year, which had put Aubert in the crosshairs of photographers, I’d decided to keep it as pleasant as possible with her.
I didn’t want my son to be impacted by her crazy. Better me than him.
The doorman at the Jockey Club bows us in, his expression carved from centuries of discretion.
Inside, the club is a world apart, as it has been since opening its doors in 1834.
A traditional gentlemen’s club, the Jockey Club remains one of the most prestigious private institutions in Paris. Once the exclusive domain of aristocrats, it has loosened its reins—slightly—but still serves as a sanctuary for the men who steer the machinery of French power. Men in perfectly cut suits murmur over cognac, some bent over a game of cards, others scanning theFigaro.
Gilded sconces cast pools of warm light over velvet chairs and gleaming mahogany tables.
Paintings of racehorses and long-dead aristocrats watch us, reminders that nothing here hasreallychanged in nearly two centuries—because nothing has had to.
Beeswax, leather, and the ghost of fine cigars seem woven into the paneled walls—as if the room has breathed them in for centuries.
We hadn’t made it to the lounge before I was stopped half a dozen times.
Hands clapped my shoulder, voices overlapping in congratulations.“Superbe?*, de Valois, superbe.”
One patron remarked he hadn’t seen bidding like that since the Rockefeller sales in New York.Another chuckled that I’d saved him from ruin by driving the price too high; otherwise, his wife had insisted on getting her hands on the Cimabue. It was theater, all of it—rituals of wealth disguised as wit. The act continued with Baron Hunt, the American tech magnate who had tried—and failed—to wrest the painting from me.
A broad man, red-faced from champagne, his French polished but edged with effort.
“Comte de Valois.” He extended his hand with the brashness of someone used to conquering rooms. “Congratulations. You won that Cimabue fair and square…but the next time, watch out.”
I took his hand firmly, my lips curving without warmth. “Gustave, please. The Republic did away with titles a long time ago.”
His mouth quirked. “You know as well as I do that titles still mean something…like giving you access to the Jockey Club.” He raised his glass in a mocking salute, then moved off toward a knot of diplomats by the fire.
I watched him go, jaw tight, until Philippe’s voice cut through my irritation. “Quel imbécile pompeux?*.”
“He doesn’t bother me,” I say, and I mean it. There are always those who secretly crave the hierarchies they claim to despise—Baron Hunt is one of them. Rumor has it he’s shopping for a third wife,preferably one with a title. He has the money; she’ll have the pedigree. A match made in aristocratic hell.
We sat by the tall windows that looked onto Rue Rabelais.
I leaned back into a leather armchair as a server set down our cognac and tray of cigars.
Philippe picked up a cigar and a cutter, rolling the thick cylinder between his fingers before snapping the blade with a practiced flick. He looked at me through the curl of tobacco, one brow arched. “What was that with Simone and that girl from the Louvre?”
I bite my lip from correcting him and sayingwoman. Tara is twenty-eight. She has a fucking PhD in art history. She’s noingenue.
I watch as the neat edge he cut from the cigar falls onto the tray. “It’s Simone being Simone.”
Philippe strikes a match and holds the flame to the end of his cigar. He draws in the ember, flaring red, then blows out a ribbon of smoke that hangs between us like a veil.
I don’t smoke, but I enjoy the aroma of a good Cuban, which Philippe favors.
I pick up my cognac and cup the glass between my palms to warm the amber liquid.
