“Not fussed,” I dismiss with a shrug. “Another time.”
In one of the little squares, I see Brigitte—the leggy Parisian who was in my bed the morning I was cast into servitude with Emerald—lift a hand and address me. “Ohhhh, tête de noeud,” she says in a long-suffering way, stretching those lovely French vowels, “come to my desk and you can sit in. That ees okay, Natalia?” she checks.
“Sure, fine.”
I look up and see Brigitte stand and beckon from a desk near the break room. She’s apparently been enticed into a staff position with the magazine—my mother must have offered a fortune to get exclusive rights to Brigitte’s formidable talent. There’s a nameplate on the desk announcing her new title:BRIGITTE MICHAUD, CHIEF PHOTOGRAPHER.
I grab a chair from a break room table and set it beside hers, close enough to see the screen but not impose myself or catch the triggering fruity-powdery scent of Lancôme Trésor.
She gives me a businesslike nod. “Allo, Alexandaire.”
Normally I’d launch into flirting, but I just nod back with a smile I hope doesn’t look too stiff. “Nice to see you, pet. You’re looking well.”
She rolls her jewel-bright eyes. “And you look like shit.”
“Oh, cheers.”
A slight smile cracks her façade. “I am joking. But you do look sad around the eyes.” She twists back to face her laptop and unmutes herself.
The group call goes on, and I listen politely. Natalia looks appropriately blissful, though with an undercurrent of exhaustion. When discussion veers into maintenance matters such as nappies and spit-up, I give a cordial wave and excuse myself.Before heading to my mother’s office, I pop into my own. It’s silent and has the stagnant air of a storage room. I wander to the desk and pick up a favorite pen I left behind, pocketing it and staring out the window at the gray spring afternoon.
I wonder what Sage is doing right now. Is she in Italy yet? It’s an hour later in Imola. I glance at my watch. Just gone two o’clock here. Is she in a meeting? Working out? Attending one of her many obligatory publicity-boosting events?
Does she think of me during the day?
A voice snaps me from my reverie. “Alekos, come give your mother a kiss. I’m in a dreadful hurry.”
I pivot and cross to her, depositing a peck on her rouged cheek.
“Walk with me.” She strides off, leaving me to trail behind. In the open office area, it sounds like the call with Natalia is winding down.
I sweep a hand toward someone’s computer screen as we pass. “You didn’t catch any of that? Evans’s new bambino?”
“Spoke with her yesterday,” she tells me. “But I was on a call with Spain during this.”
It’s amusing how she phrases it as “a call with Spain,” as if the entire country is a single entity, presumably one that was grateful for the attention of Nefeli Laskaris.
My parents, bless them, are the most self-congratulatory people I’ve ever known. Admittedly, they’re both frightfully smart. But it’s no wonder I turned out to be such an arsehole, coming from two such as my mum and dad.
My mother goes into the glass cube that is her office, and when I pass her through the doorway, she sweeps a look out at everyone saying their goodbyes to Natalia. Closing the door,she says, “Cute little thing, Nat’s baby. She’ll be a stunner, with that mother and Klaus Franke for a dad.” She ducks behind her desk and proceeds to dig in a drawer for something.
“Do my ears deceive me, or is the frosty Empress Laskaris sounding a bit sentimental?” I settle into a chair. “I hope you’re not waiting for a grandchild. I don’t plan to have any until I’m an inappropriately ancient and rich ninety-year-old marrying a twentysomething supermodel.”
She gives up on whatever item she was hunting and slams the drawer. “Sentimental my arse. I’d sell your baby teeth for a tenner.”
“There’s the mother I know.”
She checks her little wristwatch. “I’m on the horn with Lucia in Milan in seven minutes. Enough chitchat—on to business.”
“Yes. Well, if you called me in for an update on my so-called internship with Emerald, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve redeemed myself with Salv—erm,Sage.” I clear my throat. “Miss Sikora, that is.”
I make the mistake of angling my eyes away after my verbal stumble. I can feel Mother’s laser focus cut into me even as I continue, trying to keep my tone even and adjusting a cuff link that hasn’t a thing wrong with it.
“I hope you’ll consider my penance served,” I go on, “and allow me to… erm…” Finally I acknowledge the Grinch-like smirk that’s overtaken my mother’s features. “What?” I snap.
“You’re sleeping with her.”
I scoff. “Obviously not. She despises me.”
