Henri emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with bread, cheese and charcuterie. “Voilà.”
“Plus, our finest vintage!” Gigi enters the room hot on his heels with a bottle of wine and glasses.
They put everything on the coffee table. We already had an early dinner in the village, shortly after we arrived in Dordogne. All of it was filmed, and some of it will be aired next week. Then we took a long walk, also on camera, and now we’re wrapping things up here over wine and cheese.
Mother and Father are no show. They used the same excuse as for the wedding, namely, that their inferior acting skills would ruin my all-important mission. My parents don’t think they can successfully impersonate French commoners—or commoners of any kind—no matter how hard they try. To be honest, it’s not an entirely unjustified concern. I can’t imagine Count de Bellay being anything other than a blue blood from a thousand-year-old dynasty founded by Fat Amalric, companion of Isidore Pox-Face.
The evening drags on in a blur of polite conversation, shameless lies and thinly veiled awkwardness. Henri and Gigi do their best to pass for the type of people who’d live in this modest abode. But it’s a losing battle. Gigi’s diamond earrings catch the light every time she moves. She must’ve decided that the rocks were so big they’d pass for rhinestones, forgetting that Laura’s professional eye might spot her bluff. As for Gigi’s and Henri’s impeccable posture, not to mention their vocabulary and certain turns of phrase, they scream upper class.
Trying to sound “normal,” I ask Laura, “So, what do you think of our village and the region? Dope, isn’t it?”
“Totally,” she agrees.
“And the apartment?” Henri presses, making me nervous.
“I like it very much.” Laura glances at me. “I was just telling Antoine how cozy it is despite being so big.”
Gigi snorts, covers her mouth, and fakes a wheezing cough.
I can’t help but resent her at this moment, even though I know she wouldn’t intentionally jeopardize my mission. I also know she’s not a snob, despite her royal status.
So why do I feel this way when there’s no rational reason for it?
Because I have an emotional reason.
I’m annoyed on Laura’s behalf.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. Compared to the treatment I received from the Yangs, Gigi and Henri’s attitude toward Laura is nothing but cordial. As a result, the TV crew looks bored out of their minds.
Good. I relish their disappointment.
That said, even in my smug satisfaction, I do wonder if Laura can see through the farce—the borrowed apartment, the holes in my cover, the mismatch between the way I dress and talk…
If she does, then she seems content to disregard her instincts.
But until when?
Things can go south very quickly if she realizes, for example, that her apartment has been “visited.” And not just hers. Yesterday, while all the Yangs were at work, teams of trained and well-equipped MESS agents thoroughly searched the homes of Laura, her aunt and her parents. During the night, the same agents swept through their businesses, as well as the thrift store down the street that Laura had mentioned.
They found nothing.
Frankly, I wasn’t holding my breath. Laura and her folks were sincere in their denial of any knowledge or memory of an antique music box. The Yangs genuinely don’t care for “old junk.” Their love of everything new and modern was obvious the moment I stepped into Hua and Zhou’s place, but also Laura’s too.
Long story short, I’m running out of time and leads.
And I’m starting to wonder if doing a reality show and marrying Laura justify diverting my attention from my businesses. Am I chasing a specter? What if my prophesied quest for the seventh key turns out to be just a big, fat, sexually glorious dead end?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ANTOINE
The TV crew gives up and leaves around midnight, deeply underwhelmed. Considering it’s a five-to-six-hour drive back to Paris, everybody’s staying in Dordogne overnight. Laura and I will crash here, on the sagging sofa bed in Yann’s guest room. The TV crew will sleep more comfortably at a hotel in Cahors.
The moment Laura turns on the shower, Henri, Gigi and I step out onto the balcony. Henri slides the door shut behind us. We huddle close, and keep our voices hushed against the backdrop of a starry, fragrant summer night deep in rural Dordogne.
“I was in Pombrio this morning,” Henri informs me. “Adam has some info for you.”
I don’t ask why he hasn’t called me himself, well aware that Adam von Dietz prefers to keep calling and texting to a strict minimum. Kurt may breach even the secure lines.
