Then I run around like a crazy person, trying to clean up. The place isn’t that bad—I’m something of a neat freak—but all of the lovely touches I’d been hoping to have when Luke’s parents walked in—a tray of freshly mixed cocktails (kir royales, their favorite), party nuts in bowls, assorted cheeses on a platter—have to be abandoned as I cram the dirty laundry in a hamper, run a quick brush through my hair, slap on a bit of lip gloss, then fling open the door.
“Helloooo!” I cry, noticing that Mr. and Mrs. de Villiers look—well,older than when I’d last seen them. But then, who doesn’t after a plane ride? “You’re early!”
“There was no traffic coming into the city from the airport,” Mrs. de Villiers drawls in her Texan accent, giving me a kiss on either cheek, as is her custom. “Leaving the city, yes. But coming in? No.” Her gaze sweeps the apartment, taking in the grocery bags, the lack of cocktails, and my sweats. “Sorry we’re early.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” I say breezily. “Really. It’s just that Luke isn’t home from class yet—”
“Well, we will just have to start celebrating without him,” Monsieur de Villiers says, as he unveils a bottle of chilled champagne he’s managed to procure somewhere along the way from the airport.
“Celebrating?” I blink. “Is there something to celebrate?”
“There is always something to celebrate,” Monsieur de Villiers says. “But in this case the fact that the Beaujolais nouveau has been released.”
His wife is pulling an Armani wheelie-suitcase. “Where can I park this?” she wants to know.
“Oh, your room, of course,” I say as I hurry to produce champagne flutes. “Luke and I will be taking the couch.”
Monsieur de Villiers winces as the cork from the bottle of champagne he is opening pops. “I told you we should have stayed in a hotel,” he calls to his wife. “Now these poor children will have spinal injuries from sleeping on a pull-out couch.”
“Oh no,” I say. “The couch is fine! Luke and I are so grateful to you for—”
“It’s a fine pull-out couch!” Mrs. de Villiers insists on her way to the bedroom. “I’ll admit it’s not the most comfortable in the world, but no one is going to suffer a spinal injury!”
I try to imagine how this conversation would go if it were my own parents, and fail. My parents are still in the dark about Luke and me living together, and I have every intention of keeping it that way… at least until we announce our engagement. I mean, if we ever get engaged, that is. It’s not that they’re morally against people living together before they get married. They’re just against me living with someone I’ve only known for a few months.
Which actually says a lot about how much they trust my judgment about people.
Although, looking back on some of my exes, I think maybe they have a point.
“It’s fine,” I assure Monsieur de Villiers. “Really.”
“Well.” Mrs. de Villiers has dropped her bag off in the bedroom and returned. “I’m happy to see you’ve made yourself at home in there.”
I realize she’s referring to the standing rack from Bed Bath & Beyond—and my vintage-dress collection.
And that she sounds… well,bemused about it.
And not necessarily in a good way.
“Oh,” I say. “Yes. I’m sorry. I know my clothes take up a lot of room. I hope you don’t mind—”
“Of course not!” Mrs. de Villiers says—a little too heartily. “I’m glad you’re making use of the space. Is that asewing machine I saw on my dressing table?”
Oh. My. God.
“Um, yes… well, you see, I needed a table to put it on, and your dressing table is just the right height… ” She hates me. I can tell. She totally hates me. “I can move it if you need me to. It’s no problem… ”
“Not at all,” Mrs. de Villiers says with a smile that’s, well, a trifle brittle. “Guillaume, I’ll take a little of that champagne. Actually, make that a lot.”
“I’ll just go move it,” I say. “The sewing machine. I’m sorry, I should have thought about it before. Of course you need a place to do your makeup—”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. de Villiers says. “You can do it later. Sit down right now and have some champagne with us. Guillaume and I want to hear all about your new job. Jean-Luc says you’re working in a law office! That must be so exciting. I had no idea you were interested in the law.”
“Uh,” I say, taking the glass Monsieur de Villiers offers me. “I’m not—” Why didn’t I move that sewing machine last night, when it occurred to me that Mrs. de Villiers might not appreciate having it sitting there smack in the middle of her dressing table?Why?
“Are you doing paralegal work?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know.
“Um, no,” I say. What about all my stuff in the bathroom? I have a ton of beauty products in there. I tried to consolidate it all in my plastic shower caddy from the dorm, but ever since I started working with a model, it’s gotten a lot bigger, since Tiffany won’t stop giving me samples, and some of them are pretty awesome. Like anything from Kiehl’s, which I admit I never heard of until I moved here. But now I’m addicted to their lip balm.
But where would I put all that stuff, if not the bathroom? There’s only the one bathroom… and that’s the place where shower caddiesgo…
“Administrative work?” Mrs. de Villiers is asking.
“No,” I say. “I’m the receptionist. Do you want me to move my stuff out of the bathroom? Because I totally can. I’m sorry if it seems like my stuff is everywhere, I know there’s a lot, but I can really move it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. de Villiers says. She’s finished her first glass of champagne and holds out her glass toward her husband for a refill. “When does Jean-Luc get home?”
Oh, God. This is awful. She’s already wondering when Luke’s going to get here. I’m wondering the same thing. Someone needs to save us from this awkward silence—oh, wait. Monsieur de Villiers is turning on the TV. Thank God. We can watch the news or something—
“Oh, Guillaume, turn that off,” his wife says. “We want to visit, not watch CNN.”
“I just want to see the weather,” Monsieur de Villiers insists.
“You can look outside to see the weather,” his wife scoffs. “It’s cold. It’s November. What do you expect?”
Oh, God. This is excruciating. I’m going to die, I just know it. I saw her disappointed expression when I said I’m just a receptionist at Chaz’s dad’s firm. Why did she wince like that? Because she can’t imagine her son dating a mere receptionist? It’s true his last girlfriend was an investment banker. But she was older than me! Well, by a couple of years. But whatever, she had a business degree! I was a liberal arts major. What does anybody expect?
Oh, God. There’s an awkward silence. Nooooo… Okay, think of something to say. Anything. These are bright, intellectual people. I should be able to chat with them about anything… anything at all…
Oh! I know…
“Mrs. de Villiers, I just love your Renoir,” I say. “The one hanging over your bed?”
“Oh.” Luke’s mother looks pleased. “That little thing? Thank you. Yes, she’s adorable, isn’t she?”
“I love her,” I say truthfully. “Where did you get her?”
“Oh.” Mrs. de Villiers looks toward the windows overlooking Fifth Avenue, a faraway gleam in her eyes. “She was a gift from someone. A very long time ago.”
I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that the “someone” Mrs. de Villiers was referring to had been a lover. It had to have been. How else to explain the dewy look that came over her face?
Could it, I couldn’t help wondering, have been the same man who keeps calling the apartment, asking for her?
“Um,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say. Luke’s father seems oblivious, switching the channels from New York 1 to CNN. “Nice gift.”