| Subject: À la Vie! – Chapter 12 |
Author:
Diane
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Date Posted: Monday, October 25, 08:48:37pm
In reply to:
Diane
's message, "À la Vie!" on Tuesday, October 19, 01:16:54am
Chapter 12
Michael was irritated. It wasn’t Perry Bauer’s fault—the airline had just screwed up. That’s why he was flying coach from Vancouver to Los Angeles instead of First Class. He scowled at the lack of leg room, and at the miserly salted peanuts that the airline considered to be worthy of the title “snack.” He couldn’t even find any decent reading material, like Forbes or the Wall Street Journal. Only USA Today and some women’s magazines. He tilted his chair back and was not surprised to find that he had reclined about one inch. He was definitely writing to the president of the airline.
He sighed and looked out the window. The opening in Vancouver had been a great success. That was a plus. Kate Quinn, the manager of the Los Angeles gallery, reported that the expansion was going well, and she only needed his approval on a few documents. That shouldn’t require more than a couple of hours. He could probably work in a round of golf.
He thought of Elena for the first time since he had left Marseilles. Marriage to her had not been “horrible,” but he didn’t know if he would classify it as a success, either. He was a kind and considerate lover, and that seemed to satisfy her. Never a “player,” Michael had definitely not saved himself for marriage, and he knew how to please a woman. He had only had two rules—never sleep with a married woman, and never get emotionally involved. Unfortunately, rule number two seemed to apply to his wife. He was fond of her, but he didn’t love her. Now seven months pregnant, she was moody and irritable, and Michael was away from the new house as much as possible. Giving her free-reign to decorate had been a stroke of genius. It gave her something to do, and it kept her mind off of Michael. It wasn’t fair. He must try to be a better husband to Elena. He had offered himself up for the role—he had not been forced into it.
One of the stories on the front of a magazine caught his eye: “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.” Thinking he might try to relate better to Elena, to see things from her perspective, he flipped the magazine open. And froze. The page he opened to was an ad for l'Éclat eyewear. The model was a beautiful blonde, with unforgettable eyes. Named Nikita.
Michael loosened his tie. He couldn’t breathe. He stared at the page in wonder, running his thumb over the model’s brow. God, she was beautiful. And alive. And healthy. And well. He flipped to the photo credits page and entered the details into his PDA. He gently tore the page with Nikita’s picture out of the magazine and, handling it lovingly, placed it in his briefcase. He searched the other magazines in the pocket in front of him, and was rewarded with two more ads, all different. These he placed with the first, after verifying the photographer’s credits. He never did read the article for Elena.
Nikita was having fun. She and another agency model, Carla, were drinking espresso on Fisherman’s Wharf. Carla was a lovely Hispanic model, with thick, curly hair, whose lips were the envy of housewives everywhere. The two of them together were a striking pair, and they giggled when passersby would stop and stare or take their picture. Carla had attended a function in New York with Alec Chandler the weekend before, and the two of them were comparing notes.
“He was all over me the minute the limo door shut,” Carla related, shivering in disgust. Nikita was impressed.
“He wouldn’t say two words to me,” she confided. “He just emptied the mini-bar and then had to hold on to me to make it in to the gallery. He was acting like such a pig.”
“He is a pig,” confirmed Carla. “A pig in a pretty package.” The two of them gathered their thoughts. “But what a pretty package!” they bemoaned simultaneously, and began laughing hysterically.
L'Éclat refused to give Michael any information about the photographer who had shot Nikita’s photos, let alone any information on Nikita herself. Michael understood their motives, and was somewhat glad at the way they fiercely protected their models, but he was frustrated. Nikita was out there somewhere, and he had to find her. He left his business card with his address in Marseilles, and was assured that it would be forwarded to Nikita’s agent.
Six weeks later he received an 8”X10” glossy photo, with a computer-generated signature reading ”À la Vie! Nikita.”
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