Personally, I’ve yet to have a package, and I want to make the most of it. I pull Jay up off the couch. “Jay!” I whoop. “Help me open the box I just got from my mom in New York!”
A bunch of kids surround us as Jay pulls out his Swiss Army knife and struggles to cut cleanly through the heavy layer of packing tape. They all must be dying to know what I would be getting from my mom. I mean, my mom is
practically
a celebrity. CAB works for
Luxe
! And I’m the only New Yorker on this program.
My
package is going to be good.
“I hope its chocolate from Jacques Torres,” Sara-Louise says excitedly. “My daddy got me some of that on his last trip to New York, and I could eat those chocolate-covered macadamia nuts with the powdered sugar for the rest of my life. . . .”
“Is it from Barneys?” another girl, Elena from Chicago, who watches too much
Gossip Girl
, asks breathlessly.
Jay has successfully opened the package. “Thanks!” I say breathlessly. I reach into the box to find . . . a stuffed animal. I grab it and show it to everyone.
“My mom knows I just love baby seals,” I gush, though until this moment I’ve never once professed to have any affinity for baby seals. “Look! There’s a card.”
This is it,
I think. My mom’s put a check into the card, which will have a message on it that all is forgiven and understood, that my expenses in Paris are much more than in New York, and not only is she sending me this check so I’ll have some cash to last me till her visit, but the Amex has been reinstated as well.
I open the card, careful not to rip the check. French banks can be very finicky about sloppiness. I don’t want them to hassle me when I cash it.
But there is no check. The card is simple, my mom’s regular monogrammed stationery she’s had my whole life. CAB.
My dearest Alex,
You will be so pleased with me. I’ve found a way for you to pay off your astronomical debts. My dearest friend Margerite—you remember, from Lyon all those years ago?—has a friend from school who lives in the fifteenth like you. Madame Sanxay—1 555 234 23—call her right away. Give the seal to her lovelies!
Yours,
CAB
With blurry vision and barely able to comprehend what I’ve just read, I smile at everyone around me. “My mom’s not the gingersnap type,” tell them, and cradle my seal in my arms as I walk off to find Zack. When I find him, I don’t say anything. I just show him the note and burst into sobs.
Zack hustles me into the hall.
“Hey, hey,” Zack comforts me. “What’s the deal? I don’t get it. What is she talking about?”
“Look at what she wrote!” I point at
Yours, CAB
. “She doesn’t even call herself Mom! She doesn’t even write that she loves me, or misses me!”
Olivia joins us in the hall. “What’s going on? Alex, why are you crying?”
I wipe at my eyes. “No reason.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “But I have to tell you guys something.”
When Olivia tells us she’s going home with her parents the day after Christmas, she can’t hold back her own tears. “I never told you guys how hard it was for my family for me to be here. They need me at home. Vince needs me, too.”
“I need you!” I wail. “Please don’t go.”
“You’ll be okay,” Olivia sniffles. “You guys will take care of each other.”
Zack takes both of us into his arms, burying his face in my hair. I think he’s crying, too.
I call Mme Sanxay from the privacy of my bedroom at my homestay. Some morose-sounding child answers the phone.
“
Je cherche Mme Sanxay,
” I tell him in my kindest voice.
“
Quoi?
”
“Get your mother,” I command him in English. The kid drops the phone and shrieks for Mme Sanxay to get the phone. I shudder.
“Bonjour, Alex!” Mme Sanxay greets me. She starts explaining the after-school job to me in rapid French. I can’t understand a word she is saying.
“Sorry,” I interrupting, forgetting how the French despise bad manners. “How’s your English?”
Mme Sanxay pauses. “Your mother told me you speak French.”
“I
do
,” I say. “Just not right now. Long day. So what’s up?”
“Can you come by Thursday? I know it’s Christmas Eve, but I’d love to introduce you to the children before we fly off to Mallorca.”
“What children?”
“My children! The ones you’ll be taking care of,” she laughs, confused. “Didn’t your mom tell you?”
“No,” I say. Now I’m confused.
“Everyday from three to six,” she goes on. “You’ll meet us here after school. I’m just so eager to have a few hours to myself.”
I can’t believe it. I numbly hang up with Mme Sanxay, telling her I will see her tomorrow.
Never, ever, in my whole life, has my mom done anything so cruel. I dial her number on my cell phone, even though I know the call will cost a fortune from my Blackberry. Another thing for my mom to get mad about.
“MOM?!?” I shriek into her voicemail. “What is going on? You can’t do this to me! You can’t just get me a job without asking me! I don’t even like kids. How am I supposed to survive?”
The voicemail cuts me off. I stare at my cell phone in my hand.
A cold sense of injustice descends onto me.
I call her again. This time she picks up.
“Yes, Alex?” my mom answers.
“I hate you. I really do. You are a
terrible
parent,” I say quietly, and hang up.
A few hours later, I write my mom on my Blackberry.
Mom—don’t bother coming to France for Christmas this week. I was really excited to introduce you to my new boyfriend, George, but now I don’t want to subject him to the cruelty of having to be in the same room as you. I’ll have a better Christmas if you just stay in New York.
If she wants spitefulness, spitefulness is what she is going to get.
All I have left in this ruthless world is George. And I will have him. Make no mistake about that.
My mom, before she worked for
Luxe,
was a young fashion publicist working the Paris shows right out of college. Her best friend in Paris was a model named Margerite who now lives in Lyon. Margerite’s brother, until about three months ago, was married to Mme Sanxay and is still, of course, the father of the Sanxay children. I won’t be meeting M. Sanxay today, however, because he’s in the south of France with the woman he left Mme Sanxay for.
Say hi to my dad
, I think. My dad has a house on the beach in St. Tropez. The Riviera must be where all the worthless cheating husbands congregate.
Mme Sanxay leads me into her living room, the carpet lush and elegant but the floor strewn heavily with gaudy plastic toys. Two shrieking children, the boy a little smaller than the girl, wrestle each other in front of a blaring television set. Off to the side is a playpen with a little baby in it, wailing helplessly. I cower in the doorway, not wanting to get any closer.
“
Les enfants
!” Mme Sanxay barks at them sharply. “
Silence
!”
All three children stop for a moment to register her presence, then go back to their loudmouthed misery. I shiver in horror.
Mme Sanxay picks up the baby. “
Je te présente Charles,
” she tells me, holding out the little squirming child for me to hold. I shake my head quickly. “
No, merci,
” I say, as politely as possible. He smells like Johnson & Johnson bath powder, a scent that has always made me want to barf. I gag.
“Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we?” Mme Sanxay leads me to a messy table covered in old junk mail and French newspapers. Like my own homestay and in fact, the apartments of my friends in New York, Mme Sanxay lives in a reasonably sized flat that probably costs a fortune with rent and maintenance. Right now, it’s looking particularly un-maintained.
“Pardon the mess. It’s just so hard to keep everything together. That’s why I was so thrilled when your mother called me last week to offer your services. My nanny lost her work permit and was sent back to Venezuela. Alexandra, you’re a godsend.” She smiles at me for a long time, too long. I look away.
“I know you are busy, dear,” she continues, shifting the baby from one hip to another. Charles screws up his little face, mashing his lips together. To my horror, Mme Sanxay responds by unbuttoning the first few buttons of her shirt and unhooking one of the large cups of her maternity bra underneath, exposing a large, veiny breast that the baby hooks onto immediately, sucking vigorously.
“Charles is eating some solid food now, but he still loves his mother’s milk best,” Mme Sanxay tells me, looking down at the little beast fondly. I clench my jaw to keep from gagging.
“I wanted to put together some information for you, emergency phone numbers, maybe a list of what the kids like to do and eat, but I ran out of time. When you come back, I promise to be more organized! Alexandra, dear,” she goes on, reaching for the pocketbook on the chair next to me. The purse has some liquid dripping from it. She doesn’t even notice. “I’m so grateful to you. Here’s the money you’ll need for incidentals—diapers, metro fare—while you are caring for
les enfants
next month, if you want to put it in your checking account, and I’d also like to give you a deposit to show you how glad I am to have you working for me in the coming months. I couldn’t find
anyone
in Paris willing to donate the kind of time I need for the amount I’m able to afford to pay.” Mme Sanxay pulls a large wad of cash out and folds it into my palm. For the first time since I stepped into this filthy, miserable apartment, I smile.
“Go and play,
cherie
,” she says to me. “We’ll see you soon.”
I skip down the stairs to the street, unable to flee fast enough. She’ll see me
never
. That place was a den of pure wretchedness. How does the old song go?
Oh, right.
Take the money and run.
I take the money (there is quite a lot of it, actually) and run right to
Le Maurice
, the little boutique hotel on the Rue de Rivoli I’ve always begged my mom to let us stay in when we visit Paris. My mom always says that Le Maurice is not for little girls and their mothers. It’s for
lovers
. Which is what brings me here tonight, on Christmas Eve.
A few well-distributed fifty-euro bills gets me immediate entrance into Le Maurice’s luxurious spa, even though the receptionist tells me they’ve been booked for months. Stripped naked on the waxing table, Clotilde, my expert aesthetician, peels and plucks until my whole body is silky smooth. When she is done, I head for the steam room, then the exfoliation treatment room. By the time I’m back in the junior suite on the top floor that I’ve paid for in cash, my skin is as rosy and soft as the silk duvet on top of the four-poster king size bed.
Just as the in-room nail technician, Patrice, gets to work on my pedicure, George responds to the text I sent earlier.
Would love to stop by
, it reads.
There’s something I really want to tell you.
I can’t help but wiggle my toes excitedly, even though it messes up the nail polish and Patrice has to start over, wasting valuable primping time. Tonight is going to be
perfect
. I hoot with laughter, recalling all that George and I have been through since we got to Paris in September. I can’t believe it’s been over two months since we first kissed at Sara-Louise’s party.
Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs. I frown at the hazy memory of screaming down at him from PJ’s balcony and comfort myself by thinking of the look of total pleasure George gave me when I slipped into his sleeping bag in Lyon.
Patrice lets in the room service guys, who set up a bottle of Dom Pérignon, two crystal champagne flutes, and a big bowl of juicy red strawberries. My own hands are too fragile from my fresh manicure to tip them, so Patrice dispenses some cash from my camel tote for them, and ducks out of the suite.
This morning I wrote my cousin Emily and proudly filled her in on my progress. I never thought I’d be able to report that I’d so completely moved on from Jeremy, but in fact, it’s true. Old heartbreaks don’t even register when I consider my future with George. Who cares if my mom never sees it for her own eyes? Who cares if the first couple months of our romance have been shrouded in secret? That’s the kind of guy George is—surprisingly shy when it comes to love.
He won’t be shy when he sees me tonight, though
, I giggle to myself as I step into the La Perla set I swiped from PJ’s host mom’s closet. The creamy silk chemise just skims over my backside, barely hinting at the thin matching underwear. In front, the neckline dips low to set off my cleavage. I could dance at the sight of myself.
Just a few minutes later, a light knock at the door announces his arrival, and suddenly I feel like an actor on opening night. I know all my lines but still don’t know how I’ll be received. With a deep breath, I slowly and discreetly open the door.
“Oh, Alex,” George says, his face breaking into an appreciative smile. “You shouldn’t have.”
“No?” I say coyly. “Should I put on a robe then?” I stay put, knowing full well that is the last thing he wants.
“Is this all for me?” George asks, taking in the champagne, the strawberries, the candles I had Patrice light while my nails dried.
I push him gently toward the bed. “Yup,” I tell him. “And this time, there’s no chance of us getting interrupted.”
He kisses my chest first, his lips soft against my skin. Pulling the strap of my negligee off my shoulder, he moves his mouth up and down my arm and over my neck and the top of my back. He moans softly as he pulls down the other strap, my boobs falling out of the chemise and into his mouth.
I can’t help it—I want him so badly I could almost weep. As he takes off his shirt, then his chinos, I’m overcome with how intense everything is with George tonight. He’s gorgeous, of course, and I’ve always been crazy about him. But there’s something more tonight, something I’ve never felt before. I feel vulnerable and bold at the same time, simultaneously scared and confident. Every time he touches me, my desire for him heightens. Soon I’m fully naked, totally exposed on the bed next to him in his plaid boxers. I can see how much he wants me, and I know he knows how much I want him back.