Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel (18 page)

I felt a pit of shame in my stomach for how I had judged him. I had made assumptions about how easy his life and circumstances were. I assumed his success was solely due to luck without ever considering his character or work ethic might have something to do with it. Heath wasn't Kenneth, or the other guys before him. He never had a fair trial, I just collected evidence to suit my hypothesis.

After some comfortable silence I quietly spoke. "Heath, while I may not have been a fan of your tactics, thank you for having my back with Mark."

There was no response. I looked over to find Heath asleep, a look of calm on his beautiful face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The jet lag wiped me out. I didn't hear Heath preparing to leave and only stirred when I felt him brush his fingers against my cheek and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.

When I finally woke up I found a note on top of the book he was looking through last night.

Sadie,

I'll be gone until about 8pm. You know that I've been to Paris quite a bit throughout my career, so I thought I would plan a special day for you with my insider connections. My cell phone is on the entry table, number of the shoot director is under Evelyn in case of emergency. I set the alarm on my phone so you had time to get ready. Don't curse me if it wakes you up unexpectedly.

My driver will be waiting outside for you at 10am and he's all yours until 7pm.

Here's your itinerary:

- Have a croissant. You MUST. You are in Paris!

- The driver will first take you to Colette. I know you love fashion. I have a friend there who is expecting you. Her number is in my phone under Celeste, just in case. (I hope you don't mind, I know how you feel about people.)-Joking! Something tells me I will feel a sudden twinge of mystery pain today at work when you read that line.

- Then you'll go to a spa. Not just any spa. Trust me, your mind will be blown. Celeste will fill you in.

- I suggest that after the spa, you check out the outdoor market nearby. I know you will love it. The driver or Celeste can direct you.

Save the Eiffel Tower for me.

Your Rotten Scoundrel (I think that's the one thing you haven't called me yet. So take that!),

Heathy

His sign-off made laugh to myself. He was right, and I was a little envious I hadn't thought of that one yet and he HATED when I called him Heathy. I was completely blown away by Heath's attention to detail. I was so used to cooking for him and helping him with his plans, that I never expected that he would be the one to map out such a thoughtful and personalized day for me. Just as I put the note down, the alarm on both his phone and the clock went off and I almost fell out of the bed. In true Heath style, he picked the most obnoxious alarms and put them on full volume. I tried my best to send him those telepathic pain signals he mentioned in the note.

Anticipating the need for comfort, I wore a flowing white maxi dress, belted at the waist with a thin red belt and a comfortable pair of flat sandals. I loosely braided my hair and selected an orchid from the vase on my nightstand, pinning it above my ear. I arrived in the lobby at 9:30am, with just enough time to grab a croissant at a cafe just down the street. When I returned to the hotel, there was a black Mercedes at the curb. A young man dressed in all black except for a white shirt addressed me.

"Mademoiselle Sadie Lee?" He had the most adorable French accent.

"Oui," I said, feeling like a massive dork.

"My name is George. Monsieur Heath has told me all the plans of your day. Allow me to take you to Colette."

Colette, was a...
department store
? I wasn't quite sure what to call it, it had a much hipper feel than a Bergdoff's or even a Barney's. In fact, from the exterior, it looked like a large art gallery. George opened the door for me and a slim blonde in a boat neck cream summer sweater, a leather mid-thigh length skirt, and a pair of black and cream flat oxfords smiled across the room at me. Her look was punctuated with a bright coral pouch and matching necklace. She epitomized the effortless style one thinks of when they think of Paris.

"Sadie?" she asked. I've got to admit, my name is pretty fucking adorable in a French accent.

"Yes. Celeste?"

"Yes!" she said, embracing me with a light kiss on each cheek. "You must be very special. Heath wanted me to take good care of you."

"Oh, well thank you so much for doing this." I blinked, and laughed. "What exactly are we doing?"

She laughed too, tossing her barely shoulder-length pin-straight blond hair over her shoulder. "That's right, it's a surprise! I am a stylist here. We met a few years ago when I was just an assistant, but I have since worked up to head stylist. We often work together when Heath comes to Paris. Usually when he does Vogue shoots, but sometimes others too." I couldn't help but wonder if she was a friend like Illy or a friend like Mindy. She was definitely cute, and I wasn't sure if Heath would think about how pairing me up with a former fuck buddy might make me feel. "This is my specialty, so he wanted me to dress you up! He says you love clothes, no?"

"I do!" But ever in a million years did I ever imagine getting a trip with a personal shopper who has dressed people for the likes of Vogue.

"Okay, let's go cherie. You will be fun to dress up. You have a beautiful color and hair."

"Thank you," I said bashfully.

Celeste made a beeline to a fashionably dressed man and they kissed and chatted in French as if she was filling him in on some quick details. She turned back to me, "I know the staff here very well as I bring clients here. They are going to set us up with a dressing room. Heath said to get whatever you want. He will pay. I will handle all the details."

"Wow," I said, glancing over at a pair of shoes which I mentally converted to six-hundred US dollars.

She asked about my style and what I like, but I told her to dress me however she wanted as long as it was something I could wear with Heath tomorrow while we enjoyed Paris together. After all, what's the point of a stylist if you are going to tell her how to dress you?

We walked swiftly through the store, stopping at rack after rack for Celeste to snap up one item after another, pressing each against me and muttering to herself before deciding to keep or return to the rack. Then we made our way to a dressing room, where I relived the shopping scene from Pretty Woman that I had watched hundreds of times as a kid. Heath had said I could get anything, but I didn't want to take advantage of his generosity. I could have walked off with most of the store. But I insisted that we select one outfit, which here was still enough to pay my rent for two or three months in Brooklyn. Celeste tried playfully to convince me otherwise, telling me Heath insisted, but eventually she conceded. We settled on a chic shift dress that flattered my collarbones (
"très érotique,"
Celeste murmured approvingly), the softest and richest leather ballet flats, a deceptively simple purse in oxblood-colored python (sooo sorry, snake!), and (of course) an enormous printed silk scarf that Celeste tossed elegantly over my shoulders, knotting it firmly in that way that French women seem to be born knowing how to do. I felt like I was straight out of a French street-fashion spread in a fashion magazine.

"Before we finish, you cannot visit Paris without getting some perfume!" Her tone was mischievous. "This is more for him than it is for you," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, if you say it like that..."

Celeste led me to the perfume counter. She chatted with the young lady who selected three bottles from a virtual laboratory on the shelves behind her. We dabbed all three on my arm, using coffee beans to neutralize the scent in between attempts. They were all lovely, but it was the
Délire de Roses that blended perfectly with my chemistry, and had just the right notes of roses and fruit. The fact that the 1.7 ounce bottle cost well over $300 made me hesitate and ask the shop girl to put the bottles back but Celeste jokingly wrestled the bottle out of my hand and told the girl to ring it up immediately.

"Next we will go to the Hammam. Have you been to one?"

"No idea what that is."

"It is a Turkish bathhouse next to the most beautiful mosque. It is nice to be with a friend because there are some customs you might not know. I hope you are not shy because almost everyone is topless. There are only women however."

I thought back on the note:
Not just any spa. Trust me, your mind will be blown.
Now I imagined a much more mischievous tone in his voice.

The mosque appeared like a Moroccan oasis on a Paris street. Entering the women-only bathhouse, we were required to strip down to underwear at the very least, but when my new French friend, Celeste (as well as nearly everyone else) whipped off her top, I thought:
What the heck, I am in fucking Paris. Time to let the boobies fly in honor of Heath.

The interior of the building was exquisitely decorated with jewel-like tiles and meticulously detailed wall paintings in rich, deep hues. Sweeping arches flanked by plastered columns and indoor fountains exuded an exotic, timeless luxury. The royal colors that enveloped us had all the vividness of a van Gogh or Matisse painting. It felt like I had visited two countries in one day, instantly transported from Paris to Morocco.

This was not the Western spa of my previous (admittedly limited) experience. No, not even close: There is no such thing as privacy; naked bodies were everywhere. The gommage ladies (I'll get to that in a bit) actually get angry if you do things out of order--no gentle redirection, and certainly no New Age sayings or glasses of cucumber water! I was relieved and happy to have Celeste around to help me, despite accusations of misanthropy from Heath.

First Celeste and I had a quick shower and then a sauna with a special
savon noir
rubbed on our skin. This gave us some time to chat.

"So, are you close with Heath?" I asked her.

"We don't see each other often, but I consider him like a brother," she said. "He is a funny person, Heath. Makes me laugh." I didn't get the vibe they had anything other than a platonic friendship, but I never knew with Heath.

"Yes, yes he is," I said, tongue-in-cheek. "He can be very silly." I playfully rolled my eyes.

"I knew him when he was a new model, and I was new too as a stylist. He became on demand very fast. Very popular. I used to work for a boss who was very rude. In the high-fashion world it happens very much when you are an assistant, but Heath was always very nice. Once my boss screamed at me in front of everyone and Heath spoke to him, then he came to me alone and told me that it would not happen again." A pattern was beginning to emerge, Heath may be a lot of things, but he didn't like men who bullied women.
Swoon.

After the sauna, we threw buckets of water on each other to clean off the
savon
. Then we hit the shower and then we did the GOMMAGE of HORRORS.

Now maybe I am a huge American pussy. Well, now I know I am. Because I couldn't decide if this was a spa or some sort of Turkish torture chamber. While other women waited and watched, I lay naked on a table while a much older woman rubbed me down with a glove that I can only assume was made of the stuff used to sand concrete floors. I had to bite the inside of my lip to stifle screams of terror, but by the end I was as pink as a newborn piglet. I am sure I left the gommage with at least one less layer of skin than I came in with. Like I said, maybe I am just made of marshmallows. It is entirely possible. After the gommage, there was another shower and a honeymoon period where another no-nonsense woman massaged me with argan and eucalyptus oils, which seemed to make all the epidermal trauma more than worth it. After all the brutality, I was as smooth as the day I was born.

Celeste and I sipped some peppermint tea at the Hammam before getting dressed. She walked me out into the Parisian afternoon to the final leg of my day out in Paris: a street market on the Rue Mouffetard. This part of the journey was for me to go on my own as Celeste had to meet a girlfriend. We hugged, I thanked her for her hospitality, and we parted ways.

This was exactly the quaint, charming outdoor market one imagines when fantasizing about Paris. The narrow cobblestone street was lined with stalls offering brightly colored fresh fruits and vegetables, which spilled over from their crates begging to be plucked from a crowd of their peers. Small bakeries, cafes, and specialty food shops were tucked underneath antique block-lettered signs and awnings. All the tempting sights and sounds were on full display, each stand or shop vying for your attention.

I was starving, so I popped into Au P'tit Grec for the most delectable crepe with a touch of Nutella (I feared I wouldn't fit into my dress tomorrow with all the baked goods I had been eating, but not enough to stop). Feeling reenergized, I decided that for dinner I would put together a spread of fresh fruit, cheese and bread. I spotted the reddest most plump cherries I had seen in a long time and scooped a heap into a bag. I hand-picked tiny green plums, fragrant apricots, and grapes of several different colors. Fussing over fruit like this reminded me of my grandmother, who almost always got her fruit from the small Korean and Chinese fruit stands in New York. She always insisted they were a better deal and far better quality than the supermarket. She would have loved to shop this market with me. I ducked into a small and deliciously stinky cheese shop, and I did my best to ask about their offerings, using broken French as they patiently assisted me by conversing very slowly in French or translating to English when it was clear that I was completely lost. Apparently just saying the word "fromage" over and over again in shop with 300 varieties of cheeses only gets you so far. A wine boutique was conveniently next door, and all I had to do was show the proprietor the food I had purchased for him to select what he assured me was exactly the right bottle of champagne. Finally, I stopped at a bakery for a baguette, feeling like a very French cliché with it tucked under my arm as I went to look for the car. During my time at the market, I snapped a few photos using Heath's phone and sent them to my phone so that they would be waiting for me upon my return to the states. I looked forward to sharing them with my grandmother during my next visit with her.

George drove me back to the room in time to freshen up and prepare a little balcony picnic before Heath's arrival. I was just starting to cut up the fruit when Heath entered the suite.