Faking It (10 page)

“Why, is Colin Farrell waiting to give me a Ben-Gay back rub?”

Fanny laughs. “No, but I bet if you asked the Concierge to arrange it he would. This place is amazing.”

“Did my luggage come yet?”

“
Non
, but Chantal left a message with the front desk. Your suitcase is on its way. It will be waiting at our next hotel.”

“Thank God for small miracles.”

Fanny stops before a set of doors, sticks a key into the lock, and turns it. The doors swing open to reveal a stylish modern suite decorated in cool shades of silver and cream. If I weren’t so exhausted, I would squeal over the stocked bar and Juliet balcony. Instead, all I can do is stumble to the bed and fall face first on the silk encased mattress.

“You aren’t going to sleep?”

I crack open an eye and look at my perky best friend. It hurts just to look at her.

“Seriously, Vivian? You’re not really going to sleep, are you?”

“I just want to take a hot bath, put my sweatpants on, and go to sleep.”

“Jean-Luc said we have dinner reservations. We are going to celebrate our first successful ride.”

Fanny slaps my bum and I wince at the pain that shoots down my backside.

“Get up, girl. You’ll feel better after you have a glass of wine and a good meal. I promise.”

My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Two
pains au chocolat
and a thick-as-pudding mug of hot chocolate have been my only fuel. A juicy steak and a heaping plate of
pomme frites
sound so good, but going out would mean losing my opportunity to check my phone for messages. It would also mean using multiple muscles.

“I think I’ll just stay here and order room service.”

Fanny fixes her determined I-won’t-take-
non
look on her face. I change my angle of attack, aiming for her weakness for fashion.

“Besides, I don’t have anything to wear to a nice restaurant. I can’t wear this skort and stinky tee.”

Fanny’s expression softens. Score! Direct hit!

“Fine, Vivian. Just promise me you will take a walk or call the spa for a massage? Don’t just go to sleep or your muscles will lock up, and you’ll be in agony.”

“Too late. I’m already in agony.”

When Fanny leaves, I peel off my cycling clothes, plunge them into a sink full of hot water, and grab one of the elegantly packaged bottles of body wash lined up on the vanity. I pour the contents into the water. Perfume scented bubbles fill the sink.

I step into the shower and turn the water to scalding. I scrub myself clean and liberally slather perfume-scented lotion on my skin.
Merci beaucoup, La Bastide de Gordes!

I want to flop onto the bed naked, but I remember Fanny’s dire warning about locked muscles, so I grab Nathan’s Harvard sweats from my carry-on and a clingy pink Victoria’s Secret T from Fanny’s bag.

I head to the front desk, mentally calculating the money left in my back account. Maybe I could afford a massage. Surely one tiny indulgence won’t break me?

“
Excusez-moi
.” I square my shoulders and raise my chin. I might be dressed like a bag woman, but maybe I can dazzle the front desk clerk with my elegant posture and impressive French. “
Je voudrais la massage. Combien…”

The clerk winces as if my butchering of his beautiful language has caused him physical pain.

“I speak English, Madame.”

His English is flawless.

“Oh good.” My shoulders sag a bit. “Do you have a brochure for the spa?”

“Yes, of course.”

I take the glossy brochure and look at the list of services. I squint to make out the tiny numbers beside the words
Le Massage Phyto Aromatique Relaxant
. I think I can actually hear my bank account crying in horrific outrage. A sixty minute massage costs 205 Euros, about 280 American dollars.

“Would Madame like me to book a service for her?”

“Um, I’ve changed my mind.” I hand him back the brochure with all of the dignity I can muster. “I think I will just have dinner. Can I have it served on the terrace by the pool?”

“Yes, of course.”

I give him my order, tug my sweats up, and head for the terrace. Once I situate myself comfortably on a lounge chair, I power on my iPhone for my pathetic e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter check. Yes, pathetic. I know I should probably let go, let my dreams of being Mrs. Nathaniel Edwards III float away like a balloon on a breeze, but I’m just not ready yet. It’s like having a bubble of hope in a sea of doubt.

I quickly thumb through my apps, and the bubble of hope bursts. Nathan hasn’t tried to contact me via e-mail or social media. I have ceased to exist for him.

The weight of my heavy engagement ring reminds me that I do, indeed, still exist.

I scan my texts. One odd inexplicable text from my mum catches my eye. This one’s super kook, even for her.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia, this is your mum. Do you think the Chinese are grinding up the bones of their dead to make dinner dishes? My good China is turning yellow. What other explanation could there be? You should do an article on it when you get back. When will you be back?

My Facebook friends continue to support me in my grief with private messages of condolence and pithy reposts/cartoons about breakups.

Alexis’s post on my Facebook wall makes me smile though.

Vivia, the next time you suggest a hilarious read with “Big Ass” in the title, remind me to write down the entire title. Merely typing “big ass” into the Amazon search engine yields an impressive, but utterly horrifying array of Big Ass products. I had to wade through a lot of big asses before arriving at Bright Lights, Big Ass by Jen Lancaster…a far cry from Big Wet Brazilian Asses!

A waiter arrives bearing a silver tray laden with domed dishes. Thankfully, Nathan paid for the all-inclusive honeymoon package, which means meals are covered with gratuities billed directly to his Black Card. I take the bill from the waiter, scribble my signature, and add a
very
generous tip. I feel a tiny twinge of guilt when I imagine Nathan getting the bill. Tiny. Fleeting. Twinge of guilt.

Rejection has amped my appetite. I tear into the steak like Fred Flintstone eating a brontosaurus burger. The meat melts in my mouth and the double fried
pomme frites
are crazy good, salty, and crispy. Only the bowl of mushrooms swimming in thick brown sauce has me crinkling my nose. I hate mushrooms. Their spongy texture and pungent aroma literally make me wretch. Fanny warned me that
champignons
are considered a national treasure in France. Éclairs, croissants, baguettes. These culinary delights, I get. A dirty toadstool?

I scarf my meal, forgoing the fungus. Feeling gloriously gluttonous, I toss my napkin on the tray, lean back on my lounger, cross my legs at the ankles, and gaze up at the starry Provence sky. My mind drifts. What if a star is created each time a woman is dumped by the man she loves? What if each one symbolizes an engagement ring never worn?

I am in that netherworld between awake and asleep when I hear a semi-familiar voice. It’s faint, as if the speaker is far away.

The warmth of someone’s hand on my arm tells me it’s not a dream. It’s Jean-Luc. Shitballs! My mouth is open and I think there is drool on my chin.
Sweet Jesus! Please tell me I wasn’t snoring. Please.

“Vivia, you need to wake up,” he says, shaking me gently.

I close my mouth and open my eyes. Jean-Luc is sitting on the lounger next to me. He’s wearing swim trunks and no shirt. Beads of sweat are glistening on his muscular chest.

“What? Me?” Sitting up, I casually wipe my chin. Thank Jesus! No drool. “I am totally awake. I was just looking at the stars. They’re amazing. We don’t get to see stars that often in San Francisco. Too much fog. Too many lights. Not here though.”

Shut up, Vivia! Shut up!

What the hell? Why am I blathering on about freaking fog and lights? I am still staring at Jean-Luc’s chest, the way the beads of water break and then slide down, down, over his ribs and…

Oh my God! I am blathering because I am attracted to Jean-Luc.

“No!”

I look from Jean-Luc’s chest to his eyes—his smoldering brown eyes fringed with thick, long lashes…

“No?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Sorry.”

Do something, Vivia. Anything!

I pretend to tidy up my dinner tray, putting the domes over the few remaining scraps of food.

“Was it a good meal?”

“Delicious.”

“You didn’t want to go to dinner with the others?”

“No. What about you? Why aren’t you at the restaurant?”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Glimmers of gold circle his irises.

“I don’t like…” His brow knits together. “What is the American slang for a place that is pretentious?”

“Frou frou?”

He dips his chin, looks through his lashes, and my heart flips.

“
Oui!
I do not like the
frou frou
food.”

“Really? I thought you Frenchmen were weaned on
foie gras
and
coq au vin
.”

Jean-Luc looks up at the sky. Deep, warm laughter pours from him. “You have been woefully misinformed, my American friend.”

“Really?

“Really.”

“Okay, so what kind of food do you like?”

Jean-Luc grins, and the dimples in his cheeks deepen. He looks at me through his lashes.

“The Burger King.”

“No way.”

“
Oui
. Way.”

“Okay, so you like fast food burgers. I’ll concede, it’s a bit surprising, but it hardly qualifies you as a true junk food junkie. What else ya got?”

“Taco Bell.”

“Taco Bell? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I am serious. I went to one in Costa Rica when I was there to compete in a biking event. It was”—he closes his eyes and licks his lips—“
incroyable!
”

“Incredible? Taco Bell?”

Jean-Luc nods, still grinning.

“You eat greasy tacos from a fast food chain? How is that even genetically possible? I am surprised you haven’t been deported.”

He laughs again. My heart flips again.

“I love the greasy food. Meat, potatoes, fried. No poached frogs legs or duck’s liver for me.” He lifts the dome on my plate. “What about you, Miss America? What do you eat? Don’t tell me you are one of those foreigners obsessed with haute cuisine?”

“No way.”

Jean-Luc looks at the small piece of steak and the single leftover fry and whistles. “Steak and
frites
?”

“
Oui.
”

“Bravo. I am impressed. I’ve never understood skinny women who starve themselves, eating only grape leaves or kale.”

“Kale? God no…unless it’s diced fine and baked into six-cheese lasagna.”

Hold up! Did Jean-Luc just compliment or insult me? Is he saying I am a gluttonous pig or a skinny girl with a large appetite?

Whatever. It’s just nice to be real with a man. No false pretensions, no maneuvering for the best angle of romantic attack.

The waiter who brought my dinner reappears.

“If Mademoiselle is finished,” he says, reaching for my tray, “I will remove the dishes.”

Luc averts his gaze. The waiter’s intrusion shattered the intimacy of the moment.

Jean-Luc grabs a black T-shirt from his chair and pulls it over his head. It’s a tight V-neck that conforms to every single one of his muscular ripples.

“Come on.” He holds out his hand. “I will walk you back to your room. We have an early start tomorrow.”

We walk across the terrace and into the cool, dim lobby. When we come to the corridor leading to my room, Jean-Luc briefly rests his hand on the small of my back, leading me. It’s so sophisticated and sexy. We stop outside my door.

“Thank you for walking me back to my room.”

“
Bonne nuit
, Vivia.”

“
Bonne nuit
, Jean-Luc.”

I watch him stride away before reaching into my bra to retrieve my room key. Then I remember I’m wearing Nathan’s baggy sweats and Fanny’s too tight T-shirt. I’m not wearing even a smudge of Dior lip gloss and my damp hair hangs in soft waves about my shoulders. I can’t believe I sat beneath a starry Provençal sky with a sexy Frenchman and didn’t once think about my appearance, other than the great drool fear. Maybe the deep lacerating wounds Nathan inflicted upon my heart have taught me a necessary lesson about being authentic.

My Resolution: from this point forward, I, Vivia Perpetua Grant, will be my authentic self. I will not pretend to be more, or less, of who I really am just to impress a man. I am keeping it real.

Faking It

The opening riff of one of my favorite Falling in Reverse songs blasts from my iPhone, waking me from a dreamless slumber. I tap the snooze button on my alarm, and Ronnie Radke stops singing “Fashionably Late.” I chose that ringtone as my alarm because I thought hearing Ronnie’s voice first thing in the morning seemed like a fab way to start the day and because it’s the least offensive of the band’s lyrics. Once I caught Nathan standing at the bathroom mirror, shaving his face, and humming “Fashionably Late.” That’s kind of saying something because Nathan is über-prudish about nasty songs and hates metalcore.

I raise my hand and stare at my engagement ring sparkling in the early morning light. How could I love a man as uptight as Nathan Edwards and still have a raging crush on someone as wicked as Ronnie Radke? Maybe I am an undiagnosed schizophrenic. That’s what happened to Jamie Foxx’s character in
The Soloist
. One day, he’s a gifted musical student at Julliard, and the next day he’s toting his cello through the streets of Los Angeles, disoriented and muttering to himself.

“What are you thinking, Vivian?”

I drop my hand and look at my best friend. “Nothing.”

“Vivian?”

I grimace. “Do you think I have schizophrenia?”

Fanny tosses her pillow at me. “Shut up!”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course not,” she chuckles. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just”—I hug the pillow to me and try to stop my voice from breaking—“my life seems riddled with contradictions. I wear conservative clothes but listen to raunchy metal music. I take Zumba classes until I drop and then eat a stuffed crust pizza. What’s wrong with me? Do you think I have a mental illness or some serious personality disorder?”