Three and a Half Weeks (17 page)

“I suppose I can do that. I’m meeting my agent now and then I have no other business in New York. If I could get a flight out tonight, I might be able to pull it off.”

“Ah, so good to hear. I’ll phone Gerard and let him know.”

“Sure. I’ll call the airport as soon as I get back to my hotel.”

“Just to be on the safe side, Ella, I’ll call and buy the tickets for you now… in case the flight gets booked before you get the chance. I’ll call you back or text you with the details.”

“That sounds fine. I’ll speak to you later, Lucien.”

Well. I suppose I’m going to Venice for the first time in my life. If only Ian could accompany me, it would be grand. Not only will going to such a romantic city alone be a bit pathetic but then I’ll also have to deal with Ian’s inevitable wrath. I glance at my watch: he’s still in the air so I can’t call him. I’ll text him after my meeting.

“Ella! It’s so good to see you. Come, let’s have lunch. My treat.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

“It’s the least I can do considering how much money you’ve made me,” she says with a chuckle. “How about a glass of wine and a Caesar salad?”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

Mo takes me to a small café that boasts of selling only fresh food, locally grown. I observe her as she places her order. I’ve never met her in person before today, handling all our business by fax and phone. The woman is a powerhouse but, physically, she’s tiny. She has dark red hair, big eyes, and a penchant for highly tailored suits, I see. She’s wearing very high heels but I suppose that’s because she’s so petite. Though small in stature, she has a booming voice and a huge personality, as well. I like Mo a lot, I decide all over again.

“Ella, I heard from the film production company last Friday. They’re starting to cast, you know. Beth Furman, the assistant CD, asked me if you would want any weigh-in on the leads since it’s not explicitly stated in your contract—but they don’t want to get your nose out of joint, apparently. I suppose they’re hoping for a sequel,” she snorts.

“I wondered about that. I don’t know anything about casting or film production, in general, but I’d like to get a final approval on their choices, as well as possibly offer them my idea of the characters’ physicality.”

“You describe them in the book,” she points out, breaking a bread stick in half. “That’s what they’re using as a jumping off point. Trust me,” she says, waving the bread stick at me, “they do not want to piss off your legion of fans. The fans are the ones who will pony up the dollars to see this movie; they want them to be pleased as punch with the actors cast in the roles. I think it’s a good idea to give them your take but not to hold their feet to the fire. How does that sound?”

“Fine, Mo.” I tilt my head in consternation. “Do I look like the type to hold anyone’s feet to the fire?”

“No, Ella, you certainly don’t. You also don’t look like the type to write a naughty book so appearances apparently can be deceiving.”

I have to laugh. If she only knew… or does she know? The thought makes my face grow hot. Shit, I’ll bet she knows; Mo looks awfully crafty, I suddenly think, eyeing her suspiciously now.

“How long are you in the city?” She interrupts my miniature panic attack.

“I’m leaving for Venice tonight, hopefully.” I look at my watch. “I need to hurry.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business. I’m working on a documentary and I just found out the woman I need to tape an interview with is not going to be coming to New York after all. She’s in Venice right now.”

“Oh? What’s the documentary about?”

“It’s about the women—wives and mistresses—of three famous 20
th
-century painters. The one I’m meeting is the niece… or is it daughter? I think daughter… of one of Picasso’s mistresses.”

“Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re working with Lucien Phillips?”

“Yes, I am. Do you know him?”

“Not that well—although I’d like to,” she laughs. “I met him at a gallery opening a couple of weeks ago. Talk about eye candy, my God. I see good things in store for you, my girl.”

I blush again. “I doubt my boyfriend would like that very much. He wanted me to turn down the job.”

“I can’t say I blame him. Lucien is hot.”

“So is Ian… my boyfriend.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky girl. That’s nice for you. Tell me about Ian.”

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly but inside I’m thrilled beyond belief that I get to call Ian mine.
Mine!
I still can’t believe it. “He’s a businessman in Portland. Wealthy, gorgeous, you know, run of the mill.”

“Let me see: wealthy, gorgeous, Portland, Ian. Okay, you’re not going to tell me he’s Ian Blackmon, are you?”

Again, she stupefies me. “How can you possibly know Ian? You live in New York and he’s a businessman from Portland.”

“He used to spend a lot of time in New York City. A lot.” She laughs so loudly that she startles me. “As for how I know him? That, my dear, is something I think I’m going to keep to myself. Suffice it to say, your Ian had sown a reputation among the ladies. But I’m sure that’s all in the past now that he’s met you.” She winks.

“It had better be,” I say, but I can feel my heart sag inside my chest. I hope Ian isn’t planning on bringing me more heartbreak because I’m just not up for it these days.

After saying goodbye to Mo, I go back downtown to my hotel. As soon as I get there, I check the tickets that Lucien purchased for me, and then text Ian to let him know what’s going on. Texting is much better than phoning him since I won’t have to hear the displeasure in his voice if he gets pissed off about it. I snort. Not
if
but
when
. Exactly fifty-six seconds elapse between the time I hit
send
and the time Aretha starts wailing for respect on my cell pone. Oh, shit.

He is furious. He knew that son of a bitch Phillips was an operator: he could tell he was up to no good right from the start. If there was anything Ian knew, it was human nature. He had the bruises to show for it. Ella picks up the call on the third ring.

“Hey, Ian. How was your flight?”

“Venice, Ella?” He yells so loudly the cab driver jumps in his seat. He makes a gargantuan effort to rein in his anger.

“Phillips told you the woman would be in New York and now he has you traipsing to Italy? What kind of bullshit is he up to? I don’t like it, Ella. You hardly know the man.”

Her loud sigh comes clearly through the phone line. “Ian, please tell me how you really feel—don’t tiptoe around the issue.”

Ignoring her attempt at humor, he continues as if she hasn’t spoken. “Ella, my instincts tell me this guy is up to no good. Tell him you cannot accommodate his request and come home directly. Now.”

“What? No! Ian, you cannot order me around. I’m going to Venice to conduct the interview and then I’ll fly directly to Portland. I just might make it in time to go to Tokyo with you.”

“Are you traveling there by yourself?”

“No. Gerard—the cameraman—is coming with me.”

“Another man you don’t know. You’re basing all of this trust on the word of a single friend with whom you had, at best, a superficial acquaintance. Answer me one question: are you being sensible in your hellbent determination for this job? Tell me, Ella.”

“I don’t have time to argue about it, Ian. I’ll text you when I get there since it will be the middle of the night in Portland.”

“Fine.” He disconnects, not even saying goodbye. Right now, it’s the smart thing to do. Glancing at his watch, he sees it’s too late to go to the office so he decides to head straight home to get some paperwork done there. His housekeeper should have been in this morning, cleaning, organizing, and stocking the refrigerator so he didn’t need to go out again. He leans back into the seat to try to center himself, wishing like hell that Ella was with him now. What would it take to get her to open her eyes about men? She was so naive it bordered on gross stupidity, for God’s sake. She’s a beautiful young woman—she’s going to be prey for every piece of shit lowlife horny bastard out there. She has to accept reality.

Twenty minutes later, the cab pulls in front of his houseboat. He unclips a fifty-dollar bill and hands it to the driver. “Keep the change. Thanks.” The driver hops out of the car to carry his bag to the front of the entrance. Ian nods his thanks.

As soon as he opens the door, he sees her. Can this day get any fucking worse? How the hell did she get into his house? The first thought that crosses his mind is to wonder if the woman is dangerously unstable. If so, he must proceed carefully.

“Hello, Ian. Long time no see.”

Treating her like a wild animal, unpredictable in her behavior—in her case, crazy rather than feral—he slowly puts down his bag, careful not to make any sudden moves lest he provoke an attack. He nods to acknowledge her without saying a word.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He stands in the hall, still about twenty feet from where she’s sitting. “Alexis, what are you doing in my house?”

“I came to see you, of course. You’ve been avoiding me, Ian, and that’s just not nice.”

“I’m not avoiding you, Alexis. It’s just that you and I have no relationship. You’ve been calling me and I’m not returning the calls because we have nothing to talk about. Do you understand?”

She stands up to move closer to him. “Now, that’s just not fair. We’re friends, aren’t we? I like you, Ian.”

“And you show it by breaking into my house? You do realize that in addition to being insane, it’s also against the law. Correct?”

She takes a moment to admire her lacquered fingernails. “Oh, pish posh, mere technicalities. What’re a few laws between friends? I tried calling you… numerous times, but you never called me back. What else could I do?” She pouts exaggeratedly, her full lips coated in scarlet lipstick.

“How did you get in?”

Shrugging her reply, she flips her long dark hair back behind her shoulders. “I just told the housekeeper I was your sister. She’s new, isn’t she?”

“What do you want, Alexis?”

She glides over to him: she’s wearing a very short black dress with white polka dots and very high black heels… and not much else. He could see her breasts about to spill out of the low-cut
décolleté
, “I want
you
of course. What do you think?”

“Alexis, first of all, I’m not interested in you in that way. Second, I happen to be involved with someone right now. And third, I make it a habit never to date women who break into my home.”

She’s now inches away from him. “I think you are interested in me, Ian, but for some reason you’re resisting.

“Okay, look: I’m tired, hungry, in need of a shower, and have an almost insurmountable pile of work to do. Please leave now or I’ll be forced to call the police.”

“Where’s all your usual security, Ian?”

“Right now, they’re on their way,” he bluffs. “They’re coming from my office building where I was supposed to go. Instead I came directly home from the airport. Please leave before they get here and are forced to physically remove you from the premises.”

Putting her arms on his, she leans into him, pressing her body against him. “Okay, I’m going… for now… but only because I have an engagement. I don’t expect to be ignored.” She leans in to kiss him but he rears his head back and away. She smiles and then releases him.

Without another word, she walks over to grab her purse off the sofa and, slightly unsteady on her heels, walks toward the door, “And by the way, Ian, I really don’t care if you’re involved with anyone or not. I’ve decided that you and I belong together. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“No, Alexis, you will not. Please don’t force me to take legal action against you. Go away and stay away.”

“You’re not being very nice to me. But I’ll forgive you your bad mood this time.” She blows him a kiss on her way out the door.

Sighing, Ian finally exhales, realizing that Jared was right about the houseboat being impossible to secure. He might just have to pull the glass house off the market and move back in there… as long as crazy Alexis is running around. He especially doesn’t want her to get near Ella.

Ella.

He can’t even think about her right now; he’s still too upset. Frustrated beyond belief that he couldn’t just up and fly to Venice, he has to sit here in Portland knowing she’s in that romantic city, possibly with Lucien Phillips. He can only hope that she gets back in time to accompany him to Japan. He checks his phone and sees she called earlier. He’d decided to let her stew for a while since he is so angry, it will do neither of them any good to speak. Let’s see what the silent treatment will net him—it’s better than yelling.

He quickly scans the room, ensuring that everything is in place. What the hell was she doing here? Did Carrie, his new housekeeper, actually let her in without checking with him first? He tended to doubt it. He also doubted that Alexis broke in only to say hello to him—there must have been something she was after. But what?

I meet up with Gerard when I get to JFK Airport. I wanted to get a flight out of Newark, which would have been much faster but Lucien booked one out of JFK. It took me over an hour to get here from midtown so Gerard beats me there.

He seems like a nice guy—jovial, at least. He’s stocky, about 5’9” and has merry eyes. Dirty blond hair sticks up in short spikes from his big head—everything about him is big, now that I think about it: big jaw, big body, big teeth, big laugh. I like him immediately.

Our flight actually takes off on time, is peacefully uneventful, and we arrive at Marco Polo Airport within minutes of our ETA.

“Ella, have you heard from Ms. St. Sauveur yet?” Gerard asks me in the taxi to our hotel.

“Yes, we’re meeting her later this evening for dinner at her hotel—eight o’clock. That gives us time to check in to our hotel and have a long nap.”

“I need to pick up some things so after we get settled, I’ll head out. I guess you don’t really need me at the dinner meeting, unless we’re taping tonight. Are we?”

“I’m not sure what Ms. St. Sauveur’s schedule is like so I figured we should be prepared for anything… so, yes, you should come to dinner. If she says we can tape in the morning or later, then you’re free to leave. Does that sound acceptable?”

“Yes, Ella, perfectly.”

The hotel Lucien selected is a small European-style affair, luxurious by most standards. The lobby has creamy marble floors and dark wood wainscoting on the walls. The upper part of the walls is painted a creamy beige tone to coordinate with the floor but it’s done in Venetian plaster so it has depth and character. Everything looks brand new—the hotel must have been recently renovated. All the rooms have private baths and are tastefully furnished. Gerard and I part company as soon as we get our room cards, agreeing to meet at 7:15 in the hotel lobby. As soon as I close the door to my room, I plop down my bag and then drop into bed, exhausted. I don’t look at my text messages for I don’t want Ian to upset me. I also shut off the ringer on my phone. I’ll deal with him later when I’m feeling stronger.

We’re to meet Maya St. Sauveur at a rooftop restaurant at a nearby hotel. Gerard and I arrive for our eight o’clock meeting at 7:45 and cannot be seated until the entire party arrives so we stand awkwardly just outside the entrance, near the elevator bank. At exactly eight on the nose, the stainless steel doors slide open and out strides an elegant woman. I know instantly that it’s her.

“Ms. St. Sauveur?”

“Yes. Ella Strong?”

I nod. “And this is Gerard Brolin, our cameraman. Gerard accompanied me in case you’re interested in taping tonight. Can you give me an idea as to your preference?”

“Oh, no, dear. Not tonight. I just thought we’d meet and have dinner. I rather hoped we could do the interview in the late morning tomorrow.”

Her accent is interesting: perfect Queen’s English with some French thrown in as well. “Actually tomorrow morning will be perfect. Gerard?” I look at him. “You’re free to head out to your own pursuits, then.”

“Very good.” He extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. St. Sauveur. I look forward to seeing you again in the morning.”

She nods her regal head, perched on a very long neck. “Thank you. Till tomorrow then.”

A maître
d’ comes to seat us a moment later and greets Maya like an old friend, so of course we get an excellent table by a window with a magnificent view of the city and Grand Canal. Venice is romantic and I wish Ian were here with me to enjoy it. With that thought I shake my head: I’m getting too attached to him way too soon. I have to stop it. Plus, right now he’d be lousy company since he’s fit to be tied.

“I told Lucien Phillips that I’d be done with my engagements by late next week and that I could meet with him in Paris. Apparently that wasn’t good enough for him?”

Maya St. Sauveur is not the type of woman to cross. She is nearly six feet tall, thin but not painfully so, and has such an erect carriage that she must have been a dancer at one time. She wears her light brown hair in a loose chignon and is dressed all in black, slacks, sweater, and flat loafers—elegant but formidable. I’d much rather be her friend than foe.

“I do apologize if this taping is inconvenient for you, Ms. St. Sauveur. Am I pronouncing your name correctly?”

“Yes, your pronunciation is fine. And no, it’s not inconvenient, per se. It’s just that that man irritates me. I’m doing him a favor, not the reverse, and yet he’s quite demanding nonetheless.” She assesses me slowly before continuing and I feel myself wilt beneath her sharp gaze. “Be careful with Phillips, Ms. Strong. He wants what he wants when he wants it. He’ll run ramshod all over you.”

“Are we talking about the same man? Lucien has been unfailingly polite in my dealings with him thus far.”

“Oh, really? Perhaps it’s just me he annoys with his impatience and exactitude. I am not a woman with whom to trifle, and Monsieur Phillips doesn’t appear to comprehend this factoid.”

I begin to get a slightly uneasy feeling about Lucien: first, Ian, now Maya. I dismissed Ian’s instincts as jealousy automatically because he seems to overreact to any men having any dealing with me. Maya, however, does not seem the type to rush to judgment so I put more stock in her opinion—which is weird because I don’t know her at all. My instincts tell me Lucien is a nice guy—and I like him just fine, so far. I hope my instincts prevail.

Dinner is excellent and I end up having an interesting chat with Maya—as she instructed me to call her. She’s had a fascinating multicultural life and she could be the subject of a film herself. We decide to meet in her suite at eleven the next morning and I walk back to my own hotel two hours later, enjoying the stroll in such a beautiful city. Along the way, I pass a bent old woman, dressed all in black, feeding a group of stray dogs. There are six or seven skinny mongrel waifs and they’re surrounding her as she hands out food. I can’t help but smile because the scene seems
straight out of a Fellini film, many of which I watched in my undergrad cinema class.

The c
anal waters are shimmering with reflected lights and I watch as the
vaporetto
slides into a dock to unload its passengers. Tomorrow I’ll go to the Bridge of Sighs and Piazza San Marco to feed pigeons. I’m actually thrilled to be here in Venice.

It’s almost eleven when I get to my room—that means three in the afternoon in Portland. Time to call Ian. I muster the courage to look at my messages: none. Uh-oh. I call voice mail: there’s one from my mother and another from Lucien, asking me to call him to give him an update.

None from the man in Portland. A cold, slithery worm of anxiety works its way up my spine. What’s going on with him?

Lucien gets a quick text message to let him know that Gerard and I have arrived and that we’re meeting with Maya in the morning at her hotel. I grab a bottle of Drambuie from the minibar to fortify myself for my call to Ian. By the time I reach the bottom, I feel warm and courageous. I punch in his number on the speed dial.

The call goes to voicemail.

I start to feel ill: he hasn’t called nor left any message and now he’s not taking my calls. What exactly is he trying to tell me? My first instinct is to cry—I don’t know why but I feel as if I should, as if I’ve lost him before I ever really had him. Did I do wrong? Wasn’t he being unreasonable? This job does mean something to me, after all. Shouldn’t he support me in my career ambitions? I would certainly do the same for him.

But maybe I pushed him too far too soon. Though it seems incredulous for a man of Ian’s looks and stature in society, he is incredibly jealous, possessive, insecure… and crazy. I need to take all of that into account when making decisions. And Lucien has been imposing on me all at once, I suppose, if I try to see it from Ian’s perspective. My head starts to hurt from all this thinking I’m doing.

It occurs to me that I’m truly exhausted and that I should go to sleep. I’ll feel better in the morning. After washing up and brushing my teeth, I hit the double bed with the fluffy feather top and I’m out as soon as I close my eyes.

Waking up early, I go for a jog in one of the most glorious cities in the world, and pick up a huge latte on my way back to the hotel. By 10:30, I’m showered, dressed, and have my script for the interview ready and in hand. Still not a peep from Ian. I shrug off my worries to focus on the job at hand. If I’m lucky, tomorrow I’ll be back in Portland and I’ll deal with the fallout then, whatever it is. For now, I’ll do my job and enjoy Venice.

Just as I’m setting up for the shoot, Gerard walks in and he’s accompanied by… Lucien? My face must register the shock I’m feeling because both men smile.

He’s even more gorgeous than I remember. His black cashmere vee-neck sweater clings tightly to his chest and shows off his superior physique. He looks taller today though he’s wearing loafers. I can’t seem to keep my eyes off him, while at the same time, my heart’s gone into overdrive at the fact that he’s here.

“Ella, I know it must be a surprise to see me today. Allow me to explain,” Lucien says smoothly, as he walks over to me and greets me with a kiss on both cheeks. “I was meeting with an attorney over a contract dispute and my appointment was for tomorrow afternoon, which is why I couldn’t make it to Venice on time to meet with Maya. However, last night as I was having dinner in a bistro on the left bank, the attorney in question came into the same restaurant and we were able to amicably settle the matter like gentlemen over
appertifs
.” He smiles. “By the time our discussion was concluded, you were already in the air. I decided to come here so we could do the interview together.”

“Oh. Well, that works out nicely, then,” I say, darting my eyes to Maya who is wearing a self-satisfied smile. I feel the flush come over my face as I consider her warning in light of this new development.

Maya is calm and collected as Lucien and I sit opposite her to ask the questions. Our voices will be edited out so it will seem like a seamless conversation. Lucien is friendly and charming with Maya but she holds her reserve with him: it’s obvious she doesn’t like him and I’m not entirely sure why. His insistence on the interview being done quickly seems like a minor thing to hold a grudge over. I can’t help wondering if these two were romantically involved at some point.

Three hours later, we’re wrapping up and Gerard is packing up all the gear. Maya goes into the bedroom of her suite to make calls, saying her goodbyes before she does. She tells me to look her up the next time I’m in New York.

“Ella, may I take you to lunch?” Lucien asks, as we’re about to leave.

“Sure. That would be nice.” I check my phone: no calls, no messages, my heart sinks. “Let’s go.”

“I know of a great little
trattoria
not far from here. They have the best
cioppino
I’ve ever tasted. Are you game?”

Having no idea what
cioppino
is, I am nonetheless on board. I give a little shrug and smile. “I’m game. Lead the way.”

Once we’re seated, Lucien takes some papers out of his messenger bag. “Ella, these are for you: you’ll find more information on the people we need to interview and the research required. Also, this is the credit card I obtained for you; please charge all business expenses to this account, and here’s a check for cab fare and tips. I didn’t want you to wait until we ironed out the compensation details. I very much appreciate how flexible and accommodating you’ve been.”

“Not at all, though in retrospect, I didn’t need to come at all since you were able to make it.”

“No, I think it’s a good thing that we got to work together on this one. Now you’ll feel more confident for your next interview. Can you tell me what your schedule is for the next two weeks or so?”

The waiter interrupts then to take our order. In what seems like perfect Italian to my untrained ears, Lucien orders our lunch—the
cioppino
—and a bottle of wine, winking at me when the waiter says something in response. Since I don’t speak or understand Italian, I have no idea what the waiter said. Lucien later told me he commended his choice of wine but I’m not sure I believe him.

“So,” I pick up the thread of our conversation, “the next two weeks? Tomorrow I’m going back to Portland and I believe I’m going to Tokyo with Ian on Saturday. I don’t think we’ll be there for more than a few days, however. When I get back to Portland, I’ll get started on the research.” I pause. “Actually, I’ll get started as soon as I return tomorrow.”

Nodding, Lucien says. “Why are you going to Tokyo? Is it just for pleasure?”

“Ian’s going for business and wants me to come to take some time to sightsee.”

“Ah. Are you two serious?”

I play dumb because I don’t really want to discuss it with him. “Serious?”

“I mean in terms of commitment. I assume you are romantically linked with Mr. Blackmon?”

I can’t help it; I blush. I barely know the man and he’s asking personal questions. Why does he care?”

“Uh, yes. I suppose you can call it a committed relationship,” I reply, thinking in my head that often I think Ian should be committed—to an institution—so, yes.

He smiles. “He’s a lucky guy. Is he comfortable about our working closely together?”

“He’s fine.” I change the subject. “So, are you going back to Paris now?”