Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
‘Will Rhett be close by?’ I ask, placing my clutch on my chair, not yet ready to sit.
‘Rhett’s working this evening.’ I guess my face must reflect my surprise as he adds, ‘He once told me he would rather take a vow of silence than sit through one of these things.’
‘He couldn’t keep his mouth shut if you wired his jaw.’ But I know what he means. ‘I think the least I’m going to need is a drink to get through this myself.’ I glance behind me, hoping for a passing waiter. As I glance back, Remy is doctoring the place settings. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You need a drink to get through this, which we’ll take care of very soon, and I need you near me,’ he says, placing my name card next to his. ‘There. Let’s go and find the champagne and make some ridiculous bids on some useless items.’
I don’t know about useless but there are some pretty swanky things on offer in the silent auction part of the evening. Around the periphery of the room, stations have been set up with items to bid on. Rather than a traditional auction model of public bids and a banging gavel, this is much more sedate and civilised. Remy and I are given numbers to use, rather than our names, and we wander from station to station, examining the lots and placing anonymous bids.
A spa day here at the hotel.
A hot air balloon ride.
A cooking class with a Michelin starred chef.
A tasting session with a leading sommelier.
A piece of art from a Paris gallery that’s a little depressing.
A golf lesson with a PGA star
Electric items: iPads, laptops, new phones, and other tablets and gadgets.
Jewellery.
A day for twelve on a superyacht.
Sailing lessons.
Tickets to an upcoming opera.
Plus, an afternoon appointment with Glenna Goodman, that seems to be causing a bit of a stir. The list goes on and on and on.
‘What about the necklace,’ Remy suggests, pointing to a diamond pendant in a glass case with its own security guard.
‘No thanks. I’m thinking more about the cooking class.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Not for me. For you. That way you can dazzle me with more than just a cheese sandwich.’
‘A Croque Monsieur is a French classic. Besides, my cooking skills are not how I aim to dazzle you.’
We wander a little more, placing a bet here and there. I have no expectation of winning anything tonight, considering the net worth of the room’s inhabitants. Eventually, we wander back to our table, and as the evening begins, there is one chair unfilled.
Amélie’s.
Dinner is served, candelabra’s burn, crystal gleams and china chinks. And of course, champagne bubbles and flows. The conversation is mostly in French, though the man to my left, an elderly industrialist I’m told, involves me in conversation lots. Ben sits at the far side of the table, remote but friendly, I suppose. I guess I should be pleased he hasn’t tried to cultivate a friendship between us, given what happened in Wolf Tower that day.
Remy introduces me as his girlfriend throughout the evening, translating for me where he can in French, Monegasque, and Italian. The show-off. And even more surprisingly, his mother makes a point of apologising for the misunderstanding with the table placements. Albeit in a cool way.
All in all, I’m having a good night, especially as Amélie’s chair remains unfilled.
‘It must cost a fortune to run an event like this,’ I muse as my glass is filled with once again. The remains of our sumptuous dinner have been cleared and people have begun to drift away to speak with other friends or join in the casino games being run in adjoining rooms.
‘Yes, it’s very expensive, as I understand it. It’s largely my mother’s concern.’
‘What does it cost to get a seat at one of these tables?’
‘Four thousand euros,’ Remy answers without missing a beat.
‘What?’ I almost choke on my bubbles. ‘Wow. Why don’t people just donate to the foundation—cut out the middleman?’
‘Then they don’t get to be seen doing good, decked out in their finery and quaffing champagne.’
‘Rich people are weird.’
‘Does that include me?’ he asks, full of good humour.
‘No, honey.’ I press my lips to his cheeks. ‘You’re so rich you passed by weird a long while ago. You get to be classified as eccentric.’
‘Lucky me.’ After another halting conversation with the little old man industrialist, I turn to Remy’s voice once again. ‘Do you dance?’
‘What, you mean like that?’ I tip my glass in the direction of the couples waltzing very properly around the room, the orchestra now playing The Second Waltz, if I’m not mistaken.
‘There will be other dances later in the night, if you’d like. Though I’d hoped we’d be home by that point.’
‘Doing the no-pants dance?’ He shakes his head indulgently as I add, ‘I can dance, and I can dance.’ My words are heavy with a comic kind of meaning. ‘One I learned in a class. The other . . .’