“They are . . . how you say, little pirates. They put their hands all over the car and Mr. Berteuil doesn’t like it.”
Handprints? “Tant pis,” Victory said. If Pierre Berteuil didn’t like her helping out a little girl, that was too bad. He didn’t own her, and just because he was rich didn’t mean he should always get his own way, she thought wryly, remembering that those were nearly the same words she’d used two weeks ago, when she had broken up with Lyne Bennett. Oh, Lyne, she thought, with a shrug of her shoulders. She looked out the window again, frowning. He wasn’t so bad . . .
And for a moment, she suddenly wished he were there, with her. Going to her big party. It would have been nice.
Now where were those thoughts coming from? she wondered, rearranging the contents of her bag. She’d barely even thought about Lyne for the past two weeks. The minute she’d broken up with him, he had disappeared from her consciousness, which had to be a sign that she had done the right thing. Still, why did that always happen to her with men? When she first met a man and started seeing him, she was always wildly interested at the beginning, thinking that finally, she might have met the right guy—and then she began to get bored. Was she the only woman who eventually found men and relationships a bit dull? Or was it simply that, when it came to relationships, she was more like a prototypical male than a female? She nibbled her fingernail in consternation. The truth was that lately she’d begun to find it all a bit . . . disturbing.
But who would ever have imagined that Lyne Bennett would end up becoming clingy? He was one of the most successful men on the planet, but in the end, she’d found herself wondering why he couldn’t just be more like Nico or Wendy, who were also incredibly successful, but knew how to let other people be, and do their work. Ever since she’d fled Lyne’s house in the Bahamas for that meeting in Paris, Lyne had been all over her, calling constantly and making unexpected appearances at her showroom, where he would sit in her office, reading newspapers and doing business on his cell phone.
“Lyne,” she’d finally had to say, on the third occasion in which he had decided to pop by—at four in the afternoon. “Don’t you have places to go? People to see? Don’t you have anything to do?”
“I’m doing it, babe,” he said, holding up his BlackBerry. “Mobile office, remember? Mod-tech. No one’s chained to a desk anymore.”
“Modern technology is not what it’s cracked up to be,” Victory said, giving him a look that indicated that she wished he were at his desk.
“Oh, hello, Lyne,” her assistant Clare said casually, coming into her office.
“Hey, kiddo,” Lyne said. “How are things working out with that new guy?”
This was very strange. “Do you and Lyne spend a lot of time talking?” she asked Clare, later.
“He’s chatty.” Clare shrugged. “He calls sometimes for you and when you’re not here . . .”
“He calls himself?”
“Sure. Why not?” Clare asked. “He’s kind of nice. Or at least it seems like he’s trying to be nice.”
“ ‘Nice’ is not a word I’d use to describe Lyne Bennett,” Victory said.
“Well, he’s fun. You have to admit that. He is pretty funny. And it seems like he’s crazy about you. He’s always watching you, and when you’re not here, he constantly asks how you’re doing.”
Weird. Very weird, Victory thought.
And then there was the incident with the hip-hop artist, Venetia, who was starring in one of his cosmetics campaigns. Lyne, Venetia, and her entourage of four showed up unannounced at Victory’s showroom one afternoon. Normally, she wouldn’t have minded, keeping an open door policy in which it was tacitly understood that clients and friends could drop in unexpectedly. Under regular circumstances, she would have been happy to show Venetia the collection herself, and to have lent her whatever she wanted. But that afternoon she had Muffie Williams from B et C in her office, an almost unheard-of occurrence, and they were in an intense discussion about the upcoming spring line. She couldn’t ask Muffie to stand aside for a celebrity, a point of honor that Lyne didn’t seem to understand. “Show Venetia that green dress, babe,” Lyne insisted. “You know, the one that I like . . .”
Muffie stared at Lyne as if he had just run over her cat, and when Lyne didn’t get the message, she stood up and began briskly gathering up her things. “We’ll do this another day, dear,” she said to Victory.
“Muffie, I’m sorry,” Victory said helplessly. She glared at Lyne.
“What?” he asked. “What’d I do wrong? Am I not supposed to like the dress?”
“How could you do that?” Victory asked him later. They were in the backseat of his SUV, dressed in black tie, heading to a charity benefit at the Metropolitan Museum. “I was in a meeting with Muffie Williams, who just happens to be one of the most important women in fashion . . .”
“Hey, I was only trying to help. I’d thought you’d like dressing Venetia. She’s everywhere. She might wear one of your dresses to the Grammys . . .”
“Oh Lyne,” she sighed with frustration. “It isn’t that. It’s just that you don’t seem to respect what I do.”
“Not respect it?” he asked. “I love what you do, babe. You’re the best . . .”
“What if I just showed up at your office??
? she said. She looked out the window and glared. “I’m sorry, Lyne, but you’re banned from the showroom from now on.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said. “This is about the money, isn’t it?”
“Money?”
“Yeah. Now that you’re going to make twenty-five million dollars, you think you don’t need me anymore.”