ChapterEight
Technically, it was a criminal offense.
At least, that’s what Alana’s lawyer told her regarding the recent “incident” at Et, Tu? gallery in the third arrondissement in Paris.
“You destroyed property that was worth upward of two million dollars,” Bobby Filet, her lawyer, explained over the phone as Alana slid her suitcase over the counter at Charles de Gaulle Airport. “The fact that he has no plans to sue you is, frankly, miraculous.”
Alana chortled into the receiver with the same mania she’d felt since she’d thrown her glass of wine across the iconic painting. “We’re getting divorced, Bobby. Maybe that’s enough legal BS to put us both through for the foreseeable future. Asher’s a jerk, but he’s a self-serving jerk. He wouldn’t do that.”
Bobby made a noise in his throat like he only half-believed her. Alana watched as her suitcase made its way down the conveyor belt and disappeared beneath the scanners. One of the TSA workers gestured for her to put her phone in a big plastic bin.
“I have to go, Bobby. I’ll call you from the States.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just try not to destroy any more million-dollar art while you’re in the sky.”
“I’ll do my best.”
On the other side of security, Alana sat on a plastic chair with her legs stretched over her suitcase and a big glass of wine on the table in front of her. After years of luxury flying, there was a freedom in the bad wine that tasted like it had been made at a gas station winery. There was even a freedom in dragging her own suitcase across the airport, eyeing the other poor souls who’d never known the glory of first-class.
That freedom was her freedom from her role as “Asher Tarkin’s wife.”
She would return to the Copperfield name.
She would return to herself, whoever that was.
Around Alana, families and couples spoke French with endless musicality. Alana had struggled through three years of courses just to be half-fluent. Now, although she understood everything the people around her said, she felt no real connection to their words, as though for as long as she’d been in Paris, she’d felt like a stranger.
Had Greta and Bernard felt like that during their time in Paris? It had been a long time since Alana had considered her parents in Paris, the city where they’d met and fallen in love. It felt ironic that Paris was the city of her love’s downfall. (Or was that city technically Beijing or Los Angeles or New York or one of the many other cities where Asher had fallen “in and out of love”?) It didn’t matter.
Julia called a half-hour before boarding.
“Hi, Cherie.” Alana said it in singsong.
“Oh, hi! You’re at the airport?”
“Yes indeed. I’m seated where everyone else is, waiting just like everyone else,” Alana chimed in.
“You sound pretty pleased.”
“I am,” Alana replied, draping her head back. “The fact that I might never have to see Asher’s face again thrills me.”
“Never again, darling!” Julia cried.
Alana shivered with laughter. “What’s the tabloid situation like over there?”
Julia held the silence for a moment. Across the airport, a toddler teetered around in front of his mother, giggling madly as he picked up speed.
“Your, um, photographed in a number of magazines if that’s what you’re asking,” Julia answered.
“Just like the old days,” Alana teased.
“Alana!” Julia sounded aghast. “Do you promise me you’re okay?”
“I’m better than okay, sis.” Alana sipped her wine. “We’ll talk about everything when I land, all right? Are you still good to pick me up?”
“I’ll be there with arms wide open ten hours from now.”
“Ten hours it is.”