The statement stabs me in the chest. I’ve never been bothered about someone else’s opinion, especially not an opinion of me, but this floors me. I don’t like it.
“I haven’t lied,” I say.
“Trust takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight.”
Fine. I’ve got time. I have a lifetime of it. I just have to be patient, like with sniffing out Leclerc, but for some reason I want to fix this now.
“Zoe, please.” I take a step toward her. “Give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “You took too much from me. There have been too many betrayals. The lie about hurting Damian, the design school, Sylvie, and Izabella—”
I hold up a hand. “I know what I did.”
“Then you must understand how I feel.”
The surprising thing is that for once I do. For once in my emotionless life, I get why my actions hurt her. I don’t like it, but I can’t take it back. For once, I can’t have it my way. I don’t have a choice but to wait, hoping in time she’ll give me the trust I once took for granted and want back at all costs.
“Fine,” I say, the word weighing heavily on me. “I can wait.”
She crosses the floor and stops short of me. “Don’t hold your breath.” Squeezing past me, she mumbles, “I’m certainly not.”
Fuck me. That hurts, not that I don’t deserve it. I’ve long since made peace with the fear, but the hurt is new, and it’s a shock as much as torture. My shrink said I could have a rewarding relationship if I could see matters from my partner’s perspective and build trust.
If this is anything to go by, it looks as if we’re on our way to a rewarding relationship.
Chapter 33
Zoe
The Cannes festival brings in a lot of publicity, not only for me, but also for Damian’s diamonds. Since Maxime is the supplier for Europe, he profits from the advertising too.
Within a week, I have five orders for custom-designed gowns. I ask for deposits and use the money to fit out the boutique and hire a seamstress. Maxime’s gift to me is a signboard with my logo that goes above the door. He moves my sewing machine, boxes of fabric, and other equipment from the apartment to the new premises.
With the big job of organizing photo shoots, having a glossy jewelry brochure designed, translating it into various European languages, overseeing the printing, and having the website updated, Maxime has his hands as full as I do with the opening the boutique. We’re too exhausted for more than a celebration at home in the Jacuzzi with a good bottle of wine.
The weather has turned, and the days are getting warmer, making it possible for us to grill meat on the barbecue outside, which Maxime does more frequently since I work longer hours and arrive home later than him. The business is grueling. My seamstress is good at her job, but she needs a strong hand. If I don’t double-check her work, she’ll let an uneven hem or a sloppily sewed button go through. Quality is important. It’s not in my nature, but I have to be strict.
I call Vera Day to thank her for the publicity, and she places another order. Before I know it, I’m in over my head and need more staff. While Maxime’s business is still battling because of the pressure Alexis puts on the buyers, mine is thriving. When the workspace becomes too cramped, I expand to a workshop in the industrial area and transform the upstairs floor of the boutique into a lounge and fitting room for clients who wander in from the street.
An article appears in Le Figaro. The journalist has tracked down Madame Page who takes credit for her influence in my designs. The journalist quotes her saying, “My school delivers the best of the best.” When asked about my failure at the fashion show, Madame Page says I was under a lot of stress and my vision clouded, but that she’s glad I followed her advice and didn’t throw in the towel.
Overnight, I become the success story born from failure, every other potential failure’s hope. The media makes me out to be some kind of Cinderella, and I’m lucky to be their new favorite pet. Of course it’s nothing other than selling newspapers through sensationalism. Who doesn’t like a rags-to-riches story? I tell the truth in an interview, that I simply had a lucky break with Ms. Vera Day, giving credit where it’s due. The reporter twists it in such a way that the article makes me appear humble, which adds to my public image of the poor girl gone rich and famous.
There’s speculation about my husband, but I try to keep Maxime out of the media frenzy as much as I can. Of course everyone knows about his involvement and break from the mafia. The stories romanticize our marriage. On paper, it’s a love story like no other. Maxime becomes the sex idol of many a young, naïve girl, and I turn into the breadwinner as his business continues its downward spiral. The fact that I’m solely responsible for covering our bills and the investments in both of our businesses makes me work extra hard. Despite the taxing hours, I’m enjoying the challenge. It’s the purpose and passion I need in my life to make up for what I don’t have—the love story the media so ironically idolizes. The harder I work, the less time I have for whatifs. For where I find myself in life, it’s much safer like this.
On a hot Friday in summer, my cellphone lights up on my desk. One glance at the number, and I shove all the papers aside.
“Damian?” I say even before I have the phone pressed against my ear.
He sounds tired. “It’s a beautiful girl, Zee.”
“Oh, my God.” I jump up. “How’s Lina? How’s the baby?”
“Everything went fine. It was
