That’s when I see the rack next to her. There are a number of garment bags hanging from it. There are also shoeboxes at the bottom.
“What is that?” I say, pointing to it, just to transcend the apparent language barrier.
“Ce?” She says, looking at it. “Oh, ce’ st—”
“Wait, do you speak English?” I interrupt.
“Anglaise?” She repeats, eyes wide as though I’ve just asked her who won the 1951 World Series.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, sighing.
I immediately perk back up as the same fear hits me that I felt back at the Papillon when someone knocked on my door. Just because the room is far more upscale doesn’t mean that danger doesn’t lurk everywhere…including from Magnus Reinhardt himself.
“One moment. Sorry,” I say with an apologetic wince just before closing the door in her face. I quietly lock it before racing over to the phone.
I press a button for the front desk, and no sooner has my finger left the button before it’s answered. It takes me a split second to place the voice: Neville, my handy concierge.
“Bonjour, Madame Alexander, how can I be of service?”
“I called the front desk,” I say, brow wrinkled in confusion.
“I see, was there a particular matter to which I could attend, or would you prefer to be transferred directly to the front desk?”
I pause before answering. “Do you answer the phone no matter who I call?”
“As a personal concierge, I’m here to attend to every need of guests in La Grande Suite. I can usually streamline any issue that—”
“There’s a woman at my door.”
“Ah, yes, I see you’ve met Lisette, your personal maid.”
“I don’t need a personal maid.”
“A personal maid is standard in Le—”
“She doesn’t speak English.”
“Oh dear,” he says, doing a very good job at sounding apologetic. “I see, well, we can certainly have her replaced for your convenience.”
Good grief, I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge.
“No, I don’t need a maid, period,” I try to clarify.
“I see…” he begins. “Well, then we can have her simply drop off the dress selection and—”
“Why do I have a dress selection?” I ask, suddenly remembering this other issue. “Or is that included in Le Grande Suite as well?” I ask in a sarcastic tone.
He utters an indulgent chuckle before answering. “They are courtesy of—”
“Magnus Reinhardt,” I finish with resignation. “Is there a way to get a message to him?”
There’s a brief pause before he answers. “Oui, Madame.”
“Please kindly tell him that I do know how to dress myself. I’m not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I’ll see him at eight.”
“I see,” he says in such a way that I feel a “but” coming on.
“What is it?”
“I would just like to point out that there is a rather strict dress code for this particular hotel restaurant.”
“How strict could it be?” I ask.
“Perhaps the selection of dresses he has sent might give you an idea,” he offers, sounding slightly proud of himself at the idea.
“Yes, of course.” The sarcasm is back. “You’ve been very helpful, Neville.”
“Merci, Madame Alexander. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Not at all,” I say, then hang up.
I turn to stare at the door, before deciding I should at least let the poor girl bring in the dresses before dismissing her.
She perks up when I open it again, swinging it wide to accommodate the rack.
“Please,” I say, waving an arm in to indicate she can enter.
“Oui, Madame,” she says, sounding suspiciously relieved.
I watch her roll the rack in, counting about ten dresses total, all hidden inside white garment bags.
“Bien,” Lisette says, before unzipping the first. “Alors—”
“No, no, no,” I say, holding up a hand that should be a universal enough signal to her. “I’m fine doing it myself.”
She stares at me, not comprehending. She says something to me in French that has enough intonation for me to realize it’s a question.
“I,” I say, pointing to myself. “Can do this,” I continue, waving a hand at the row of garment bags, then bring the hand back to me, “myself.”
She just gives me a wide eye-stare as though she doesn’t understand.
Good grief, what sort of psychological warfare is Magnus playing with this?
I reach for my purse and pull out a twenty euro bill, then think better of it and make it a fifty. Money, the real universal language.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her with one hand as I use the other to place on her back, guiding her out of the room.
“Merci, madame,” She says eagerly. When she sees where I’m directing her, she begins to protest again. “Mais—”
“Thank you, Lisette. I’ll be fine from here,” I say, leading her out and closing the door once again.
With that out of the way, I turn to stare at the rack of dresses. A part of me knows I should ignore them, pretend they aren’t here. Another part of me is curious. After all, Neville did mention something about a dress code.
I walk over to the first bag and unzip it, surprised to find myself holding my breath.
Then I gasp.
Chapter Eleven Sloane
No doubt, Magnus noticed my YSL bag this morning since it’s the same label attached to the first dress on the rack.
While I give myself permission to splurge on handbags and the occasional pair of shoes—the excuse being that I can repeatedly use both on a continuous basis without raising eyebrows—I have a firm limit when it comes to clothing.
I make decent bank at Douglas & Foster, but certainly not enough to blithely buy a dress that costs at least twice as much as my purse only to wear it once in a blue moon.
Magnus likes color, that much is evident by his choices. His very nice, very expensive choices. Gucci. Dior. Armani…
I’m not sure whether to be insulted or pleased. Does the man think that I can’t dress myself? That I can’t afford it? Or maybe his power-tripping is just this extreme.
Either way, I’m no one’s
