“Not you?”
“I’m too old for him, and I’m due back in Milan without a free hour before I go. It’s a feather in your cap, Emma.” As long as I didn’t become a feather in his. “I’ll have Dustin set up a dinner.”
“A personal call from you is in order here. It’s July; everyone’s on vacation but our newcomer Pierre. He has time on his hands, at least before Bastille Day, the fourteenth. Your personal touch and attention could make all the difference.” Her smile was not altogether reassuring.
From my earliest fragrance related gigs I’d fended off drunk and sober passes, flirtatious to seriously suggestive. For the unknown Pierre Meysselle, I wanted familiar surroundings. Dustin found me staring at my desk phone. I described my assignment and he handed me the receiver. “Get on it, Boss.” I handed it right back. “I swear I’ll call. Give me some privacy.” It took another twenty-four hours, but M. Meysselle accepted my invitation for Wednesday the twelfth in English laced with zee accent française.
Dustin booked a room for me at the St. Regis, a six-minute walk around the corner and just south of Galeries Lafayette and dinner at the Plaza’s Oak Room. I knew it well by then, just a few blocks north and around the corner.
Even in July a little black dress served the purpose with my Gucci jacket in case the air conditioning was cranked up. As I had anticipated, Pierre, probably ten years my senior, arrived impeccably dressed with a practiced je ne sais quoi that drew glances as we were seated.
“A pleasure,” he murmured, shaking my right hand a tad too long, despite my wedding band on my left. He glanced from me to the curtained windows facing Central Park. “No view, tonight. From my suite I see the lake and all the splendour.”
“Ah, you’re living here at the Plaza. Excellent choice.”
“Mais oui, j’accord. I think so, yes. And you?”
“No. We’re in the suburbs.” Our waiter appeared and I left it at that.
Dinner was an amiable, delicious three courses with excellent wines. We relaxed into pleasant chat, from Steffi Graff’s win at the French Open, to his vinyl record collection.
“I have a bit of everything. Maria Callas, Madama Butterfly, to Michael Jackson, Thriller.”
“Thriller. My sister and I played that LP till I was surprised there were any grooves left.”
“And you collect?”
“Hardly. During our moves my mother threw out all my albums and CDs.”
“Quel dommage.”
I regretted my comment, had no clue what his reply meant, and moved on to the business at hand. I dropped scuttlebutt on The Trump Organization’s lease agreement and by the time we finished the main course, he realised I knew Galeries Lafayette’s international reputation, thought it worthy of our products, and considered it in an excellent Manhattan location. “Mais oui. Excellent landlord. I have been his guest at Mar-a-Lago.” Pierre feigned intrigue. “Le Donald made sure I knew Mademoiselle Presley et Monsieur Jackson chose it for their honeymoon.” We’d finished dessert and the last of the Merlot.
“Quite the marriage,” I motioned for the check.
Pierre leaned in. “Emma, may I suggest some brandy or espresso upstairs? The night is early. Perhaps I play for you some Michael Jackson…”
My smile was genuine. “I appreciate your offer. Forgive the cliché, but mixing business with pleasure is never a good idea.”
“But here we sit doing that very thing, n’est-ce pas?”
I signed off on the tab comfortable—or buzzed—enough to admit we were. On the ride up in the elevator, just to prove I could be a sophisticate, I added that rather than Thriller, I’d prefer to hear a bit of Madama Butterfly.
His Plaza suite was impeccable, if impersonal. I put my jacket and purse on a club chair and glanced at a grouping of photos on the mantel. Maria Callas broke into Un Bel Di Vedremo as he approached from behind and turned me around. Heart breaking music; heart thumping kissing in an embrace so tight it left nothing to his imagination or mine. I pulled away and pressed two fingers against his lips. Melodrama at its best.
“I think you call this French kissing, oui?” he murmured in the vicinity of my collarbone.
“Yes, we do.”
European superiority oozed as he explained how an affair naturally enhanced business relations. Was I not a savvy New Yorker? Was I not a modern woman who understood these things, even if I had not admitted it at dinner?
“Pierre, you are a very persuasive man.”
“Emma?”
“Which is why I’ll say goodnight.” I offered my hand, determined not to sour the mood. “Indeed, I have business to accomplish and a goal to achieve. It may require more than a dinner, but I’m not offering myself as dessert.” I kissed him again, mouth closed this time. “You have been a perfect gentleman. I should not have encouraged you. I’m to blame.”
“There is no blame. Emma…”
“I’ll see myself out. Stay here, I insist. The concierge will call my car. Thank you for this lovely evening.”
“The pleasure remains mine. Now that you see how the French culture works, perhaps I can make you a Francophile.”
“I’m not going to have an affair with you.”
“All women say that.” He opened the door. “At first.”
I smiled my most endearing smile. “You’re temptation itself, Pierre, but we’ve begun a business relationship I very much intend to maintain. And, I have a marriage to consider.”
He took my hand again. “Ah, imbécile!“ I yanked it away.
“No, no, I am the fool. Une promenade dans le parc—I should have suggested only a walk in the park. I have wasted the pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company. We should be under the glow of a full moon ce soir. Peut-être over my holiday weekend, together in the Hamptons, as well. Jour de Bastille.”
“You, Pierre Meysselle, are the French-est Francophile in Manhattan.” I started down the hall only to have him catch up, Thriller album-in-hand. “To replace the one you loved.”
“Pierre—”
“I leave for my holiday tomorrow evening. If you do not intend to join me and combine business with pleasure, be at my office before noon. We shall see about a substantial order.”
