Ethan’s coaching and scouting kept him hopeful but his 1998 season was over. There would be no October/November fall ball. Ciao!Beauty was a regular attendee at the TFWA, the October Tax Free World Association luxury trade show in Cannes, France. Ciao!Beauty reserved a ballroom to showcase its brands. Appointments were set by mid-September. “Make this your plan for October, Emma. Like Seattle, we will be a team. We climb up this time. We leave the ‘dump and pump,’ the crappy brands, behind. I’m thinking it’s imperative we expose quality, all that’s new to the world.” He stretched out his arms. “So this year we meet with new distributors. We get our brands to retailers and editors at the top of the ladder rungs. Nos meilleurs produits! Ç’est si bon.”
“My Greek boss is now all things French,” I told Neil as I updated him on the Cannes trade show, the dates, and Ethan’s declining career.
“Emma! Not only have Dale and I rented a place in Monaco for our October shopping, we’ve chartered a boat for a small party in Cannes the day you’re due back in New York. Stay on a bit. Fly Ethan over and we’ll treat you to some fun.”
An extra week meant more networking. Mr Christopoulos was all for it. Despite diplomacy, “Stay as long as you like with Neil. You know I hate to travel,” was all I got from Ethan.
“For once you have the time. Don’t turn down a week together in romantic France. Our American Express Card’s in the dressing room safe. You know the combination.”
Mr Christopoulos and I flew Business Class to Cannes. He told stories of his poor Athenian childhood, the Italian and German occupations during World War Two and how small reachable goals got him to Italy once he started his business. His Milan years exposed him to the driving force of French style, appreciation for the Parisians, ‘and this playground of theirs.’ We arrived and he gestured at the roof of our Cannes Carlton Intercontinental. “What other hotel can boast of exterior domes based on the breasts of the French Riviera’s most famous World War One courtesan? Or your Grace Kelly’s fateful photo shoot while filming.” Et voila, she meets her prince.
The magnificent hotel hummed with deal makers, icons of international finance, fashion, and business, plus examples of superb plastic surgery. I felt as though I were back on an international spree with Marsha, minus the extra luggage for god knows how many purchases.
We’d registered for the full agenda and discovered our newly licensed brands had even interested those who had no knowledge of who we were. Ciao!Beauty’s Italian board members with Milan residences and manufacturing interests would hold concurrent meetings in a suite down the hall.
I unpacked and arranged my clothes to fit my gruelling schedule, then threw open the antique balcony doors and raised my face to the Mediterranean air. Distant swaying palms, sultry breezes, a bed fit for The Princess and the Pea. No Ethan. My room phone jangled. Mr Christopoulos wanted me to sit in on an impromptu meeting. “Gentiluomini, Emma Paige, my vice president and miracle worker,” brought them to their feet. They greeted me cordially, then returned to our manufacturing company issues, arguing and cajoling in Italian laced English, English-laced Italian, with more than a few international gestures. I said little but concluded mid-afternoon insisting I join them at the evening black tie gala.
My honest insistence I’d brought nothing appropriate for a formal evening prompted Mr Christopoulos to use his Greek. His assistant then insisted we visit the store of my choice with his Platinum American Express card.
Given the Milanese board members, I needed an Italian designer, preferably my favourite. Off we went to the Prada boutique. Within the hour I’d found a stunning understated high style design, perfect except for the three thousand euros price tag.
Lou shrugged. “If Nikos tells you to get a dress, you must choose what looks good on you. The cost does not concern him.” The saleswoman boxed it, assigned a staff member to deliver it immediately it to my Carlton suite, and coordinated with the hotel for a stylist who fussed over final details and left me transformed. Ready, Set, Go, required one last twirl in front of the mirror. I left the suite imagining Ethan in a tailor-made suit, impeccable white shirt open at the throat, standing at the French doors with his back to the sea.
Thanks to Mr Christopoulos, I looked like a million bucks, clearly a prop with a purpose, but without a clue as to what that might be. No one hinted at my role as we made the rounds of the ballroom. “Is time you call me Nikos,” he said, but when I insisted it felt too familiar considering our age difference, we settled on Mr C.
I chatted with his Milan contingent, empowered by their freewheeling conversation. A small orchestra played Big Band era tunes as their conversation oh-so-subtly turned personal. Had I been to Cannes for previous employers? Never to Milan? I must promise a visit. So much to see beyond the Duomo, and daVinci. “And your baseball player,” one of them said, “such an all-American career.” Was he on the road seasonally? Did I travel to watch him play? By the time they asked about spouse and family, I recognised the chat as employee scrutiny.
“Eh, bien! Bonjour, Nikos,” interrupted us. I turned. “Emma Paige? Can this be you? Quelle chance!” Of all people, Pierre Meysselle pulled me into full blown air kisses.
Mr C reminded me of their previous contracts and explained my position. “Tres, tres bien, Nikos. you know how they say in New York. This woman is the real deal.”
No doubt I glowed like a street lamp as I turned to the Christopoulos gentlemen playing consiglieri. Oh how the Meysselle encounter raised my rank!
“Abasstanza, signori! Enough of the sixth degree of Emma,” Mr C said when Pierre moved on.
I laughed. “I think you mean third degree. Although your associates are using their sixth sense, for sure.” He offered his hand. The soloist began a Sinatra medley as he led me through The Way you Look Tonight.
“I celebrate my instinct. You will be an excellent right hand, man,” he said as we moved into Fly Me to the Moon.
From that opening reception, nightly customer dinners followed back-to-back hardnosed meetings, gruelling for my boss. The convention showcased every luxury product imaginable, and the chance to witness living like royalty. Heady stuff.
“And now a well-deserved week for you,” Mr Christopoulos said as we parted.
“I hope you’ll get some rest,” I replied.
“For an old man, I kept up! You Emma, put up your feet before your baseball player arrives. Then you have a wonderful time.”
It was easier to agree than correct his misunderstanding.
Ethan would miss some of the best life has to offer.
After lunch the next day I walked the length of the hotel dock to meet Neil and Dale. Boat? They’d rented a mega-yacht. I clamped my mouth shut as Dale waved from the stern rail and Neil disembarked in a linen suit, bright blue ascot, Cayman sun hat, and orange Hermes satchel. Mr Flamboyantly Fabulous walked the walk as hotel guests on the beach clearly pondered. I yammered, lunched, and shopped with my one-man-band cousin. Per usual I picked his brain, from family history to the provenance of the antiques he was acquiring for clients, to the evening’s agenda. Twenty business contacts and friends were to board at seven for cocktails, dinner, and a recital from an operatic soprano friend.
We parted at four. After a beach run and tub soak, a rap on the door startled me. “Yes?”
The muffled response sounded like English. I opened the chained door a hair. “Excusez moi? Say again, s’il vous plait?”
“I said the Yankees beat Cleveland seven to two in their play-off opener last night.”
“Ethan!” I swung open the door and swung open my bathrobe.
“Whoa, Babe!”
Yes indeed, my speechlessly adorable husband was happy to see me. “Get some sleep there’s more where that came from,” I whispered when I slid out of bed to dress. I would have loved Ethan at the yacht fandango, but he’d already crossed the Atlantic for me. I took happiness where I found it.
I was at the younger end of the guest list but Dale’s exotic spin on my Cannes business kick started conversations. Guests raved about Neil’s financial wizardry matching buyer to artifact. After dinner the guest soloist hushed us all with Puccini’s Un Bel Di and Broadway toe tappers. Hours later I crawled back under my covers, one happy person.
The next day Neil played South of France tour guide for Ethan and me and before departing for Monaco, suggested places the two of us could discover together. “Life is too damn short.”
“Make every day divine,” we replied.
I bragged too much, and Ethan stewed too long over his elbow issues. The honeymoon aura lingered though we exhausted ourselves and each other. I laid out my gazillion dollar Prada ensemble and Ethan lifted the sleeve. “This is some dress for a business evening. You really expect me to believe you’d spend that kind of money to impress a boss old enough to be your grandfather?”
“Sorry. The men I’ve been chasing have gone home. Otherwise you’d see them lined up in the hall waiting for you to leave. It was his money; stop acting like I’m trying to match the notches in your baseball glove.”
“Well, lucky for you my glove and career’ll probably go into mothballs soon.”
I shut the door. “You make me crazy. Listen to us. It was an asinine response to an asinine accusation. I’m sorry but I need an apology, too.”
