This year, next year, every year for the rest of her life, the Fourth would only ever be the day that Nicky died. Riley frowned at her.
“But you’re American, right?” he asked.
“New York,” she said. “So, barely.”
“But today you live in Paris,” said Sabina. “Which means you will have to celebrate Bastille Day.”
“When’s that?” asked Cliff.
“In fact, only next week,” said Sabina.
“July is the month to wrestle back control from tyranny,” said Cliff.
“Well, I miss it,” said Riley. “I’ve never been out of the country on the Fourth before. My folks always throw a big barbecue.”
“Sorry to say,” said Sabina, “the French do not barbecue.” She set down her glass with a flick of her hand. “I can’t drink this. I still have a headache from this morning. Why do they insist on serving champagne before breakfast backstage?”
“Because it’s the only thing you girls will eat,” said Cliff. “What’s the saying? Champagne, cocaine, and casual sex, baby.”
Sabina simply ignored him. She glanced up at the sky, which was turning an anemic shade of gray.
“It’s looking to rain, non?”
“Ah, man,” said Riley. “My next show’s outdoors.”
“Mine too,” said Lucky.
“My first fashion week and it rains,” he said glumly.
Cliff began singing the chorus of Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” in a surprisingly tuneful voice. It’s like raaaaain on your wedding day.
“This is haute couture,” said Sabina. “La crème de la crème. Trust me, they won’t let you get wet.”
“By you she means the clothes,” said Lucky, then turned back to Cliff. “Anyway, what you were saying about female models? It’s not like you guys are paradigms of health and moderation.” She tapped Cliff’s near-empty beer glass.
“We can handle our booze, unlike you lot.” He pointed a finger at her. “If you don’t eat, you shouldn’t drink.”
“I eat,” said Lucky, picking up the beer that had just been placed before her. “So I can drink.”
Cliff laughed and ordered another round.
“Anything you can do I can do better,” he sang.
“I bet I can hold my own better than you,” said Lucky.
Cliff raised his drink and downed the last gulp.
“Wanna see about that?”
—
An hour later, Lucky was five drinks in and about to tell the most hilarious story she’d ever told. The sadness from the morning that had covered her like grime was being washed away with each new round.
“So I’m nineteen and I’m living in Tokyo for the year,” she said. “It was fun, but I was also maybe being a little bit irresponsible, you know, staying out late, missing appointments, basically everything you should not do when you’re starting out.”
Here, Lucky gestured to young Riley and raised an eyebrow in warning.
“This seems like a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do teaching moment,” said Cliff. “Since I’m pretty sure you still do all that, Lucky.”
“Hey, you don’t need to teach me,” Riley said. “I’m twenty-three. I know what I’m doing.”
“Me too!” exclaimed Sabina. “In fact, I have been twenty-three for the past three years.”
Lucky laughed and took another gulp of her drink.
“My agency was threatening to drop me, but then, out of nowhere, I booked a campaign. It was for a cheesy commercial brand but still, money, money, money. My agent calls and says to me, ‘Lucky, if you are even one minute late to this shoot, we will fire you. One minute.’ ”
“I know what happens,” said Riley. “You were late, and they fire you, but you still end up becoming a big, famous model anyway.”
“You think she’s famous?” Sabina gasped. “More famous than me?”
Riley looked back and forth between them.
“No, I mean y-yes,” he stammered. “I mean, I don’t know. You’re both beautiful.”
“She’s kidding,” said Lucky.
“She’s really not,” said Cliff. “Anyway, I’m more famous than the both of them.”
