“You can’t,” Véronique said bluntly, laughing at him, “unless you want your father to kill you or disinherit you.”
“Oh, that. He takes things much too seriously,” Cyril said lightheartedly. “Why don’t I at least come to Brussels with you for the night? I’ll invite you and your mother to dinner, and we can all go to the airport together the next day. I’ll fly back to London, and you and your mother can go to Miami, and abandon me to freezing London weather and my dreary existence at home. I’ll come back in a few weeks. Or will you be away then?” He could hardly keep up with her schedule.
“I’m going to Tokyo after Miami, but after that I’ll be home for a few weeks.” She enjoyed the trips for photo shoots as long as they weren’t too dangerous or in very primitive places.
“I wish I had your life,” he said enviously.
“No, you don’t, I work much harder than you do,” she reminded him, and he didn’t deny it.
“You get to play a lot too,” he reminded her. But he also knew that she went out less than most of the models he had met, those who were looking for a good time and a wealthy man. Véronique was impressively self-sufficient, and she expected nothing from him. He suspected she wouldn’t cheat on him, which was rare in her world too. Morals tended to be fast and loose in the crowd they both moved in. She was undemanding, always fun to be with, intelligent, and spectacularly beautiful. It was all he wanted in a woman. He even liked her mother, a direct, honest, open, incredibly bright, interesting woman, who had had a long, impressive career in the law. He liked talking to Marie-Helene more than he did his own mother, who complained all the time about how difficult the servants were, how hard his father worked, and how much time he spent hunting and at his club. They gave a lot of weekend parties at their country estate in Kent, which bored Cyril to tears.
With no objection from her mother, Véronique agreed to let Cyril come to Brussels with her for the night, and they all planned to leave early the next day, heading off in opposite directions.
Véronique and Cyril took the fast train to Brussels on Monday afternoon. She dozed on the train and he answered emails on his computer. He sent Véronique an email telling her he loved her, and she smiled when she saw it on her phone when she woke up. He caught up on news and read that the main terrorist responsible for the November attacks in Paris had been arrested in Brussels two days before.
They were both in high spirits as they took a cab to the apartment where Marie-Helene stayed when she worked in Brussels. She was concluding her work that day, with her last appointments with her clients, and she was going to meet Véronique and Cyril at the apartment by dinnertime. Véronique had already complained that they were taking such an early flight to Florida and had to check in at eight a.m. the next day, but Marie-Helene didn’t want to waste a minute of their mini-vacation. They were only planning to stay in Florida for three days.
“It works for me anyway,” Cyril assured her. “I’ll get to the bank early, so my father won’t be pissed at me.”
Véronique set the table for her mother when they got to the apartment, and Cyril had brought a bottle of very fine red wine. Since they had to get up early, they had decided to dine at home. When Marie-Helene got home, she had bought foie gras and a cooked chicken and some sausages, and they had an easy, casual dinner in the small kitchen. Cyril had generously offered to take them to a nice restaurant, but it was easier to eat in. They had a lovely evening, chatting in the kitchen, and Cyril made them both laugh with tales of his parents’ house party hunting weekends. “I avoid them whenever possible. They’re positively, deadly boring,” he said, as they finished his bottle of excellent wine.
Marie-Helene was elated to be going away with her daughter, and Véronique was excited too.
“I’m going to look like a slob all weekend,” she warned her mother. “I don’t care who takes my picture. I don’t want to see decent clothes for the whole three days. And I warn you, Mom, I’m traveling in my worst old jeans.”
Her mother smiled at her. “I don’t care if you travel in your pajamas. I’m just happy we could both find the time to get away together.” Marie-Helene had planned it carefully to make the time.
“Stop talking about your trip!” Cyril grumbled, as they cleared up after dinner. “I’m green with envy. I’m going back into slavery in grisly, dark, freezing cold London. It’s in very poor taste for you two to gloat about it. You have no compassion whatsoever.”