Secret North

  It wasn’t the booming voice that made us jump. It was the clap that he followed up with. We spun around to see a man gliding toward us. He truly was gliding. Perhaps it’s an easy manoeuvre in green velour slippers.

  As soon as she was within reach, he grabbed Charli’s hands and kissed her cheeks. “You like this one, darling?” he asked, waving at the picture we’d been discussing.

  “Yes, I love it.”

  “I knew you would,” he sang, dotting the tip of her nose with his index finger as if she was five years old. When he turned to me, I took a step back. “What about you, friend? Do you love it?”

  I was too scared to answer in the negative. “It’s outstanding,” I lied.

  He clapped his hands again, making only me jump. Perhaps Charli was used to it.

  “It’s a veritable steal at seventy-two hundred,” he insisted, walking away. “Sell it to her, Charli.”

  Charli giggled down at the floor. “I’ll try my best, Bronson.”

  I waited until he slipped out of sight before speaking. “Your boss?”

  She nodded. “Fabulous, isn’t he?”

  Fabulous was the only way to describe him. He was short and stout, and had more hair on his face than his head. His tiny round glasses didn’t seem to fit, and the oversized white cheesecloth shirt he wore reminded me of a drab housecoat.

  “Super fabulous,” I replied.

  Both of us dissolved into hysterics that showed no sign of ending, even when Bronson reappeared.

  “I love happy girls,” he told us. “Happy, smiley girls. Why don’t you flit away, Charlotte?” he suggested, flapping his hands in the direction of the front door. “Disappear into the sunshine with your lovely friend. Have coffee, share some gossip – or better still have a cocktail or two.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Charli.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied. “The afternoon is yours. Take it while you’re still young and beautiful.”

  ***

  I couldn’t have planned the afternoon better if I’d tried. Escaping work early meant that Charli could actually partake of some grownup down time.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, following me out onto the sidewalk.

  “Let’s go for a drink,” I suggested.

  She checked her watch. “I have to pick Bridget up at five-thirty.”

  I hooked my arm through hers to get her moving. “It’s two-thirty,” I told her. “I said a drink, not a bender. You’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  “Okay,” she relented. “Where?”

  “I don’t care,” I replied, “as long as your family doesn’t own it.”

  ***

  As far as we knew, the Décarie brothers had no monetary interest in the classy cocktail den we settled on. Considering the early hour, I was surprised by the number of people there. Most of the stools at the bar were occupied, but we landed a fabulous low table and a couple of small couches at the window.

  Guilt was written all over Charli’s face, so I took it upon myself to order drinks before she changed her mind about being there. The waitress set two strawberry daiquiris on the table. Charli didn’t look impressed.

  “Daiquiris?” she quizzed, once the waitress was gone.

  I picked a piece of mint out of my glass. “I love daiquiris. They’re the perfect summer drink.”

  “It’s not a drink, Bente. It’s a dessert.”

  “Good choice then.” I raised my glass in a toast. “I like dessert too.”

  Despite her initial protests, Charli began to relax and enjoy her unexpected lazy afternoon. We were on our second cocktail when the subject of dinner with the Décaries rated a mention.

  “This Friday?” she asked.

  I set my glass down on the table. “Please don’t tell me you have other plans,” I begged. “I need you there.”

  Charli shook her head. “You’ll be fine. Fiona is a lot more mellow where Ryan’s concerned. She’s more than ready to see him settle down.”

  “Please come,” I repeated desperately.

  “I have to,” she said glumly. “If we’re summoned to dinner, we go. That’s the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  Charli stabbed the ice in her glass with her straw. “I don’t even know.” She shrugged. “It’s just the rules.”

  She’d worked hard over the years at gaining acceptance and standing her ground. Sometimes I wondered which was the bigger victory.

  “Do you think Jean-Luc will like me?” I asked in a tiny voice. From the little I knew I had more reason to fear him than the queen.

  She smiled, albeit wickedly. “Of course he will. You’re well educated and have good future prospects, which is more than he thinks I have.”

  “Is that why he gives you such a hard time?”

  “No,” she replied. “I won’t submit and behave. And I lead his son astray. That’s his problem with me. If you want to fit in Bente, just play by the rules.”

  “So what are the rules?”

  Charli stalled by taking a long sip of her drink. I wanted to rip the glass from her hand. “Well?” I pressed.

  “Learn to love the lifestyle as much as you love Ryan,” she finally replied. “If you can manage that, you’re guaranteed the keys to the castle.”

  “Do you have the keys to the castle?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need them. I use Bridget’s keys to gain entry.”

  The mention of Bridget made me check the time on my phone. Like a couple of gossiping lushes, we’d somehow whittled away three hours.

  “It’s nearly five-thirty,” I told her. “Do you want to go?”

  Charli thought for a long moment. “No,” she decided. “I’ll call Adam. He can pick up Bridge and we can order another round.”

  She was holding her phone to her ear before I could protest, which was fine by me. I was happy to stay longer. I got the impression that time out wasn’t something Charli got often, and judging by the strung-out look on Adam’s face most days, he didn’t either.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said quietly. I tried not to listen to the one-sided conversation but it was impossible. “I’ll meet you at Ryan’s in an hour or two,” she told him. “I love you, Adam. So much.”

  Charli slipped her phone back in her purse. “You’re staring like an idiot. What’s wrong?”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She laughed, perhaps more at my tone than my question. “He’s fine. He’s leaving the office now and heading over to pick –”

  “No,” I interrupted. “How can you be so sure that he’s the one?”

  She’d always known, even before Adam worked it out. I wanted to know how to get to that point. I would’ve endured the most outlandish fairy story ever told just to know the secret.

  “I just know, Bente,” she replied, almost smiling. “My life works better when he’s in it.”

  “I want that,” I told her. “So badly.”

  “With Ryan?”

  I shrugged, feeling slightly stupid. “I could love Ryan,” I admitted. “I just don’t know if I’d be loved in return. And if he told me he loved me, I probably wouldn’t believe him.”

  “How long do you think he should be punished?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How long do you think he should have to keep making up for past mistakes? A year? A couple of years?” She paused, but not long enough to let me reply. “That seems like an awful waste of time if you ask me.”

  I signalled for another drink. “As long as I have to deal with ex-playthings showing up unannounced, my doubts are warranted.”

  “It happened again?”

  Despite the fact that I’d felt the same level of annoyance at her arrival, I couldn’t throw Trieste in the same boat as the blonde stripper wannabe.

  “No, not really,” I admitted. “A girl called Trieste turned up the other night. She’s not a plaything.”

  Charli slumped back and giggled. “No, definitely not,” she agreed.
r />   “You know her?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Totally harmless. Ryan and Adam have a soft spot for Trieste. They look after her pretty well.”

  “Ryan paid for her wedding dress,” I revealed.

  “Good for him.”

  “It was a sweet thing to do,” I agreed. “And hugely generous. It was a five grand dress.”

  “It won’t break the bank.” Her smile slipped. “I don’t think we’re in any danger of becoming destitute any time soon.”

  Charli wasn’t one for practising what she preaches. She’d never learned to love the lifestyle. Talk of finances seemed to embarrass her.

  “The Décaries have a lot of money, don’t they?” I spoke quietly as if it was a secret we weren’t supposed to discuss.

  Charli nodded but her dire expression remained. “It takes some getting used to.”

  “Ryan bought me five Hermès scarves,” I said gravely. “I’m not sure how to deal with that.”

  “You just do,” she brooded. “I like vintage cocktail dresses so Fiona buys them for me. I have more than I’ll probably ever wear. No big deal.”

  “So you just get used to it?”

  “You can if you want to,” she quietly permitted. “But I’ll never get used to it. That’s how I know I’m doing okay.”

  29. KILLJOY

  Ryan

  If I were a stickler for details, I would’ve been furious with Charli for breaching our babysitting agreement. Bridget was still with me at six o’clock, thanks to her mother’s decision to hit the town with my girlfriend. I wasn’t pissed. Bridget’s good mood was holding and I was confident of keeping her happy until her father arrived to pick her up.

  I rustled her up a quick dinner, but Bridget didn’t seem impressed by my efforts. She pulled a face as if I’d set a plate of rat poison in front of her.

  “Please try it,” I urged.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t tried it.”

  She pushed the plate forward.

  “Everybody likes chicken,” I insisted, sliding it back in front of her.

  “I like chicken nuggets.”

  “Bridget Décarie, chicken nuggets do not count as food,” I told her, aghast. “Do you know what they put in nuggets?”

  “Nuggets?” she guessed. I instantly admitted defeat. Entering into a chicken debate with a four-year-old wasn’t smart, especially considering the calibre of my opponent.

  I managed to strike a deal with her, but at a price. She ate the smallest amount of dinner, and in exchange, I spent the half hour before her father arrived watching The Little Mermaid with her.

  Adam let himself in.

  Bridget clambered over me on to the arm of the couch and launched herself the second she thought he was close enough to catch her. Clearly it was a manoeuvre Adam was familiar with. His arms were outstretched before she made her move. After a quick kiss, he hung her upside down, making her giggle.

  “Thanks for watching her.”

  “Any time,” I replied. “She didn’t eat much.”

  “I don’t like rabbit,” interjected Bridget, still hanging upside down.

  Adam righted her and dropped her on the couch. “You fed her rabbit?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced at the little liar next to me. “Next time I’ll take the fur off.”

  Adam sat down on the last spare space on the couch. “I’m glad I’m not eating here tonight. What are you watching?”

  “Ariel,” Bridget announced excitedly.

  Not much was said over the next few minutes. The mini Tinker Bell sat quietly, as captivated by the redheaded mermaid as the first fifty times she’d watched her. I couldn’t explain Adam’s reasons for sitting through it – or mine.

  Adam spoke first. “Ariel’s kinda hot.”

  “She’s whiny,” I objected. “Not my type.”

  “She lives under the water,” Bridget explained, shuffling closer to her dad.

  “So would your mother, given the chance,” I replied.

  ***

  By the time Bente and Charli arrived, Bridget was asleep on the couch, exhausted by the hours we’d spent in Central Park looking for the elusive Secret North. Inexplicably, Adam and I were still watching the mermaid movie. In move strangely reminiscent of the Dirty Dancing debacle, we jumped to our feet when the door swung open.

  “Hi,” beamed Bente, loudly. I shushed her and pointed at the sleeping girl.

  “Oh, sorry,” she whispered, half leaning into me for an almost-hug.

  Adam walked over to Charli, took her in his arms and kissed her as if they were alone in the room. I could’ve put it down to the hour of Disney inspiration he’d received at the hands of Ariel, but a more honest assessment would be that it was just Charli and Adam being Charli and Adam. “Go home,” I ordered. “We don’t need to see that.”

  He loosened his hold on her but didn’t let go. Charli twisted in his arms to face me. “Thank you for watching our girl today.”

  I glanced at Bridget. “She was no trouble. The story of the day was a good one.”

  “Do you think she’ll wake up?” whispered Bente.

  The fear in her voice made me smile. “I’ll protect you if she does.”

  “That’s not funny, Ryan,” chided Charli. “Don’t encourage my kid to be a bully.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Adam, totally clueless.

  Charli said nothing, leaving it to me to explain that Bridget’s treatment of Bente had been less than welcoming. “She’s not very good at sharing.”

  “See, Charlotte?” he asked quietly. “Only child syndrome.”

  She glared at me as if I’d just thrown her under a bus.

  Tension filled the room in an instant, and I wanted no part of it. Obviously it was a continuation of a conversation that was nothing to do with us. “Right.” I stupidly clapped my hands. “Who’s up for a drink?” Bridget stirred at the sudden noise but didn’t wake. Bente grabbed the throw off the other couch and covered her.

  “I am,” replied Adam. “I’ll get the glasses.”

  I headed for the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. Charli sat at the counter. “So, what did you do today?”

  “Just the usual,” I replied casually. “Rolled a couple of old ladies in the park for their purses, smoked a few joints near the fountain.”

  “Uncle of the year, aren’t you?”

  “Uncle of the freaking millennium, Charlotte,” I corrected, making her laugh.

  “I have the day off tomorrow,” said Bente, taking a seat on the stool next to Charli. “Perhaps I could hang out too, maybe try winning her over.”

  “You don’t need to win her over,” said Adam, frowning. “Don’t let her give you a hard time.”

  “It’s not a problem,” assured Bente. “Malibu and Fabergé put Ryan through worse and he managed to talk them round.”

  “Yeah,” said Charli wryly. “With help from Helios and Clytie.”

  I slid a glass of wine across to Bente. “I would’ve won them over without your story, Charlotte,” I boasted. “I know a few of my own.”

  “Of course you do,” said Charli.

  I held another glass in front of her. “It’s true, and because your husband doesn’t know the difference between a wine glass and a champagne coupe, I’m all set to tell you one.”

  “A glass is a glass, Ryan,” Adam insisted. “If you were at our house, you’d probably be offered a sippy cup.”

  I ignored him and began my tale.

  “Legend has it that the shape of the champagne coupe was modelled on the left breast of Marie Antoinette,” I revealed. “She wanted her court to toast her health by drinking from glasses shaped like her boobs.”

  My brother picked up one of the shallow round glasses and held it to the light. “Marie had a decent rack,” he approved. “But I don’t want to know who they modelled the champagne flute on.”

  Bente laughed. “No, me neither.”

  Charli strai
ghtened on the stool. “I’m very impressed, Ryan.”

  “Don’t be.” I poured another glass of wine and handed it to her, preparing to kill my own story with a dose of reality. “It’s a crock, just like the stories you tell. Champagne coupes have been around since the seventeenth century, long before Marie Antoinette and her boobs.”

  “Killjoy,” muttered Charli.

  “No,” I corrected. “Just a realist.”

  ***

  I’d learned more about women in the past few weeks than I had in the thirty years before that.

  When men make the decision to go to bed, they undress and they go to bed. Women flit between the bathroom and the bedroom fifteen times, open and close the closet a few times – seemingly without purpose – then decide it’s a good time to tidy up the bedroom.

  They also talk.

  “Adam said he’s going to need a few weeks to work on the dresser,” said Bente, scooping up the shirt I’d just laid over the back of the chair.

  “I’m sure we’ll cope without it,” I mumbled.

  “You told him to paint it, right?”

  “No, not specifically,” I replied. “I just told him to fix it so it matches the rest of the room.”

  Bente dropped the shirt back on the chair and took a long look around. “He’ll paint it black, then,” she concluded. “Call him and tell him not to paint it black. That would be horrible.”

  Hoping she’d take the hint, I reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Five seconds later the room filled with light again. “Please, Ry,” she said sweetly. “I don’t want it black.”

  I grabbed her pillow and threw it over my face. “Fine. No black.”

  The pillow must’ve muffled my frustration. She kept talking. “It should be pink – hot pink to match the chairs.”

  It was going from bad to worse. Not only was she still talking, she was now making ridiculous design decisions.

  “Sweetheart, please, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  I felt her climb into bed so I handed her back her pillow. She snuggled into me and for a quick second, I got to enjoy one of the good parts of living with a woman. And then she killed it by speaking again.

  “Did you notice anything weird between those two tonight? Charli and Adam, I mean.”