Forbidden French

Ifeel stuck, flattened beneath my grandmother’s expectations. The discussion in the library in Italy transpired so quickly. Emmett and Lainey will wed. The solution to everyone’s problems was formed so suddenly, it’s like my grandmother and Frédéric had it pre-orchestrated all along. Never mind that Emmett and Lainey haven’t agreed. That detail is of no consequence to them.

I’ve replayed that night a thousand times over. I’ve fantasized about handling things differently. I assumed I’d remedy things as soon as I returned to Boston. Back at my grandmother’s house, I helped Margaret unpack my clothes and showed her all the little souvenirs I bought for her, the olive oil and pasta and flaky cookies we tore the plastic open on right away. After, I took a hot shower, and as I wrapped myself in my robe, I tried to build up the courage to go talk to my grandmother.

A real talk, not the idle chitchat we’ve been playing at. Oh did I like the cheese they served on the plane? Was the villa everything I thought it would be? Where should we go the next time we’re overseas?

I towel-dried my hair then wiped the steam from the mirror, and my reflection stopped me dead in my tracks. The courage I’d been building went up in a puff of smoke. The woman staring back at me had red-rimmed eyes and limp hair and a coward’s posture.

On the flight home, I might have considered going to the extreme, bucking my grandmother’s demands of me and walking away from everything I’ve ever known. But for what? Freedom?

What does an animal born in captivity know of freedom?

I turned off my bathroom light and walked toward my bed, all too eager to bury myself beneath the sheets.

The courage I lost that night never returns. The days start to pass, and I find myself right back where I was before Italy. Life becomes a familiar hamster wheel as I dress in the clothes Margaret picks for me and go to work at Morgan Fine Art Gallery or attend a charity luncheon or accompany my grandmother on a shopping trip or to one of her clubs.

All the while, I carry a tight ball of anxiety with me everywhere I go. My appetite disappears. I sleep so little at night it’s hard to hide the evidence in the morning.

The guilt gnaws at me constantly. Not only did I upset my grandmother in Italy, I showed her a side of myself I’m always so careful to suppress. The woman who flirted with Emmett in the bathtub, who sneaked out to visit him on the pier, who was late to dinner and disrespectful to her host—she’s not someone my grandmother would be proud of.

I feel terrible about my ruined betrothal to Royce. Had things only worked out between us, if I could only go back and fix my bad behavior, act differently, behave like I’ve been taught to…I wouldn’t be feeling as if my life is falling to pieces.

I don’t want to go against my grandmother’s wishes. I want to make her happy and do the exact right thing, always. Now, I’m doing everything she’s asked, and yet somehow, I still feel like I’m failing. I need advice, but I have no one to turn to, and that sad realization emphasizes the fact that I have never felt so utterly alone in all my life.

For sanity’s sake, I keep thoughts of Emmett on the periphery of my mind, as far from reach as possible. Every now and then, a sweeping feeling takes hold from either end of the spectrum: anger at him for playing with fire or pity over the fact that he’s been dragged into this. Though, one thing is for certain: I can’t completely absolve him of guilt. He questioned me, taunted me, flirted with me until ultimately, he got what he wanted. He lit the match, and we all burned.

While the days pass, I hear no further bits of information about the betrothal. I’m too nervous to bring it up to my grandmother, and she doesn’t broach the subject with me either. I’m almost delusional enough to think the problem will solve itself until two weeks after the trip to Lake Como, when Margaret and I are packing for the St. John’s Alumni Fundraiser. My grandmother comes in to survey what we’ve picked so far. She smooths the material of a Versace skirt. “Choose something especially pretty to wear for the event as it’ll be the first time you’re presented alongside your fiancé.”

Her words are a punch to my stomach, but when I look up, expecting more, she merely nods and turns back to the hallway.

I travel to New York City on my own. If I had friends from school, we could all meet up for a weekend in the city, brunches and shopping trips and blowouts galore. My grandmother would likely love to join me, but after Italy, she’s in need of rest. It was briefly discussed whether Margaret should come, but I pushed back, insisting I’d be all right.

I come to regret that decision.

The news of my betrothal to Emmett breaks the morning of the fundraiser. I’m sitting in my suite on the 32^nd floor of the Baccarat Hotel, flipping through channels, trying to find something tolerable to watch while I eat my breakfast, when I suddenly see my face blown up on the TV screen. At first, I write it off as some personalized feature of the hotel, like a “Good morning, Lainey!” message…then that barely formed theory flies out the window as I register the rest of the screen and The Today Show cast.

They all sit huddled around a table, discussing me as casually as they would someone famous.

“Look at her style. It’s impeccable. Her makeup and hair.” Hoda points to the scrolling images of me in the corner of the screen. They’re from various events over the years, photos I honestly didn’t even know existed. “I think she’s reminiscent of a bygone era. She’s not like most socialites we see these days, so in your face with their extravagant lifestyles. I’m shocked she doesn’t have more of a social media following.”

Savannah nods. “Our team couldn’t find anything beyond a few fan accounts.”

Carson chimes in then. “So what do we know? She and Emmett went to the same boarding school in upstate New York—which, by the way, is incredibly hard to get into. I think just to get on the waitlist, you have to be the heir to a throne or come from major money.”

He brushes his thumb over the tip of his index and middle finger like he’s rubbing dollar bills together.

“Of course.” Savannah laughs. “It’s just like William and Kate meeting at the University of St. Andrews.”

“The comparisons don’t end there. Much like William, Emmett has always been in the spotlight. We all certainly know his name,” Hoda adds.

“But only as it pertains to his father’s company,” Savannah argues. “He does press every now and then, but he never seems to be in the news for personal reasons. I’ve never seen him in the tabloids or gossip magazines.”

“So what do we all think? A good match?” Hoda asks the group.

Al claps. “Excellent match.”

“But they’re never together!” Carson argues. “Their teams haven’t released a single photo of them as a couple.”

“So what?” Hoda asks. “Privacy is important to them, and I respect that.”

The other cast members agree, speculating that it was actually a carefully thought-out plan on our parts. We’re praised for protecting our fledgling relationship for so long before going public. Any women Emmett has had at his side or on his arm at recent events are written off as mere diversions. They speculate about what our children will look like, where we’ll live, if I will still work. Then they shift into a segment with a fashion correspondent from L.A. whose sole job is to guess which designer I’ll use for my wedding dress.

I flip the channel and find another discussion on MSNBC detailing Emmett’s net worth (a figure that seems absolutely unimaginable) and whether or not it would be prudent for us to have a prenup.

Suddenly, I’ve hit my limit. I switch off the TV with a shaking hand.

The suite plunges into silence.

My gaze drifts to the table where room service arranged my breakfast earlier. A New York Times rests beside my carafe of coffee. I push off the bed and hurry over, whipping open the newspaper and tossing sections away—Business, Sports, Arts, Science—and at first, I’m relieved to find nothing. Then I realize I missed it back on the front page. Not right at the top, but down beneath the fold.

Emmett Mercier, heir to the luxury conglomerate GHV, to wed Boston society darling Elaine Davenport in what will surely be an extravagant, star-studded affair.

I don’t read the rest. I let the newspaper slip from my fingers and flutter to the ground as panic grips me. Does my grandmother know about all of this? Of course. Yes, she would have had a hand in it. I’m sure she pre-approved every photo I just saw on TV.

Does Emmett?

Was he warned of the announcements today or is he finding out the same way I am?

“I won’t go through with this.”

He made that abundantly clear to his father, so a part of me thought perhaps he would succeed, thought even without my influence, the betrothal would die a swift death.

But here we are, engaged in the public eye and yet strangers behind closed doors. We could have been friends. We were friends of sorts, though I realize now there might be no coming back from this. Emmett never intended to marry, at least not on his father’s terms, and the very fact that I’m the person his father is forcing upon him must feel like a sour betrayal. Never mind about our teasing and flirting and kissing—that was before, in another life. I have no doubt he wants nothing to do with me now.

Directly before me, a black Carolina Herrera gown hangs pristinely on the closet door. It’s magnificent. It has a strapless neckline and crisp vertical seams running down the bodice that create a figure-flattering taper at the waist. Then it transforms with slight pleats into a dramatic ball gown that will float with every step I take at the St. John’s Alumni Fundraiser.

Oh god.

The sinking dread I’ve been contending with since Italy is back with a vengeance. The breakfast I thought I would be able to force down now seems like a herculean task, but I still try. There’s no way around it. I have a long day ahead of me.