First Chapter - Delusions of Grandeur

[David Abis]

Delusions of Grandeur

 

Chapter 1

It all seems too good to be true, this magical island called Palm Beach, more modern-day Atlantis or Xanadu than actual city, more dream than reality. It brings to mind a French impressionist painting reminiscent of Renoir or Monet, more an enchanting vision of color and blurred lines than some dry depiction of life as it is, an imagined work of art limited to all things beautiful, with any hint of ugliness glossed over in undulating strokes of cadmium yellow and cobalt blue.

Merely crossing any of the short bridges spanning from the mainland to the barrier island you might just as well be crossing the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean destined to some made-up Disneyesque fairytale caricature of a foreign country, a melting pot of assorted European clichés.

Yet, with all its magnetic charm and allure, there are no road signs to Palm Beach, Florida, not from the airport, the interstate, nor any bridge from the mainland. Why is that? Well, they say, if you need directions, you don’t belong here.

And that may be true. But if anyone belongs here, it is I, Désirée de France. My blood line, as royal blue as it gets, flows directly from King Louis XVI, and even Charlemagne before that. Unfortunately, my ancestors all sprout from the bastard side of the family tree, including any number of counts of no account, so any documented historical evidence of my noble pedigree remains, shall we say, obscure. Just as well. Royalty ain’t what it used to be, dreadfully out of favor in France for quite some time now, a big no-no ever since that bit of ugliness referred to as the French Revolution, or as we French royals call it, The Terror. But we are survivors, House de France, never ones to let a little difference of opinion with a few peasants cause us to lose our heads. No, somehow my ancestors managed to keep theirs firmly attached to their shoulders long after the last dreaded guillotines were ultimately relegated to museums.

But that was a long time ago. We’re all friends now. Forgive and forget, I always say. Time to move on. Make love, not war. After all, I’ve got a little soirée to attend this evening. And not just any get-together. No, this is the crowning event of all Palm Beach society, la pièce de résistance, the last but not least of a relentless barrage of society charity balls officially signaling that season here on the island will soon be over, that balmy climatic perfection, such a draw to the genteel elite in winter, soon to surrender to the oppressive tropical heat of summer. And with that retreat flee all those delicate constitutions driven to migrate back north to more conducive climes in Newport, the Hamptons, and Martha’s Vineyard.

This isn’t my first rodeo, not by any means. I’ve attended my share of charity balls this year. I mean, who doesn’t love a good party, la dolce vita, as my Italiano friends say? And for charity no less. I’ve lost track of tonight’s noble cause célèbre or what the associated themed décor even represents. It’s just so hard to keep up. I don’t know if it’s to fight cancer, or to feed feral cats. But no matter, this is the biggest and the best, hosted by the grande dame of Palm Beach herself, who’s name also escapes me, but I think she’s somehow related to one of those cereal people, perhaps a Post or a Kellogg. It makes no difference to me. She could be Captain Crunch for all I care. I’m just here for the ride.

Tonight’s gala is being held in the over-the-top grand Circle Room at the world-renowned Breakers Hotel where I’m reminded of what my ancestors must have experienced during their days at court in Versailles, the semicircular room with thirty-foot domed ceiling boasting a monstrous Venetian crystal chandelier encircled by frescos depicting Renaissance landscapes. Majestic arched windows accent the lush tropical landscape outside with teasing glimpses of aquamarine ocean beyond. Sexy orchids adorn the tables as planters scattered strategically about the room bring with them the sweet smell of jasmine and gardenia, dutifully in full bloom just this time of year. It’s strictly black tie and evening gowns for this event, oddly juxtaposed against the sounds of an eight-piece orchestra playing soggy covers of watered-down Michael Jackson and Madonna.

My own gown is Versace, my shoes Christian Louboutin, and my tiara is real, unlike the phony medals adorning the sashes of all those poser Palm Beach aristocrats claiming to be ambassadors from so many unheard of former Eastern European countries of dubious origin. I don’t need to convince anyone of anything. I know who I am. What others do or don’t know is of no importance. Like I always say, if the tiara fits…

As I make my way through the receiving line, I spy all the usual suspects, wealthy philanthropists, aging trust fund babies, a smattering of dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses, and an occasional famous entertainer from some bygone era. Palm Beach in general, and particularly these charity balls, draws a crowd of a certain vintage, and by that, I mean, well… old… like their money. I’m probably the youngest person in the room, including the waitresses. My escort for this evening is the dashing Jake Durrant. At twice my age, even he’s still considered one of the youngsters in attendance. Even so, he’s probably worth as much as anyone here tonight, well into nine figures, which kind of works for me, if you know what I mean. Jake owns just about every resort in Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming combined, a real western cowboy, which happens to be a particularly rare breed here in Palm Beach.

When we finally reach our esteemed hostess, she extends a limp, wrinkled paw to Jake who gallantly kisses the back of her liver-spotted appendage.

“Ah, Mr. Durrant, always the charmer,” she coos, what little blood still remaining in her pale visage rushing to accentuate her overpainted blush. “So good to see you again. I hope your ever-so-tedious business endeavors with my son aren’t keeping you from enjoying our little neighborhood.”

“Hardly,” Jake replies, flashing that million-dollar smile of his and turning to me. “May I introduce Mademoiselle Désirée de France.”

My curtsy is top notch if I do say so. “Enchanté, madame,” I add, before demurely raising my head to find the aged dowager looking down her patrician nose at me, scrutinizing her subject. She can’t help raising one eyebrow even further than doctor’s orders would permit following her latest facelift. But I won’t be intimidated, unabashedly looking directly into her watery eyes as she mourns her own long-lost youth. And yet, as she holds my gaze, staring deeply into my violet eyes and coveting my silky raven black hair, I perceive an ever-so-subtle flash of recognition quickly pass over her, perhaps recalling her introduction as a debutante some sixty years ago to a young twenty-something-year-old actress named Elizabeth Taylor.

But her senior moment soon passes, and once she collects herself, remembering to ignore me, she turns back to Jake. “Oh, I see you’ve found something here other than business to entertain you after all.”

Jake laughs. “I’m afraid so.”

“But, really, Mr. Durrant,” she scolds. “She’s just a child. Do be careful.” And we’re summarily dismissed.

Instead of being offended at my hostess’s intended slight, I’m anything but. No, I’m young and alive, with big plans to make the most of my youth while I still have it. There will be no regrets when I’ve grown old and lost my relevance. Carpe diem!

So I look about the palace of a ballroom, overflowing with rivers of champagne and buckets of caviar, and I’m champing at the bit to dive in headfirst. “Oh, garçon,” I call out, grabbing a crystal flute of Dom Perignon from the silver tray of a passing waiter and smiling at the myriad tiny bubbles magically appearing from somewhere at the bottom of my glass. But tonight’s not just about me. Now that I’m armed, I must take care of Jake, so I drag him by his arm to the bar to stock him up on some of that nasty bourbon he so loves.

At the bar, I see many former acquaintances of mine who, in the presence of their wives, manage to avoid all eye contact with me, especially whenever the paparazzi from the Palm Beach Daily News approach, their prying eyes and eager cameras ever-present fixtures at Palm Beach society balls, perfect hunting grounds for candid photos of the rich and famous— and infamous— to splash across their glossy gossip pages. It’s really not my thing, notoriety, a general policy of mine being to keep a low profile in the presence of cameras.

And yet, I can’t help squealing in glee when I spy my good friend Teddy hogging the beluga caviar and its adjoining vodka ice luge. Teddy’s not his real name but that’s what everyone calls him because he’s sweet and lovable and shaped like a Teddy Bear. I run over for a kiss on each cheek from my chubby cherub-faced friend and a quick chat, but I know better than to keep him occupied. After all, he’s “working.” Teddy’s what’s called a “walker.” He escorts women of a certain age to events such as these. Oh, it’s not what you think. He’s not a gigolo. Teddy’s at least seventy years old, though he’d never concede a day over fifty-nine, and as gay as they come. No, he doesn’t get paid or laid. He just can’t resist a society ball, and this is the only way he can score an invite and cover the cost of admission. But everyone loves Teddy. He’s just so much damned fun.

“Désirée, darling, comment allez-vous?” Did I mention his French is divine?

“Je suis magnifique, mon cher.”

“Did you see him?” he asks, bending to whisper in my ear.

“Who?” I inquire, eyes wide, wondering what I’m missing.

“Don’t look now,” he says. “It’s a Kennedy. There’s a Kennedy here.”

So of course I look, unsure exactly what I’m looking for, then, turning back to Teddy, “What’s a Kennedy?”

Teddy does a double take, wondering if I’m serious, then breaks out laughing, taking me by the chin. “Oh my god, you are just the cutest thing.” But he’s got to get back to his date, and I have to get back to mine.

Jake’s an excellent dancer, the kind that makes a girl look good even if she’s never been classically trained. So, as a couple, we’re drawing many envious stares from the crowd. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to have some fun. I mean, the food is out of this world, like some kind of Michelin star chef cook-off. The people are all so fascinating. The venue is a national treasure. And as the champagne begins to kick in, every spin on the dance floor presents a kaleidoscope of designer gowns and estate jewelry, every new delightful vision outdoing the last, seeming to crescendo throughout the evening into a magnificent montage of refined debauchery.

And yet, all good things must come to an end. I know it’s getting late when I start spilling my drinks and my three-inch pumps seem to have grown to circus stilts, bringing on an associated fear of heights. We’ve savored every last crumb of this 5-star affair, leaving nothing on the table. My shoes are killing me from dancing my heart out, I’m stuffed with lobster in white truffle butter, I wreak of champagne, and a chunky Sir Rod Stewart has just dropped the mike after an impromptu sloppy-drunk rendition of Forever Young. It’s time to skedaddle before I turn into a pumpkin.

So Jake and I make our escape from the Circle Room, gingerly staggering into our private elevator to the Flagler Club, an exclusive VIP section of The Breakers Hotel, sort of a hotel within the hotel, reserved only for the crème de la crème. Our concierge, Pierre, greets us as soon as the elevator opens, tail wagging like a lonely house pet, dutifully inquiring if there’s anything he can do for us. We assure him everything is perfect, as always, and he bids us goodnight as we giggle all the way to our room, doing our best to hold each other up.

Ah, but the night is young. More treats await us in the room, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries for me, and a fresh bottle of 23-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon for Jake, all within reach of our oversized jacuzzi.

Our lovemaking is divine because dancing isn’t Jake’s only skill, though he can be a bit of a brute in the sack. But who doesn’t love a cowboy? So once I’m ridden hard and put away wet, the last thing I remember is thinking just how grand this life can be.

 

* * * *

 

“Miss de France?”

Could I be in the hospital? Because I think I’ve had a concussion. My head wants to explode, and I see stars whenever I open my eyes. I try retreating under the covers but someone’s shaking the bed.

“Miss de France!”

Her voice is like a wrecking ball. “Whoever you are, please stop yelling at me and fetch the doctor.”

“There’s no doctor here.”

“What? What kind of hospital is this?”

“You’re not in a hospital. But if you’d really like a doctor, I’m sure Pierre can—”

Oh my god, that’s right. I’m at the Flagler Club. And this is no concussion. It’s merely the symptoms of a life well-lived. I’m feeling better already, relishing the touch of silk sheets on my skin, and remembering last night.

“Miss de France, you really must wake up.”

I force myself to open my eyes, just a crack, and focus on what can only be a maid, judging by the uniform. Damn it. We must have forgotten to put out the do-not-disturb sign. Even so, I’ll have to speak to Pierre about this. I mean, she must see that we’re still sleeping, and she’ll have to come back later. “Can’t you see that Mr. Durrant and I are still­—” I turn to Jake, but he’s gone, probably off to another one of his ungodly business meetings. “What time is it?”

“It’s three o’clock, ma’am.”

“Three a.m.? Then what in the world are you—?”

She cuts me off. “P.m., ma’am. It’s the afternoon.”

“Really? Wow. What a glorious night,” I sing, snuggling back under the thick down comforter. “Just come back later when we’ve gone out to dinner.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Boy, she’s persistent. “But I’ve been instructed to wake you.”

“Instructed? By whom?” Maybe Jake’s made plans.

“By Monsieur Pierre.”

That’s odd. “Did he say why he would do such a thing?”

“You must leave now. He let you sleep as long as he could, but we have another guest checking in at 4.”

“Oh, that’s absurd. You must have the wrong room. Surely you’re mistaken.” Now I’m getting a bit miffed. This is so unlike the usual service at the Flagler Club.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no mistake, ma’am.”

“But that’s ridiculous. We’re not checking out. Where is Mr. Durrant?”

“He’s gone, ma’am.”

“I know that, but where?”

“Gone. Checked out.”

Now I’m awake. I jump to my feet but immediately realize my error and sit down on the edge of the bed again to stop the spinning. After a moment, I stagger over to the closet and, sure enough, Jake’s clothes are gone. Oh, God! Oh, God! I drop to my knees to open the safe, falling backwards onto the floor when I see what’s inside. Nothing. Nothing’s inside. Nothing at all. I’ve been robbed. All my jewelry is gone. Even my hundred-thousand-dollar tiara.

“Pierre!!”

The maid knows when she’s in over her head and runs to fetch Pierre, who immediately materializes in the doorway.

“Bonjour mademoiselle. How may I be of assistance?”

I’m lying on the floor in front of the safe, hands over my eyes. “Pierre, I’ve been robbed. All my jewelry is gone! Oh, and for some reason, your staff is under the impression that Mr. Durrant and I are checking out today.”

The unflappable Pierre calmly reports, “But you are checking out today.”

“But how can that be? It’s absurd. Mr. Durrant and I have lived here for over a month. Why in the world would you think we were checking out?”

“Simple, mademoiselle. Because Mr. Durrant has already checked out. We had a car transport him to the airport.”

This makes no sense. “Oh, I’m sure he’s just been temporarily called away on business,” I state with a wave of my hand. “But what’s become of my jewelry?”

“Mr. Durrant expressly directed me to have the rentals returned.”

“Rentals!? But those were gifts, from Mr. Durrant, to me!”

“Not according to Mr. Durrant, or the jeweler, for that matter.”

“This is all some misunderstanding. I simply must speak to Mr. Durrant.” And I grab my cellphone. But, hitting his number on speed dial, I see his phone is no longer in service. A burner phone? Really Jake?

Pierre sounds truly remorseful. “I am sorry, mademoiselle. We’ve so enjoyed having you here with us, but you really must leave now. We have another guest checking in.”

“But this has been my home,” I plead. “Where am I to go?”

But Pierre knows the score. “Oh, I am sure you’ll have no trouble finding another… how do you say, uh… benefactor.” And reality hits. My cowboy’s ridden off into the sunset… without me.

But Pierre’s right. This is merely a small setback. A hiccup. Nothing I can’t handle. I just don’t like being rushed about it. These things take time. After all, a girl’s got to be ever so selective in screening applicants.

Then a temporary solution hits me and I lurch for my bag, pulling out a credit card. I shove it at Pierre. “Please, Pierre, would you be a dear and find me another room?”

He looks down his nose at me, so uncharacteristic of Pierre, and I imagine detecting an ever-so-slight roll of the eyes before he takes the card and heads back to his desk.

I turn to the maid. “Would you be a dear and bring me some breakfast before I switch rooms? Your eggs Benedict is simply out of this world.”

The maid raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but breakfast has been over for hours.”

Of course. So disappointing. “Oh, then, perhaps just some orange juice. I’m absolutely parched.”

The maid can’t help checking her watch before heading toward the private kitchen for some juice.

But Pierre’s back in a jiffy, holding out my card in front of him as if it were contagious. “I’m sorry, but your card has been declined.”

I should have known. Jake Durrant’s no fool. He’s thought of everything. I’d whip out a credit card of my own… if I had one. But I don’t. I’d rather not discuss it. I know when I’m beat. But I manage, as always, to pull it together and smile.

“Thank you so much, Pierre. How embarrassing. You simply must excusez-moi.” And I reach out to shake his hand. But always the consummate gentleman, Pierre gently takes my offering and raises it to his lips.

“Oh, that’s quite all right, mademoiselle. You’re always welcome at the Flagler Club,” he adds with a friendly wink. 

Except for right now, that is. Persona non grata. C’est moi. But poor Pierre’s not to blame. It’s past time to make a graceful exit. And yet, before packing my meager belongings, I take my freshly squeezed orange juice in its glass of fine crystal, served on its proverbial silver platter, adding a generous dose of leftover Dom Perignon, now depressingly warm and flat, and contemplate Plan B.

Oh well. C’est la vie.

[Tiffany]

love  it!