Page 55 of My Best French Wedding

“She’s working on something at the castle,” Walter replied.

Mr. Prescott sighed. “Poor Maude is going to need a vacation when all this is over.” In case that wasn’t enough of a hint, he added, “I know she’s been wanting to visit the Maldives.”

That part was clearly directed at Walter, who managed to maintain an expression of casual interest. Because what this conversation needed was more layers of awkward.Wrong guy, Hildy wanted to say, preferably while giving the golf cart a nice hard shove from behind. There was just enough of an incline for it to roll away.

She forced herself to stand still as Mr. Prescott waved at someone standing near one of the food tents.

“There’s Philippe,” he informed them. “Do you know him?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hildy said, after sliding Walter a quick look to make sure he wasn’t nodding.

“Philippe Vasseur. Of Papier Propre. The largest supplier of paper products in western Europe,” he added when neither of them responded.

“Of course,” Walter murmured, as if that guess had been on the tip of his tongue. Hildy would have kicked him if she wasn’t wearing sandals.

“We’re like a family in this business,” Mr. Prescott continued, as though they’d requested an impromptu soliloquy about his corporate BFFs. “If you tallied up all the guests at this wedding, you’d be looking at near-total control of the global paper industry.”

If he was suggesting she work that tidbit into her story, Mr. Prescott was higher than a kite.

“Hard to put out a newspaper without paper, eh? Or a magazine.” He slapped his thigh a few times, which apparently signaled that the conversation was over. The golf cart lurched into motion, trundling slowly over the grass.

They watched in silence until he was out of hearing range.

“Some people watch too much TV,” Hildy said as the hum of the engine faded. As if scheming billionaires needed more negative role models. “I take it he doesn’t know. About you and Maude?”

Walter shook his head.

“He’s going to be so bummed.”

“I doubt it. I don’t exactly fit in with this crowd.”

“They’re not Hapsburgs, Walter. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Like calls to like. Look at Robbie and Fiona.”

“You think money is what they have in common?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Hildy wanted to tell him that he was wrong about that. Money could hurt as easily as anything else people used against you.

“You could tell him,” Walter pointed out. “Maude’s father. About me. He might be pissed enough to send me packing.”

Did he really think she would stoop that low? Maybe his opinion of her would always be in the gutter. What was the French expression, “plus ça change”? She flashed him her fakest smile.

“No, thanks.I’mnot in the business of selling secrets.”

19Walter

FOUR AND A HALF YEARS AGO

NEW YORK—Walter wasn’t prepared for the yelling.

Watching clips of red carpet arrivals didn’t capture the dizzying volume of so many voices clamoring for attention.Hey, famous person, over here!A cacophony of voices calling out again and again, as if they were casting lures.Look this way. No, this way! Give us a smile!

It wasn’t catcalling, exactly—the celebrity/press ecosystem was a symbiotic relationship—but in practice, it didn’t feel different enough to ease his conscience. There was something predatory about lying in wait, even in a setting this public, with prey that had plenty of warning. He felt like part of a mob, a seething, barely civilized mass. Walter wondered if the glitterati ever got used to the onslaught of flashbulbs. Wouldheget used to being on the other side of the firing line, jostled by his more ambitious colleagues?

He hoped not—unless he was kidding himself about this being a temporary gig. Walter checked his phone for the twentieth time. No need to push to the front of the scrum until she arrived.