“Great, let’s do it,” he replied, but I shook my head as he started to rise.
“That’s okay,” I said with what I hoped was a kind enough smile. “I really just want to be by myself for a little.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah … you don’t have to wait for me or anything. I don’t want to waste your night. There are a lot of other girls in the club.”
“Ah,” he said, rising.
I cringed—had I hurt his feelings? Then he smiled. He may not have been happy, but he got it.
“Well then … nice meeting you.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. He was a sweet guy; I hoped he’d find someone else. As he strode back inside, I tapped Rayna on the shoulder and caught her eye, then made my way upstairs. The breeze kicked up as I walked, and I shivered. My strappy silk cocktail dress was far too skimpy for winter—even a winter buffered by the club’s powerful heat lamps—but it was perfect for dancing. Not the claustrophobic mosh-fest nightmare going on in the main club, but dancing.
I pulled open the balcony doors and immediately felt at ease. Le Féroce’s small Upper Lounge was the polar opposite of its wild downstairs, and far more my style. It was intimate, with subtle lighting, plush booths, candlelit sconces, a large mahogany bar, a dance floor, and a small stage on which a phenomenal singer belted out Etta James. I felt embraced by the whole atmosphere, and threaded my way through the other dancers until I was right in front of the stage, where I let the music carry me away.
I love dancing. If the music’s right, I get lost in it, and for a little while I can forget about everything else. Dancing for me is what I imagine yoga or meditation is for Rayna. It’s similar to how I feel when I’m rock climbing, all by myself on a cliff side where I can only concentrate on the next handhold, the next foothold, and the addictive pain in my muscles as I pull myself higher and higher.
My mind wandered as I danced, and I found myself imagining how the conversation would have continued with Joseph. He gave me the big clue by calling me by my full name. Based on experience, that meant there was a good chance his next question would have been, “So … what’s it like being Victoria Weston’s daughter?”
It was a crazy question, especially coming from someone like Joseph, who had casually mentioned his ties to the throne and his family’s regular appearance in the British tabs. He knew what it was like to live in the spotlight. But he wouldn’t have been asking to really find out the answer, just for something to say.
Rayna loved that question. She got it all the time too, only her version asked what it was like to be connected to the Weston family. It was the perfect setup. She’d answer by locking eyes with the guy who asked and cooing meaningfully, “It’s the people. I get to meet the most incredible people.…”
That was never my answer. I am not a people person. Maybe that’s why I was so okay with homeschooling my senior year. Rayna said she could never do it. She’d be plagued by the dozens of social dramas she’d miss every day. I wasn’t bothered by that in the least. It’s not that I don’t like people; there are certain people I absolutely couldn’t live without. Or at least people I feel I couldn’t live without. I’ve learned this year that the truth is I can’t live well without certain people, but I can live.
Rayna is one of those people. I’ve known her all my life—Rayna’s mother Wanda is my mother’s “Equine Professional.” Basically, Wanda’s the nanny for my mother’s horses. It’s a full-time job, and Wanda could never do it if she had to commute. Instead she has a guesthouse on the property, where she’s always lived with Rayna’s dad, George.
Mom and Wanda were pregnant at the exact same time, and Dad told me it drove him crazy because neither of them would listen to him and take it easy. At nine months pregnant and big as a house, Wanda would still waddle endlessly around the property, mucking stalls, scooping grain, and personally grooming and walking every horse. Mom was in state politics back then, and even though most of her travel was fairly local, it was constant. To my dad, it was nothing short of miraculous that Mom was actually home when she went into labor … exactly five minutes before Wanda. Since George was at work, Dad ended up driving both women to the hospital.
They clutched each other in the backseat—two huge-bellied, panting, moaning women, both of them freaking out about the work they were missing. Dad sped all the way to the hospital, sure he’d get pulled over and arrested for being a suspected polygamist with a taste for overachievers.
Rayna and I were born exactly five hours apart—I’m the older one—and we’ve been inseparable ever since. We say we’re twins with different parents.
The tabloids love to point out the difference in social status between Rayna and me, but to me, she’s blood. My parents feel the same way. They’ve always made sure Rayna went to the same private schools I did, and she’s been invited on every family vacation.
Still, to the rest of the world, she’s not a Weston. I’m not sure that’s such a bad deal. I am a Weston, and the main thing it’s meant is a bunch of photographers chasing me from the minute I was born, writing about how I might affect Mom’s career, or whether I’d follow in the Weston footsteps one day to change the world. My family name meant that two months into seventh grade, a photo spread appeared in People magazine: “Clea Raymond’s Awkward Tween Years!” It was filled with hideous pictures of me from camp the summer before—pictures I had no idea were even being snapped. There was one of me with sleep-knotted hair and thick glasses, another of me picking out a wedgie. There’s nothing better for a twelve-year-old’s blooming self-esteem than images like that papered all over her school.
They gave me a stomachache that lasted until high school.
Rayna’s an expert at glossing over bad moments like that. She always knew when my name was in magazines. She loved that I got to travel the world with my Rayna’s an expert at glossing over bad moments like that. She always knew when my name was in magazines. She loved that I got to travel the world with my parents, and squealed with glee whenever I told her I went to some celebrity-laden event. She’s never been jealous over any of it. And even though she’s been around that stuff all her life, she never got jaded about it. She’s always excited when she comes with me to a party, or an exclusive club, or an exotic vacation spot … or something like this winter break trip, where we got to do all three.
I didn’t even realize I was dancing with my eyes closed until I felt a hand grip my arm and they snapped open.
“Clea!” Rayna shouted over the music, her eyes shiny from the drinks and the excitement of a new love of her life. “Je vais aller chez Pierre! He has a penthouse with a view of the Eiffel Tower. C’est très bon, non? ”
Rayna clearly thought it was très, très bon, so I had to agree. “Oui,” I said, smiling. “Just be safe. You have his address?”
Rayna nodded, and I pulled out my phone so she could type it in.
“Pepper spray?” I asked.
Rayna rolled her eyes and pulled the cylinder from her purse. I nodded approvingly.
“Anything feels wrong, you call me. No matter what. And if you don’t text me within twelve hours I’m calling the SWAT team.”
“We’re in France. There is no SWAT team,” Rayna reminded me. Then she leaned close, touching our foreheads together and looking me straight in the eyes. “I will be fine. You will never lose me.”
For the past year she’d been saying that almost every time we separated. Much as I appreciated the sentiment, I always winced at the “never.” It seemed to be taunting fate. I’d told Rayna this, but she only laughed at my “crazy superstitions.” Apparently it was fine to believe in fate delivering you a soulmate every night, but crazy to believe fate might chafe at being told what to do. I believed Rayna gave fate far too much credit for benevolence.
I stayed at the club only long enough so Rayna wouldn’t see me leave. She’d feel bad if she thought I’d gone out only for her benefit. Back at the hotel, I dove greedily for the room safe and unlocked it to grab my camera.
For as long as I can remember, photography has been my escape. My father gave me my first camera when I was only four. “Remember, Clea,” he told me, “taking pictures is a huge responsibility. Many cultures believe a photograph can capture one’s soul.”
As always, I’d listened solemnly to him, hanging on every word and believing it without question, even when Mom laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Grant, look at her,” she said, her voice filled with adoration for us both. “Her eyes are saucers. Tell her it’s not true.”
“It’s not true,” Dad agreed, but his back was to Mom and she couldn’t see what I did: He was crossing his fingers. I grinned, thrilled to be Dad’s co-conspirator.
From the minute Dad gave me the camera, I couldn’t get enough of it. He loved that. He was also a photography buff, and he was proud that I could always hang for the long hours in his basement studio. Both he and Mom claim I was very mommy-oriented before I got into photography, but I don’t remember that. In my memory, it was always Dad and me, talking, laughing, and sharing everything as we worked together to turn our pictures into art.
Rayna laughs at me. Given my antipathy for the paparazzi, she thinks it’s hysterical that I’m so attached to my cameras. But to me, what I do is the anti-paparazzi.
TMZsters want to capture surface. If a picture’s in focus, it’s great. My goal is to capture what the surface is hiding. There’s a story behind every face, every landscape, every still life. There’s a soul in every subject, and when my camera and I are really speaking, really working together properly, we can capture it.
In my hotel room, I placed the camera gently on my bed so I could pull on extra layers and brave the cold. I’d brought my favorite camera along for the trip—a DSLR my dad had bought me just before he left for his final GloboReach trip. Newer and supposedly better models have come out, but this one feels tailor-made for me.
Quickly I yanked off the cocktail dress and heels and pulled on a pair of silk long johns, my favorite jeans, a turtleneck, a thick pullover sweater, a hoodie, and a knit beanie hat. No gloves—gloves form a barrier between me and the camera; they break our connection.
Bundled as much as I could, I pulled open the door to the balcony and stepped outside. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and ice rimmed the wrought-iron railings and furniture. I gave the skyline a cursory view, knowing I wouldn’t really see it until I looked through the lens. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then lifted the camera to my eye. Immediately I started snapping. I could see it all from here: little cafés, markets and libraries tucked in until morning, and above it all, the breathtaking majesty of Notre Dame, glowing in spotlights that brought it vividly to life.
I stayed on the balcony for hours, capturing every tiny intricacy of the architecture, the street, the scattered people walking by. I snapped it all, and kept the Latin Quarter company until sunrise broke over the city and everything warmed just enough for me to realize my fingers had gone completely numb.
A perfect night; and I didn’t have to sleep.
I walked back into the room, felt immediately blasted by the heat, and silently thanked myself for the foresight to turn up the thermostat before I started shooting.
My hands were too numb to dial the phone at all successfully, but after two failed attempts I managed. I asked room service for a hot cocoa, their largest pot of hot tea, and a chocolate croissant, making sure they’d leave it outside the door if I didn’t answer. I planned to be in the shower until my skin turned lobster red and every bit of the cold was leached from my body.
Forty-five minutes later I was bundled in a cozy robe, sitting on my bed, drinking cocoa and munching the croissant. Heat still radiated from my body after the blisteringly wonderful shower, as delicious as the meal. Perfectly satisfied, I flipped on the news, curious if I might catch a glimpse of Mom. Where was she this week? I couldn’t remember. Was it Israel? Moscow? Could she actually be here in Europe? I leaned back on a stack of pillows and settled in to watch …
… and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by flames.
They were everywhere. I squeezed my eyes tight against the angry orange sear, but it didn’t help. I knew it was there; even behind my eyes I could see it.
And the smell. The pungent odor of toxic chemicals melting out of plastics, rugs, electronics. The sick scent of burning hair. Human hair. My hair?
No. I saw him now. The man staggering around the inferno that had once been a hotel room, flames dancing over his arms, his legs, his hair. He pounded at the flames, but it only fueled them, and as they leaped down to his face, the man turned to me, and I saw my father’s final agonized cry of-“NO!” I gasped, bolting upright. My heart raced, and tears of despair rolled down my cheeks. Where was I? I clutched for my necklace and found only the thick folds of my robe. Frightened and shaken, I looked around, completely disoriented, my nose hunting for the smell of fire.