How to Bed a Millionaire Read online

  My parents, bless their generosity, give me some money. As much as they can afford. Nowadays, Mom is basically a housewife and mother. Back in the US she was a French teacher, but when she married Dad and they settled in France, she stopped teaching. Now, she accepts the occasional translation job, which if it doesn’t make her rich at least keeps her busy.

  Dad is an English teacher, by the way. Comfortable in terms of job security, but no get-rich-quick-scheme, either.

  And no, I know what you’re thinking, but their jobs have nothing to do with the choice of my studies. Don’t ask me what I want to do once I’ve finished, but one thing is certain: I’d rather have my dick chopped off than become a teacher. That’s not a job; it’s a vocation. A sacrifice.

  What I’m trying to tell you is that we’re not what you’d call loaded. My parents make ends meet, but my younger sister Judy is still living at home. She’s sixteen, and sixteen-year-old girls seem to cost huge amounts of money nowadays. You know, clothes and make-up and stuff we boys don’t require. Judy’s a doll, even though she can be annoying at times. There’s nothing she likes better than to take the piss out of me. As she’s the smart one, her jibes often leave me speechless.

  Sorry, I’m babbling. But I’m just so relieved. And so excited. I mean, I have a summer job, guys! In a ritzy summer resort on the ritzy Côte d’Azur.

  I don’t think Dirk was aware of the Côte d’Azur-part, by the way. He might have chosen to take the job if he had been. Think of the beautiful landscapes. And the sea. And the food.

  And the gorgeous guys I’m sure the area is swarming with.

  There might even be the odd millionaire to be met. Just saying.

  Not that I’m venal, but Dirk is.

  Maybe I shouldn’t tell him, what do you think?

  Just kidding.

  It’s too late for him to change his mind.

  You can bet that I’m so going to rub it in!

  “Dad—what’s wrong with Betty?”

  “Dad—what’s wrong with Betty?” I whine for the umpteenth time. “Do you still think you’ll be able to fix her today?”

  Dad is lying under Betty and panting. He waves his hand, which could mean anything from ‘Of course’ to ‘Wait and see’ to ‘Don’t get your hopes up too high.’

  Oops. Sorry. There seems to be an unwarranted double entendre in one of the previous sentences.

  For the sake of clarity: Betty is my car. A battered old Twingo I bought for next to nothing right after my eighteenth birthday. I named her Betty because at the beginning she was a nice old lady with an occasional penchant for mischief. Just like my favorite actress ever, Betty White.

  Betty’s now worth less than nothing—the car, not the actress, who’s still spruce and sharp, thank God—because I hardly ever use her. The car. You don’t drive one in Paris when you can avoid it, so she’s been gathering dust and rust in my parents’ garage for a year and a half. She’s still working, kind of, because I’m sure my mom includes her in her evening prayers. And my dad has a knack for first-aid repairs. That is, he thinks he has, and he tries to fix any shortcomings himself, with mixed results. But mixed results are still better than asking me to have a look; I’m known to be a technical dunce.

  The problem is, I called yesterday to tell them about my summer job. And I announced that I’d come out today, pay them a visit, stay overnight, and incidentally pick up Betty.

  Dad, on summer vacation and bored out of his mind, immediately offered to give the old girl a wash.

  When I arrived this morning, he welcomed me with an apologetic smile. He was all alone as Mom had dragged Judy to the nearest supermarket to help her with the weekly shopping.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news, son,” Dad said after he hugged me extensively as if to console me in advance.

  I feared the worst. “Tell me the good news first.”

  “Your car’s over there, all cleaned up and looking as dapper as Roger Moore in a tuxedo.”

  “Okay. And the bad news?”

  “Well, Betty might have a problem.”

  “Major or minor?”

  “That’s your call, son.”

  “Dad!”

  “Well… er… we had to push Betty out of the garage because she wouldn’t start.”

  I buried my face in my hands and moaned. “That’s not even a major problem, Dad! It’s a disaster!”

  Dad patted my shoulder and said cheerily, “Now, now, son, don’t give me your drama queen spiel. We’ll fix it.”

  “Today?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “And by ‘we’, you mean…”

  “I’ll fix it. But you’re going to keep me company. Deal?”

  “Deal. I’ll even hand you the… screwdrivers and stuff if you describe them with sufficient detail.” As I said, all things technical are terra incognita to me.

  That’s how we ended up with Dad under Betty and me sitting on the lawn watching him pant and fondle different parts and getting dirtier and sweatier by the minute. Not disgruntled because my dad, ever the optimist, doesn’t even know what that word means.

  He’s been giving it his all for the last two hours. Yet I’m not sure he really knows what he’s doing because I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t have a clue what’s wrong with the car. That explains why I keep pestering him with my questions. It might also explain Dad’s vague hand gesture which I’m pretty sure means ‘The bitch is dead.’

  The bitch being Betty. The car, not the actress.

  I worship that woman.

  Half an hour later, the die is cast. We’re both sitting on the lawn, sipping beers, and staring morosely at Betty. Around us lie several engine parts I suspect Dad has taken out and doesn’t know where to put back. He’d never admit it, but sometimes I think he’s as technically talented as I.

  “I guess I’ll have to take the train, after all,” I say gloomily.

  Dad sighs. “I’m afraid that’s the best solution.”

  The only solution now Betty is missing some parts, I silently add.

  That’s when we hear Mom’s car coming down the gravel path.

  To give you a brief geographical rundown, my parents are living in Sainte-Gudule. You’ve probably never heard of it, and that’s okay. No one has—not even the GPS, and I’m not kidding. People have tried to locate it with that device. They always ended up calling us so that we could give them the necessary instructions to find us. It’s a small village on the outest outskirts of Paris, so out that the city feels like a fairy tale. We have, what? Five hundred souls living here. One main street, a church, the town hall, a bakery—thank God for that! The rest is forests, fields, and farms.

  I know the village by heart as I’ve grown up here. It’s… bucolic if you want to be charitable. A godforsaken dump if you’re not. Anyway, our house is situated at the outest outskirts of even that dump, so there’s only a gravel path connecting us to what passes for civilization in Sainte-Gudule proper.

  On the positive side, we’re not often bothered by stray salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  A minute later, Mom’s convertible stops in our driveway. She drives the only pink Fiat 500 that ever existed, I’m sure. Probably custom-made for someone color-blind who finally had second thoughts and never picked it up. Along came Mom, saw it in the window of the Fiat dealership, and it was love at first sight.

  Mom hops out of the car and waves at us. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!” she shouts. “My favorite guys, side by side!”

  My sister Judy gets out of the car, too, and stretches. In her tight, very short jeans shorts and white halter top, she looks like she’s posing for a sexy all-American streetwear brand. She’s not only the one with the brains but also the one with the looks. Think a very young and slim Beyoncé.

  Annoying, I told you.

  Ju
dy yawns. Then she squints at me and says, “God, Trevor. I told you, get some muscles on that body.”

  I say, “Hey, bumblebee-brains.”

  “Hey, fart-face.”

  We smile at each other while I walk over to Mom’s car. I hug Mom, then I hug Judy, who makes a face and sniffs. “Yikes! You reek!”

  “We’ve been working hard on Betty,” I protest.

  Judy just snorts. “Says the guy who can’t tell a nail from a screw. I’m sure all you’ve been doing was watching Dad work and whine.”

  Which is… spot-on. Nonetheless, I stick out my tongue at her.

  Mom is already hauling grocery bags into the house. “Stop bitching, kids, and give me a hand, will you?”

  Both Judy and I obey. So does Dad. Mom believes in sharing household chores, and Dad has learned not to contradict her.

  When everything is stowed away, we have lunch on the terrace, and Dad spills the beans about Betty.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Mom says, “Well, there’s only one solution, then.”

  Judy hides a smirk; she must have understood where this is heading to.

  “Is there?” I ask.

  “You’ll take Sean, of course,” Mom states matter-of-factly.

  Both she and Dad are huge James Bond fans, Mom with a preference for Sean Connery, Dad for Roger Moore. That’s why she calls her car Sean.

  Yes, we give our cars names. Don’t ask why. It’s a family thing.

  I try not to cringe. “Sean?” I ask. “But you need your car.”

  “Nonsense. It’s summer. We can use Roger.”

  Dad’s car. You’re welcome.

  Judy’s smirk gets broader. Both of us agree that Mom’s car is a car for floozies. Because, hello? A Fiat 500? A pink Fiat 500? We wouldn’t dream of telling Mom, but ever since she bought Sean, we’ve been giggling behind her back.

  “Just be careful on the road, Trevor. You know how much Sean means to me,” Mom says and pats my hand.

  All right. No need to try to dissuade her. Mom is as stubborn as a mule, so I’ll have to bite the bullet and drive down to the French Riviera in that pink monstrosity.

  I guess once I’ve reached my destination, I’ll take public transport if I need to move around.

  Because nothing shouts “poofter” louder than a poofty guy in a pink floozy car.

  I should have taken the train

  I should have taken the train. Any sensible person—that is, any person over twenty-five—would have done so without thinking twice.

  But. I’m twenty. And Judy always says my common sense and reason are as well-developed as my muscles.

  It would be, ha ha, very funny if it weren’t so accurate.

  My nonexistent common sense must be the sole reason I’m willing to undertake the 1,000 kilometer journey with Sean. In pretty good spirits, too, which tells you how ignorant I am of what lies ahead.

  In the evening, I set out to prepare everything, but oddly, I run out of time. The thing is, I forgot to bring a suitcase or travelling bag. Always solicitous, Judy is willing to lend me her old Barbie suitcase. I’m sure you can imagine her smirk when she extends that offer. Go figure why, I prefer to turn it down.

  Mom then says she can try to locate her own suitcase. Again, I say she shouldn’t bother. Because, well, I have an inkling hers wouldn’t be much better than Judy’s. Although not being color-blind, Mom loves the weirdest colors and patterns.

  When she has gone to bed, I finally stuff two pairs of jeans, two pairs of shorts, flip-flops, a bunch of T-shirts, and some underwear plus my toiletries into two plastic bags sporting the logo of a supermarket before hastily shoving them into Sean’s trunk.

  These last-minute preparations prevent me from consulting Google Maps. That’s why I’m doing it last-minute while having a very early breakfast, the next morning.

  The app warns me I’m in for eight and a half hours of driving nonstop. Okay, it doesn’t really warn me, right? It just states it in its matter-of-factly way. Someone should have warned me, nonetheless. At random, let’s say my parents? Parents are supposed to be the wise ones in a family.

  Alas, in my family? Don’t count on it.

  Mom simply forces two huge coolers upon me. White with red polka dots because Mom. They are both filled to the brim with sandwiches and Tupperware boxes. Maybe she has read about food shortages down south I’m not aware of?

  Dad beams at me and murmurs something about the spirit of adventure and how this trip will make me grow as a person. I feel like Indiana Jones setting out to find the Holy Grail.

  Judy is the only one convinced this is a bad idea. The only one who voices it, at any rate. During breakfast, she says, “You’re completely nuts, Trevor. I hope you know it.”

  “I’ll miss you too, little sis,” I say, choking up because, hey, she cares.

  She snorts, then mumbles, “Irresponsible bunch of nutcases, that’s what y’all are. I wash my hands in innocence…”

  It’s five thirty in the morning when I wave my last good-byes and see my parents and Judy disappear in the rearview mirror.

  Once I’ve left our good old, dumpy Sainte-Gudule behind, I drive down the national highway that’ll join the A5 freeway somewhere near the famous Vaulx-le-Vicomte Château. I do feel adventurous. Thanks, Dad, for having stuffed that nonsense into my head.

  The weather is splendid, the sun has just risen above the horizon. I cross sleepy but precious-looking burgs, hamlets, and villages while listening to my favorite mixes on SoundCloud. My mood is as cloudless as the blue sky above me.

  Sean turns out to be a great car, too. He smoothly obeys whatever I ask him to do. Mom loves Dad, but she’s a down-to-earth woman. That means she has her car checked once a year by a professional. That shows—sorry, Dad.

  Once on the freeway, however, I discover that Sean has serious speed issues. In other words, he’s sluggish as hell. He makes up for his reluctant acceleration by providing a steady background noise that completely drowns out the music.

  Things get better when I reach my cruising speed of 130 km/h. Not noise-wise, but at least Sean doesn’t rattle and shake and spit and cough. Betty normally does that when you ask her to go faster than 80.

  I have a sudden intuition that Dad’s skillfully putting my car out of order is a blessing in disguise. The old dame would never have survived the entire 1,000 kilometers. Sean is pink and loud, but he doesn’t seem on the brink of breaking down. I switch off the music and hum to myself, dreaming of the beautiful landscapes, the sea, the food, and eventually the beautiful southern hunks. I also remember the money I’ll earn. As promised, Mademoiselle Destrelle sent me the contract right after our interview. I discovered that my wages are more than decent.

  I spot the first exit signs announcing Sens. That’s wonderful, the first 100 kilometers are behind me!

  Then I look at the clock. It’s…

  Bummer.

  Seven thirty a.m.

  I thought it would be much earlier. I also realize there are 900 kilometers left.

  That’s the first time I ask myself what’s wrong with me. Instead of driving this pink little noise box, I could be sitting in a French high-speed train right now. They whisk you from Paris to the French Riviera in relative comfort.

  And more importantly, in six hours and forty minutes.

  Life lesson #1

  Fiat 500s are not your best choice for long-distance trips.

  When I reach Nice, I feel like a chewed-up marshmallow

  When I reach Nice, I feel like a chewed-up marshmallow.

  The longer version would be that I’m cramped all over, especially my arms and legs. My back is aching, my head ready to explode, and I’m exhausted and awfully hot. Because here’s the thing: Sean doesn’t have fucking AC.

  Yeah, it begs belief, right? No! AC! I don’t know what Mom wa
s thinking when she bought the car. Not only because of the color, which we could continue discussing at length, but because it doesn’t even offer this most basic commodity. Oh, and don’t talk to me about the environment! After 1,000 fucking kilometers in fucking July in a car without a fucking AC, I’m sorry to say that I don’t give a shit about the environment.

  On my long, long way down to the Côte d’Azur, I stopped four times at freeway service area to stretch my legs, hail the call of nature—have a piss, that is—and munch a sandwich. During the last stretch, I could have enjoyed the frequent glimpses of the increasingly beautiful southern landscapes, but I really wasn’t in the mood. Probably too busy wiping the sweat from my eyes, too. And I simply wanted this ghastly experience to be over and the frigging Côte d’Azur to come in bloody sight.

  I sigh with relief when I leave the freeway near the Nice airport at 6:10 p.m. and turn onto the boulevard René Cassin.

  Next thing, I push the power sunroof switch above my head, and it opens. More relief—fresh air comes rushing in! Did I mention I wouldn’t be sweatier if I had walked down to the Côte d’Azur? Or crawled?

  Traffic is dense—does evening rush hour ring a bell?—but I’m too wiped out to care. I doggedly drive on, stop at red lights, step on the brakes when another moron slows down suddenly, work the gears like a robot, and follow the instructions on Goggle Maps.

  After some time, I catch my first glimpse of the beautiful Rade de Villefranche-sur-Mer, a large roadstead on the other side of which the peninsula of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat is jutting out like a long, gnarly finger into the Mediterranean. So many celebrities have sojourned here—from crowned heads to Winston Churchill, from Charlie Chaplin, David Niven, or Liz Taylor to Keith Richards and Bono Vox—that it has become the epitome of glitziness. And a byword for exceedingly high square meter prices.