Trish woke up with a massive headache. She opened one eye and looked around the room. Where was she? It was an enormous space with huge floor to ceiling windows, draped with velvet curtains that didn’t quite hide the fact that it was morning and the full blast of daylight was awaiting her, the sun impatiently calling her name and reprimanding her.
For what, she asked herself groggily. For dancing the tango? That’s not such a bad thing. For drinking with Monsieur Veuve Clicquot?
For kissing Monsieur Veuve Cliquot!
Naughty girl, she told herself, stretching and lifting her head up off the couch, smiling now at the thought of Monsieur Veuve Cliquot, the man who looked just like Clive Owen, only French.
Still, that wasn’t the thing that was itching at her subconscious, nagging her brain about some forgotten slight. Oh my gosh, she thought. Class! Damnit! Best and worst photos. Bad, bad, bad, she scolded herself, getting up out of the makeshift bed. What the heck happened last night? She stood up, the room spinning slightly, her stomach growling and she realized, she was not wearing the Betsy Johnson sequin frock anymore, but instead she was wearing a bathrobe. A silk Chinese red bathrobe. Oh no, I am bad. What exactly happened with her and the tango-dancing Monsieur Veuve Clicquot!?
Better get dressed, she thought, searching for her sequin shoes, her own version of the ruby slippers.
Yes, I'd better get the heck out of this place—this palatial, gorgeous apartment, located who knows where? Trish tiptoed over to the window to have a look outside. Something was off, in reverse, out of balance. In fact, she realized the Seine was not where it was supposed to be, and that she was no longer in Kansas, Toto. No, somehow or another, she was not longer on the Left Bank and had landed on the Right Bank!
To be continued....
P.S. What exactly did happen last night? I'd love a suggestion that's not what we might immediately assume...