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secret, unofficial meeting—in other words, he was using the jet for his own personal use.
    He and Alexandre spoke to one another in their native tongue, and it was translated to me that the politician didn’t want to seem rude, but he had a ton of work to do before we landed, so did we mind if he kept to himself during the flight? Thank goodness. My pidgin French would have been an embarrassment, coupled with the fact that, while we were walking up the ramp to embark, a breeze of air blew the skirt of my dress up above my thighs, and I was sure this high-ranking government man saw my bare, private parts. Alexandre laughed—the man, he decided, was too ugly to pose a threat. “I don’t know,” I teased, “I could be the next Carla Bruni.”
    “Socialism in action for you!” Alexandre said with a wry grin. “Our government was probably paying for his mistress somewhere, maybe a private apartment, here or in Paris—don’t you just love the double standards?”
    “And what about us? Is this flight a freebie, courtesy of the poor French tax payers?” I asked.
    “Let’s just say the French government owes me a couple of big favors. I’m sorry to say, I have no control, whatsoever, with how they manage their budget. We’re coming along for the ride, Pearl, that’s all.”
    “We’re taking advantage of a dishonest situation. That could be construed as immoral.”
    “I’m an opportunist, Pearl.” His smile was bad-boy. “Just like you.”
    “I . . .” I stammered.
    “You knew what you wanted and you came after it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The way you sucked your iced cappuccino through that straw when we first met at the coffee shop. Flicking your tongue around your lips.”
    “It was you! You were doing that—licking your lips, staring into me with those startling eyes of yours, getting me all hot and bothered.”
    “I wanted to fuck you there and then.”
    “Well, why didn’t you?” I demanded. “What took you so long?”
    “Because I was hoping you’d be . . . how can I say this?”
    “Begging for it.”
    He laughs. “You said it, not me.”
    I stared out the window as we took off. I loved that dip in my stomach the plane made—it reminded me how I’d felt these past few weeks. Alive. On the edge. I watched the twinkling city of New York gradually fade below—the lights of matchbox cars turn to tiny dots. Alexandre had one hand on my bare thigh and the other tapping on his iPad, writing notes.
    “Sorry, just doing a list,” he explained, “of things I need to get done.”
    “You’re a list writer then?”
    “That way, the problems are no longer swirling about in my head, but committed to paper, or these days, my iPad. That way they have less power over me, I don’t have to think about them anymore, at least not until I look at my list and systematically knock each thing off when the time is right. It ensures a good night’s sleep.” He shot me a sly glance. “One of my secrets of success.”
    “Like Madonna.”
    He knotted his brow. “Madonna?”
    “She also writes lists of things to get done.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because my brother is obsessed by her. He also informed me that Beyoncé wears four pairs of pantyhose on stage to keep it all in place.”
    “She must get very hot.”
    “To use your expression, ‘tricks of the trade.’ Secrets of success.”
    “And what’s your secret of success?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Ah, that would be telling.”
    Alexandre nodded over to the direction of his highfaluting friend. “So much for him getting important work done—he’s already fast asleep. Look, he’s snoring.”
    We are at one end of . . . I would like to say, “room” – it was so spacious—and this man, wearing old-style spectacles, was at the other. He looked like a schoolteacher, not a politician. If I’d known anything about French politics, I suppose I would have been impressed, but I didn’t have a clue whom he was.
    “Are