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Paul pressed send; the message status turned almost immediately to read. Must have got the timing just right, he noted with satisfaction.
A light caress at the nape of his neck drew his attention away from his mobile.
“Are you very bored, mon chéri?” came Sophie’s murmur in his ear, the lilting cadence of her French accent betraying her amusement.
Paul turned, smiling as she rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Just making myself useful,” he said, raising the phone to show her the screen. “Kate should be bringing out dessert around now, best time to get some answers.”
“Ah, charming,” Sophie pouted, brushing her fingers down the lapel of his suit jacket. “That’s what every woman wants to hear from her fiancé on a glamorous night out, that he’s texting his ex-wife.”
“Hey, you tasked me with this,” Paul protested playfully, turning as he sensed the barman setting their drinks down on the burnished wood of the bar at his elbow. “Cheers,” he said with a nod to the young man as he picked up the two coupe glasses. “And for the record, I’m not texting Kate, I’m texting Emily,” he continued, turning back to hand one to his fiancée, careful not to spill the pale amber drink. “Better chance of getting a response sometime this century.”
“Mm, I will allow it,” Sophie said airily as she accepted the drink, her eyes twinkling with good humour.
Paul shook his head good-naturedly. “You’re so generous,” he said wryly, clinking their glasses together lightly. “Besides, it was your idea to invite Kate to the wedding.”
“She’s the mother of your children,” Sophie said matter of factly, taking a sip and pursing her lips appreciatively. “That makes us family.”
Children, plural.
Paul smiled and sipped his own drink, the bright citrusy tang of the Sidecar a refreshing counterpoint to the warm glow spreading in his chest. Sophie knew about Gordy’s parentage, but it made no difference to her. “You raised the boy for long enough, he’s yours in every way that matters,” she had said with a shrug the first time they’d had an in-depth conversation about the kids.
Considering how divided his own family had always been on that point… It meant a lot.
Sometimes he wondered if Sophie’s expansive attitude to family was a French thing, or just uniquely her.
Leaning back against the edge of the bar, Paul observed his fiancée in profile as she took another sip and looked out across the floor, sharp eyes scanning the room. He let his gaze linger on the little smile curling her lips, the shade of her lipstick matching the burgundy of her evening gown; her elegant cheekbones framed by a few strands of auburn hair that had escaped the chic updo, and the subtle lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
What are the odds of being so lucky twice in a row?
“Besides, I did it with my first ex-husband, it was nice,” Sophie said, pulling Paul out of his musings.
“Did what, sorry?”
“Invited him to my second wedding,” Sophie replied, as if that were obvious. “We had a lovely time.”
“Right, and that turned out swimmingly,” Paul said with a smirk, then grinned as she let out a little snort.
“Third time's the charm,” she said indulgently, and raised her glass in a toast before taking another sip.
“Mm, let’s hope,” he replied, mirroring the gesture. A buzz sounded as his mobile vibrated on the bar counter; he picked it up and frowned, reading the message. “Huh. She’s asking if she can bring a plus one.”
Sophie arched an eyebrow, eyeing him critically. “Are you really going to— what’s the word— begrudge her? Considering that you are bringing one yourself,” she pointed out.
Paul blinked. “No, it’s just—” He broke off and rolled his eyes, catching the tiny sardonic smile. Right. She was teasing him. “I had no idea she was seeing someone,” he explained. “That seriously, I mean.”
Those last few years, it had seemed like Kate never had any time for romance —nor any appetite for it, really. They’d still been intimate, from time to time, but it hadn’t felt—
He bit his lip. When the divorce had gone through, he had assumed Kate might revert back to her more casual approach to sex and relationships.
“Does it have to be serious?” Sophie asked curiously.
Paul met her gaze, raising his eyebrows. “For her to bring a date to a family event? Deadly serious,” he replied, then broke into a smirk. “Last time it happened, she ended up marrying the guy.”
“Hah! Well then, we should definitely say yes,” Sophie exclaimed, taking his mobile out of his hand. Before he could muster a reaction, she had typed a string of emojis and pressed send with a flourish. “Et voilà.”
Paul chuckled a little ruefully. His fiancée’s impulsive nature was not always her easiest personality trait, but it certainly made things interesting. “Are you sure you didn’t leave out any emojis?” he asked, eyeing the colourful message.
“Emojis no, but you’re right that I forgot something,” Sophie said with a cute grin, her eyes twinkling as she met his gaze before starting to type again. “Let’s find out if this mystery man has a name.”
—o—0—o—
“Just ‘Osgood’?” Sophie challenged, brow furrowing in bemusement.
Paul shrugged, showing her the one-word text from Emily. It had taken a surprisingly long time for his daughter to respond to Sophie’s second text, and in the meantime Sophie had spotted an acquaintance across the room and set off in pursuit, dragging him along. They had caught up with the older gentleman in question, and there had been a brief exchange of pleasantries; then Paul’s mobile had buzzed in his pocket, and Sophie had pulled him away again.
“Didn’t you want to talk to him more?” Paul asked, tilting his head discreetly toward the man they’d just left as he put his mobile back in his pocket.
“That old goat? No thank you,” Sophie muttered underneath her breath. “I just needed a reason to cross over to this side of the room so we can go bump into that fellow over there on our way to the buffet,” she added, throwing a significant look in the direction of another man in an expensive-looking dinner jacket.
“Ah,” Paul said, not terribly surprised. He was still fairly new to the world of fundraising, but he’d attended enough professional receptions and galas in his career to recognise the social codes. “Lead on, then.”
“It does remind me of something, though,” Sophie said absently as she steered him through the gathering with a gentle press to his elbow. “That name, Osgood,” she continued, furrowing her brow. “I know it from somewhere.”
“I don’t suppose you’re thinking of Samuel Osgood, first Postmaster General of the United States,” Paul suggested playfully.
Sophie shot him an amused look. “Quite definitely not,” she replied. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a reason to think about that job, let alone who was in it at any particular point in history.”
“Well, it’s a rather important job, if you think about it,” Paul said mildly, doubling down on the topic. He knew she would humour him; besides, it was good to look like you were engaged in conversation, in this sort of setting. “People usually think Benjamin Franklin was the first, but that was before the end of the Revolutionary War,” he continued. “Franklin was technically Postmaster General of the Continental Congress. Whereas Samuel Osgood was appointed by George Washington as a member of the federal government of the newly formed United States.”
“Clearly a very important distinction,” Sophie said with an indulgent smile.
“Mhm,” Paul hummed. “Quite. I got very interested in the history of postal services as a little boy,” he admitted with a small grin. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy someday.”
“You’re such a— un intello,” Sophie chuckled, shaking her head. “However you say that in English. But I’m thinking of something else— Oh! I have it,” she exclaimed, stopping him in place. “It’s from a film, what is it called? Allez. With Marilyn.”
She said the name the French way, and it took Paul a second to even parse it as such. “Marilyn?”
“Monroe!” she exclaimed, swatting his arm lightly as if it was an offense not to make the association immediately. “Old Hollywood film from the fifties, in black and white. I forget the title,” she said with a huff of frustration. “The one about the two musicians who are on the run from the Mafia and disguise themselves as women to join an all-girl jazz band. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon, and Marilyn is the singer. Allez, zut, c’est quoi le nom de ce film,” she huffed again, reverting to her native French in her effort to remember the film’s name.
Paul bit his lip; that wasn’t exactly his era —nor genre— of film expertise. “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?” he said tentatively, his brain serving up the only Marilyn Monroe film he could think of in the moment. Shaky ground, considering, but—
“No, not that one,” Sophie said dismissively. “The other one.” She clicked her tongue. “Ah! Certains L’Aiment Chaud!” she exclaimed, eyes widening in triumph. “Oh, what is it in English… Some Like It Hot,” she added with satisfaction. “Un classique!”
“If you say so,” Paul said, amused. “I don’t think I’ve seen it.” He had no idea what she was going on about, but she looked even more gorgeous when she got worked up like this; her eyes twinkling, cheeks flushing a bit, the hand not holding her drink gesturing extravagantly. Everyone always went on about Italians talking with their hands, but the French really gave them a run for their money sometimes.
Sophie tutted. “Oh, you really must see it,” she chided. “It’s very funny. Mais bon, voilà, while the two guys are disguised as women, one of them falls in love with Marilyn’s character of course, Sugar, who is a very nice girl, but you know, not that smart, so that leads to some funny situations; and the other guy decides to seduce a millionaire named Osgood something. Osgood!” she insisted, punctuating the name with a hand gesture. “That’s where I knew it from. It’s an unusual name, is it not?”
“I suppose,” Paul replied agreeably. He was a little intrigued by the gender-bending aspects of the plot; for the fifties, that would have been quite daring, though if the cross-dressing was just used as an easy punchline, the intent might not have been particularly progressive. “And why exactly was he doing that? Seducing the millionaire, I mean?”
“To get money to get away, of course,” Sophie replied with a shrug. “What’s funny is that he succeeds beyond his wildest expectations,” she added joyfully, letting out a high-pitched peal of laughter that made a few heads turn around them.
“Oh, pardon,” Sophie said politely but entirely unapologetically, raising her eyebrows dramatically and taking another sip of her drink before resuming her story. “So at the end, there is this classic scene where Osgood, the millionaire— he’s driving them all away to his yacht in his speedboat, you know, to escape from the gangsters, and he asks Jack Lemon to marry him. Jerry, I mean, his character. He’s still disguised as a woman, talking in a falsetto,” she clarified seriously. “So Jerry tries to come up with excuses for why they can’t get married; he says because he drinks, and he can’t have children, and bla bla bla, but every time, Osgood says that’s not a problem, he doesn’t mind. They can adopt, etcetera,” Sophie tittered. “And finally Jerry gives up; he rips off his wig and says with his normal voice, ‘Osgood, I’m a man!’ And Osgood just smiles happily and shrugs and says, ‘Nobody’s perfect’, and that’s the end of the film!” she exclaimed, throwing her hand up again in emphasis.
“Oh, my,” Paul chuckled, even more amused by Sophie’s delight than by the final twist, although he had to admit he was duly surprised. Wonder how they got that past the Hayes Code.
“Oh my is right,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “I told you, it makes an impression.” She had taken his mobile out again and was googling for images. “See, this is the guy,” she said, holding up the small screen. “Osgood, I mean.”
Paul peered at the gentleman in a dapper white suit jacket and black bow tie looking up admiringly at a very obviously cross-dressing Jack Lemon. “I very much doubt that’s the Osgood Kate is seeing,” he said good-naturedly. And Kate wouldn’t be caught dead in that dress.
“Mm, too bad,” Sophie pouted. “If she’d nabbed herself a millionaire, I could ask him for a donation. Oh, speaking of which, there’s our opening,” she declared, her gaze refocusing on a point behind him. She tugged on his arm, suddenly laser-focused on her objective once again. “Come on, let’s go.”
Turning to follow Sophie without question through the crowd, Paul let his mind drift to this mysterious Osgood person whom Kate was evidently so serious about, and wondered if he was attending the dinner with the kids.
Maybe we could offer to pick up Emily on our way home…