There's a strange sense that comes over one when they find themselves free. Like the feeling of relief that you have when a full room of strangers is reduced to just you and the two people you actually know. The buzzing in your head from all the conversations you ever heard seems to stop and you realize that nothing anyone ever said to you was really all that important. Clarice Starling had known this sensation for over a year now. Technically, the long-legged woman sipping a tropical drink on the corner bistro was not Clarice Starling. Her name was Marguerite Sanford. Marguerite Sanford was the raven-haired beauty that Clarice had always secretly dreamed she'd grow up to be. After she had surpassed all her father's expectations, of course. Marguerite Sanford wore six-inch Gucci heels; short, but professional skirts, and double-breasted suit jackets. She also had a particular flare for making huge hats and sunglasses look good. It was an expensive life she lived now, but one that she had become accustomed to by studying the best.
And how did Marguerite Sanford afford everything that came with this fine life? By using every last penny that Clarice Starling had ever saved to begin an interior design business. Conceptions de Serenity, the business she owned and loved, hardly had any input from her these days. She had 62 employees, who worked in 9 peer groups for the current 16 clients that were pending. Marguerite Sanford spent her days lounging at cafés and going to fashion and design shows to see the latest fabrics and styles. She sipped her umbrella topped drink peacefully, not realizing that an ocean away, Will Graham had stumbled onto her little piece of paradise, and was in fact, heading towards it first class on the Concord.
"Margie! Bonjour Margie!" Across the street, another richly dressed women, waved aside traffic and crossed the Parisian street as though the world waited upon her word.
Clarice's boldly painted lips curled into a smile. "Bonjour, Stella."
"I am so sorry I am late, ma cher," Stella didn't look sorry at all. In the entire time she had known the woman, Clarice had never known Stella to arrive anything but "fashionably late". Clarice leaned forward to exchange the twin pecks on the cheek that she had originally abhorred and now found just a little comforting.
"Don't worry, Stel, I'm only on my second drink," Clarice smiled. To be truthful, she had only arrived at the time agreed upon so she could get in that first drink before Stella arrived. Usually she told Stella a time a half hour before she really wanted to meet. She motioned gracefully for a waiter. "Do you want something to drink?" she asked Stella.
"Oui," Stella proceeded to order a salad and water.
"And for you, Madame?" the waiter questioned Clarice in English.
Clarice surprised him by ordering her sandwich and a third, this time non-alcoholic drink, in French. Clarice remembered someone once saying that you must speak a language for seven years in order to be considered fluent. Three years of French in High School had definitely not prepared her for this life. When she wasn't dining at fine restaurants and bistros, she survived mainly on a diet of order in pizza and French soap operas. The shows, which at the very least could be described as distasteful, had quickly opened her to the world of French slang. She idly wondered if Francesca would ever get her act together and marry Louis.
Clarice was brought abruptly from her thoughts as Stella repeated her new name, apparently not for the first time. "Hmm?" Clarice finally managed, refocusing her eyes on Stella's suddenly smug little face.
"Margie, you're daydreaming again!" Stella seemed absolutely gleeful over this. "Now, come, enough fooling around! Tell me his name."
Clarice laughed. "Honestly, Stella, there isn't a name to tell."
"You can't fool me, Margie. You're always sitting alone at little bistros like this. Watching the people go by, as if all the time expecting someone. You were even doing it today! You are always staring off. Thinking of something else. Someone else." Stella leaned forward and caught her eye even through the sunglasses Clarice had pushed up to cover her expression.
"Stella, I was waiting for you. Of course I was looking around to see if you were coming! Now tell me, what was so urgent that you wanted to meet this afternoon."
Stella gave a little pout as if unwilling to give up the chance of teasing Clarice, but as always, a chance to talk about Stella was a chance Stella couldn't pass up.
"Well, you see, there's this party tonight…"
Clarice groaned.
Stella went on, undaunted. "And all of fashionable Paris will be there. You know, the designers and the musicians and the directors and the other actors and …" she paused dramatically. "And the writers will be there…"
"So you want me to go with you to protect you in case Charles is there."
"No!" Stella seemed outraged at the very thought. "I want you to go to protect me because I know Charles will be there." Stella put on her best pout. "Please, Margie? Please? You know how he scares me."
Clarice was allowed a slight repast as her sandwich was brought. She stared at the little air holes in the wheat bread. Clarice imagined Stella was supposed to be one of her closest friends here. She was self-centered, idiotic, and shallow. Charles, on the other hand, the man Stella accused of stalking her, was brilliant. He wrote screenplays, most of which were too intellectual to ever make it in Hollywood, and only a few of which were dumbed down enough to make it in Paris. Charles was, truthfully, one of the most luminous people she had ever met. He was practically the only one in Paris she really enjoyed talking to. Unfortunately, Charles had ironically become star struck with Stella. Not that Clarice had any romantic ideas about Charles, but she often thought he could definitely do better than the superficial Stella de Barbaou.
Stella was still eyeing her closely when she glanced up, but her face immediately went into a pout when she noticed the movement of Clarice's head. "Alright, I'll go." Stella looked self-satisfied, as if there could be no other outcome but this. But I have nothing to wear…"
"Oh, I've already taken care of that," Stella sipped her drink. "I ordered you that beautiful dress you liked at the fashion show. You know, the pink one that would have looked better in violet?" Stella didn't wait for Clarice to acknowledge this fact. "Well, I had it ordered, in violet, and it's waiting down at Marie St. Claire's. You have an appointment with Julie. She's freed her entire afternoon to make the dress perfect for you."
Clarice might have been impressed with Stella's thoughtfulness if she had done it for any reason other than to help herself stay away from her ex-fiancé. Also, she didn't like Stella's cheek of assuming that she would go. One of these times, I'm really going to leave her hanging, she vowed to herself.
"What time do I have to be there?"
"Half past twelve," Stella said confidently.
"Stella," Clarice was looking past her head at the tower clock. "That's in fifteen minutes." She waved the waiter over. "It'll take me that just to get across town. Box this, please?" she indicated her untouched sandwich to the waiter.
"Well," Stella said, settling down to leisurely eat her salad with a little smile. "You'd better hurry and hail a taxi or whatever it is you Americans call it."
Clarice glared and snatched the box from the waiter's hands. She didn't bother to pay. She figured Stella owed her a lot more than just a lunch.
