Everything can be bought

Chapter I

Gigantic, everything was gigantic. I arrived in a black car driven by a professional chauffeur who, upon my arrival at Miami airport, held a sign with my name and first name, just like in the movies. This small man, of Asian origin, quite elderly and speaking remarkable French, told me he had been sent by Mr. Duchastel, the owner of the house where I was going to stay during my time here. It wasn't my idea, nor was it within my means, but my publishing house had been convincing. According to them, a trip to the other side of the world, a large empty house, glass windows overlooking the sea, it was the ideal situation to start writing a new novel. So they paid for everything. The plane, the rental of the house, and apparently a driver. This one, placid but smiling, drove through Miami and informed me that I would meet Mr. Duchastel before he boarded a plane for a major meeting with members of the American commission on green economy. Gibberish, all I understood was that the wealthy owner of an overly large house was going to lecture me on being respectful towards his flashy mansion.

The car drove through the city, along the sea, crossed it, then took a long street that meandered between large properties.

-- This is Mariah Carey's house," the driver told me.

What could a little French author possibly do among the extravagant residences of David Guetta and Paris Hilton? I had no idea.

After several turns, the driver turned between two big trees and we passed under an arch. As we passed, the large gate closed on its own. Turning around, I saw the house I was going to live in for a week for the first time. A massive white concrete block pierced on all sides, it was an architect's eccentricity, the kind of house you only see on TV. After a long curve to avoid a large basin where birds frolicked merrily, my driver stopped the car. Before he had a chance to go around the large black car, I had already gotten out. Then he went directly to the trunk and took out my things. I tried to help, but it seemed that people with chauffeurs were not supposed to do anything themselves for fear of appearing ashamed proletarians. Anyway, I barely had time to offer my help to the driver when a man arrived from the wide wooden door of the house:

-- Madame Perret! Welcome to Miami!

I immediately understood that this was the famous Mr. Duchastel. He was tall, with brown hair neatly arranged in orderly waves, an impeccable beard, and a gray suit worthy of the greatest moments of spy films. He came to meet me and took my hand to greet me.

-- I am Charles Duchastel, and I am delighted to meet you!

-- Roxane... Roxane Perret, also delighted.

While he greeted me, monopolizing my hand, captive between his, the driver passed in front of us and went off laboriously with my two large suitcases. When Duchastel finally let go of my hand, he went to close the car trunk, then he came back to me and said,

-- Please, come in.

A concrete walkway spanned a verdant stream and led to the front door. Duchastel preceded me and waited for me in front of the open door. As soon as we entered, we could see the blue of the waves. On the other side of a large room, as high as a cathedral, gargantuan windows revealed the calm waves of the ocean.

-- This is a house I had built in 2007, a year after my arrival in the city. Before that, there was an old barn on this land, dating back to the 19th century.

It was kind of him to introduce me to the place with its history, but I couldn't care less. I dreamed of a small cottage near Loch Ness, a cabin on a Swedish fjord, or a chalet in the Alps, the absolute opposite of this concrete palace in the city of decadence. Despite my lack of interest in the tour and meeting Duchastel, he was kind. He showed me the bedroom, the large living room, the kitchen, and several bathrooms. When we reached the fourth bathroom, he burst out laughing, hands on his hips:

-- Every time I show the house, I wonder what drives architects to make so many bathrooms...

I was thinking that I might use one, maybe two if I felt adventurous. He sat on the edge of the whirlpool bath and, embarrassed, he confessed:

-- You know, I've never showered in this bathroom. And the one downstairs, I've never set foot in the tub. The whirlpool is very nice, a big shower too, but why have a bathtub when you have a whirlpool and a pool? It will always escape me!

It was a correction to the unflattering portrait I had imagined of him when I met him. Duchastel was not disconnected, he wasn't even haughty, he looked more like a normal guy who had one day seen fortune smile upon him. We then went down the stairs to reach a large room, low-ceilinged, where it was possible to play billiards, a few arcade games, and pinball. He looked at the floor and shook his head.

-- Upstairs, in the living rooms and bedrooms, we have polished concrete, cold and hard. And here, where I come to eat my chips while playing pinball, it's carpeted. My house is absurd, I'm sorry.

He was having a lot of fun on this tour, and so was I. Sometimes, we passed by a room and he confessed he had never been in it, then he showed me his room, the next one where I was going to sleep, and finally the entrance to the indoor pool in the basement.

-- One pool outside, another inside. It's a bit too much, I concede.

-- It rains often in the area?

-- Not that much. But when it rains, it's hell!

-- And you swim in the basement pool every time it rains? Just so you don't feel guilty about having it?

-- That's about right," he admitted, laughing.

Duchastel was strangely charming. When we returned to the living room, he offered me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, then, once settled on the sofa, he confided in me that he was working on ambitious projects to reduce the carbon footprint of Floridian infrastructure. He explained the origin of his sincere attachment to ecology, outlined the world he wanted to leave to future generations, and lamented his still too polluting lifestyle.

-- This house is quite futuristic. There are solar panels, seawater recycling, and my driver just got his new electric car. But there are still so many things to change. And I have to be impeccable, because I have the means to be.

I was not indifferent to his values; the world was struggling, humanity with it, and inaction had lasted too long. However, with my meager means, I had certain difficulties buying local fruits, and my car was horribly polluting.

Duchastel got up from the sofa, then he looked far away, beyond the calm waves of the ocean. When he saw the sun setting on the horizon, he seemed to react:

-- I have to go. My plane leaves in an hour.

-- A private jet?" I joked, secretly hoping he would say no.

-- A commercial flight, on a company that is actively working on developing green fuels. It's not easy, but it's the least I can do!

-- And this meeting, is it important?

-- We're going to talk about home insulation, to establish a legislative framework and agree on a minimum to ensure insulation for new constructions.

-- A whole program. I wish you success!

-- Thank you, Madame Perret.

-- Call me Roxane.

-- Then call me Charles.

He circled the large white sofa, grabbed his suitcase, which he placed near the door, then came back to me:

-- Do you think I'll have a chance to see you again on the day of your departure? I would be delighted to cross paths with you one last time before your return to France.

-- I hope so. It was a pleasure to meet you!

The old chauffeur opened the door and went off with the suitcase. Duchastel apologized for the confusing tour of the place, warned me that a concierge was continuously staying two houses from his and would be of great help in case of a problem, then wished me a good stay.

And he left. Far from the portrait of the hurried businessman with loose morals and haughty behavior, he seemed to be a good guy, charming, funny, and aware of his luck. If he had stayed, I would have probably had a pleasant time in his company.

Chapter II

I looked up at the ceiling, settled comfortably on the couch, and let out a deep sigh. I had never been in such a large house before. I went outside, touched the water in the pool, looked at the sea, listened to the gentle waves, and then toured the house again. There were at least seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, several powder rooms on each floor, some empty rooms, and others less so. The common thread was this immaculate white, everywhere. Between the polished concrete, raw walls, and ceilings, there wasn't a single trace of color. I walked aimlessly between the floors, sat on my bed, opened a window to feel the cool breeze from the ocean, and then went down to the basement pool.

There, in complete contrast to the rest of the house, there was color. Between the mosaics on the walls and the moldings, between the marine fresco and the green plants, I felt much better than in the long white corridors upstairs. Near the water, intrigued by this pool of substantial proportions, I took off my shoe and dipped my toes into the water. It felt good. So I made the decision to go for a swim. That was the first thing I was going to do during my long stay in Miami.

I turned around, opened the door to go back up, but stopped at the first step. Why bother getting my swimsuit if I was alone? I turned on my heels, unbuttoned my skirt, did the same with my blouse, and laid everything on a lounge chair near the pool. A bit hesitant, it took me a few seconds to dare to remove my panties and bra, but I longed for this freedom. So I took the plunge. Finally naked, I entered the water and let myself be carried by the gentle ripples. It was paradise.

I could never have dreamed of such a setting. I had been a crime writer for a few years. My first novel had been a flop, but not the second. And it had opened the doors of several publishing houses for me. I chose a small house that offered me tailored support. No excessive pressure, but constant help to avoid getting bogged down in the all too common difficulties faced by artists. However, after three novels, I had no more ideas, my pen was dry, and the paper remained as blank as the walls of this house. At first, Kim, who took care of me at the publishing house, was very understanding. But as time passed, she worried about the future of my artistic career. What if my first books remained the only ones? What if I never wrote another interesting work again? So she pulled out all the stops to inspire me and gifted me a trip by the sea. I wanted Scotland or Sweden, I got Miami.

Swimming slowly, completely naked in the warm water, I thought back to my recent difficulties. Firstly, I was broke. From a fairly comfortable life in my native countryside, I had come to live near Paris. But the cost of living in Paris and the dwindling income from my writing marked the beginning of my financial troubles. Then, there was the loneliness. Initially welcome, as it was impossible for me to write when I was accompanied, even by the calmest person in the world, it had become a burden. No man had loved me for years, and my body craved tenderness, love, and passion. Finally, there was the stress of it all combining in me, creating a big ball of anxiety in my stomach. The goal of this trip was to break free from my daily routine, to be on the other side of the world, to see new things and experience new sensations. And even though I would have preferred a cottage on a fjord, I think the change of scenery was evident in this heated basement pool of a huge Miami villa.

-- Forgive me...

I jumped. And jumping in the water makes you gulp. So I swallowed some. As I resurfaced, spat a bit, and wiped my eyes while hiding my breasts, I saw Duchastel's silhouette near the door.

-- I think I forgot to give you the key... I'm sorry, I didn't see anything, I swear!

He had his back to me, facing the door, gesturing awkwardly.

-- I... um, yes, just leave it upstairs, on the couch, on the coffee table, I don't know...

-- I'm really sorry... he stammered.

He stayed facing the wall and then left, without saying anything, looking foolish even from behind. I withdrew my hand from my chest and advanced towards the ladder to get out of the water, but Duchastel returned, this time with his eyes covered by his hand.

-- I'm sorry for coming back, for coming back again, I mean. But I left the keys on the furniture near the door. Don't worry, I didn't see anything...

-- But... leave! Please!

He had left again, I heard him go up the stairs and then close the door leading to the basement. I stayed in the water for a few seconds, fearing his return, then went to grab a towel from a small wooden table near the large marine fresco. I quickly got dressed and then went back up to check if he had left.

-- I didn't want to catch you in that state...

I had done well, he was there, near the door, standing like a mushroom, looking foolish.

-- Why haven't you left?

-- The problem with commercial flights is that they are sometimes canceled... So, I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry.

-- Then I'll leave you your accommodation, you can arrange things with the publishing house. Is there a hotel nearby?

I think he understood my anger. And he seemed to feel terribly foolish, but he was in his own home, and if he was only leaving the next day, he logically wouldn't spend the night at the airport. He saw me approach my suitcases and remained silent, but when I advanced towards the door, he stopped me:

-- Don't go! The house is very large, you can sleep here, go about your day, I'll be discreet and leave early. And besides... hotels are outrageously expensive in the area.

When I arrived, I knew almost nothing about him, but he knew enough about me to convince me. I didn't have a penny to spare for unforeseen circumstances, my budget was tight, and the slightest misstep would leave me out in the cold when I returned to Paris.

-- Alright... I accept.

He gave me a small embarrassed smile and then opened the door to retrieve his suitcase from outside. And he went to his room, as promised, being as discreet as possible.

Chapter III

After these rather embarrassing disturbances, I opted for activities that would allow me to regain calm and serenity. A small speaker playing classical music, a few light women's magazines, all while sitting by the pool.

Duchastel remained upstairs, locked in his room. He had come to get some remaining provisions from the cupboards, then he hadn't come back down. And although losing oneself in a sunset over the bay of Miami was an infinite delight, I felt embarrassed about sending this millionaire to his room like a child. Especially since he had always been charming, except for that sudden voyeurism. So I left the edge of the pool, dried my feet, and went up to his room. I knocked on his door, he told me to come in, and I got the confirmation that I had been too harsh. He was there, sitting on his bed, waiting for nightfall to go to bed and hasten his departure.

-- I may have been a bit abrupt with you...

-- No, you were right, I shouldn't have surprised you in the pool, I was clumsy.

-- Maybe, but it didn't justify such anger...

His silence seemed to confirm that he had been offended by my sudden vehemence. I continued :

-- Maybe you could come down, we could have a glass of wine and talk about anything and everything?

-- I don't want to spoil your stay here. I am well aware that it is quite exceptional to have such a house to relax in. That's why I rent it to your publishing house at a very, very advantageous price. I like these places to benefit artists who don't have the same means as mine.

-- That's very kind of you, but right now, the artist in me wants to spend an evening with the kind owner of this house.

With an embarrassed smile, he seemed convinced. He got out of bed, made a detour to the bathroom, then came down to join me in the large living room. There, on the coffee table, two glasses of wine were waiting for us.

-- I took the liberty of borrowing two glasses from you. I bought a bottle of Florida wine at the airport.

-- You did the right thing.

He came to sit on the couch and took a sip of wine.

-- I've tasted some Florida wines, they're not all great, but this one is good.

-- I agree. I think it comes from an organic vineyard, which would align with your position, I pointed out.

Before long, the bottle of wine was significantly lighter. And my host, more at ease than an hour before, suggested fetching a bottle from his cellar. Five minutes later, he returned with a wine from Savoie that he believed to be one of the best.

-- Princesse!

-- Pardon?

-- That's the name of the wine, he corrected, smiling. "Domaine Berlioz, cuvée Princesse », I bought a case on the advice of my Savoyard father.

He opened it, filled my glass, and carefully tasted the wine. His smile seemed to indicate that it was good. It was so good that the second bottle was emptied as well.

Deeply moved by the alcohol, we hadn't noticed that night had fallen. Duchastel turned around, admiring the dark night over the sea, and said to me :

-- Often, I wonder why I am alone. And then I realize that my life is completely different from the lives of the people I appreciate. How can I date a simple woman if I spend my life on planes and I have a villa by the sea that costs a fortune?

-- Nobody is simple among rich people?

-- Very few people are. The women who revolve in the circles I frequent are heiresses, politicians, business leaders... their lives are never compatible with mine. So, I am alone.

-- I am alone too, I replied, without ulterior motives.

He turned to me and started to smile.

-- I find it hard to believe that in Paris, nobody is interested in a woman like you, artistic, intelligent...

-- I don't go out much, I am too solitary.

-- And does it bother you?

-- I think so, yes. It's irregular, sometimes I want to be surrounded, but most of the time I enjoy my solitude. Then, there's love... and sex.

He almost choked on a sip of wine.

-- It's surprising to hear you say that, but I sympathize.

-- Don't tell me nonsense, you must have affairs with models and influencers!

-- I went out with a model, for two months. She went from parties to parties, she ran the nightclubs and receptions while I was trying to finish a T-Rex model in Lego.

Now it was my turn to almost choke on a sip of wine. I pictured him, in pajamas, racking his brain to find the location of a small piece on his large Lego dinosaur while his partner swayed on the runways of Downtown Miami.

-- You're the most unique millionaire I know.

-- Do you know others?

-- Not at all, in fact, you are indeed the most unique. And above all, you deserve to be loved, you are a good person...

-- Was I also when I arrived in the basement? he joked.

-- You're rubbing salt in the wound! You didn't see anything, did you? I asked him, laughing.

-- I barely made out your shoulders!

-- Liar...

-- Maybe a breast, but nothing more.

-- Not two?

-- You would have liked that?

-- Stop...

I would have liked that, he was right. Since we were on the couch, talking about life and our difficulties, I found myself hoping that he enjoyed my company, hoping that he liked what he had glimpsed in the pool. When the third bottle of wine was opened, he gave me an intimidated look that made my heart skip a beat. There, it was the long-awaited moment. Years of crushing loneliness about to evaporate in the joys of a budding romance. He was handsome, he was funny, and so brilliant. I had almost forgotten he was rich because he was such a simple man, with passions, desires, and dreams. He took my hand, lowered his eyes, overcome with embarrassment, then he gave me one of those smiles that made me want to kiss him. I think I was in love, or maybe I was in the process of falling in love. I couldn't shy away from the powerful feelings that overwhelmed me. I was in love and happy to be, I liked him, he liked me, and soon we would embrace each other tenderly. Making love, having an affair, it was pleasant, but I think our gazes betrayed something greater, a passion was born and it would illuminate the white walls of this large house. But suddenly, he withdrew his hand from mine.