A Bag of Swag

Airports used to be crowded, brimming with people, scuffed luggage, crying kids harrying parents, oily-fast-food smells in the departure pods.

No longer.

The only patrons these days are the rich, heading for a faraway resort, or business people with an anti-influenza kit in every pocket.

Or bedraggled daughters, like me. Thanks to my visit to my aging mother, I was on the Covid-suspect list. I was armed with all my negative test results, but it took a couple of hours before I finally made it to the departure hall.

Half an hour before boarding. I bought a couple of fashion magazines for the flight—fantasy reading after a gritty week. I was feeling philosophical, reflecting on all the scenes I’ve witnessed at airports.

Joyful anticipation, tears at parting, emotional reunions. Lovers cooing sweet nothings.

“You two-faced bastard!”

“That’s good, coming from you! Why are you here, then? Running off to Paris with me? Leaving that constipated nobody of a husband you married forty years ago?”

I have to admit, they got my attention.

The guy was a little wide at the waistline, but still handsome. Designer jeans, Gucci loafers. And he knew how to sneer. His riposte almost got her. He smoothed the sleeve of his camel-hair jacket. There was something familiar about him.

She was probably in her late fifties, looked fit. Clothes a little outdated but she’d modernized her look with a thin silver chain over a soft gray and white print T-shirt. Cashmere sweater.

And she was mad! So mad her blusher was glowing red-hot.

“And you think I should be thrilled that you're coming to France with me because your girl-friend of five years is away for a month? Five years! If I’d known, I would never have given you five minutes!” She rummaged in her handbag for a tissue.

I admired the bag. Hermès, and new. Costs a mint. There's a waiting list for the waiting list to buy that model.

“Who looked me up? sent the first email? You! and now you’re all moral and judgmental. Did you think you could buy me, the way you bought one of my photographs?”

He gestured towards his camera bag. The tag said “Paris Fashion Week: American Vogue. MJ.”

Initials MJ. Fashion photographer with clout. Had to be Mark Jefferson. So who was she?

“Look, Marion,” he said, “get real. You went shopping in your grungy little town, bought a lottery ticket at a local liquor store where you were stocking up—probably on cheap wine—and you got lucky.”

She nodded, although I don’t think she meant to.

“And what do you do? You track me down. Stalk me on the internet. You tell me you’ve never felt the same about anybody else. That you’ve be trying to find me again ever since college. You'd do anything to get back together. You’re not satisfied with your husband anymore.”

“Well, you sure can’t satisfy me!,” she broke in. “‘Chemically castrated.’ But do you tell me that? No! You lead me on. You talk about my soft skin. You ask me to come visit you in Philly. Then you cancel at the last minute. It’s about a job, you say. But it wasn’t, was it? Your long-suffering girl-friend came back early. That’s what happened! Admit it!”

She stamped her foot.

“And I’m such a dumb-ass that I fell for it. Never thought to doubt you. Even when you said all you wanted was to look into my deep blue eyes. My eyes are brown, you jerk!”

Marion wasn’t at her best, but there was something splendid about her. She didn’t flinch as she gazed into the depths of her self-deception.

Mark waved his boarding pass at her. Almost slapped her with it. She didn’t step back.

“You sent me this. You want it back now? Take it.”

He moved closer, ready to embrace her. The kind of move that probably got him plenty of action. Even forgiveness.

Marion wasn’t buying. She hauled a little black book out her bag and threw it towards me.

I caught it. Now what?

“Read what it says,” she commanded.

I looked over the entries. She’d won the lottery all right. Page after page of purchases. A whole wardrobe of fancy La Perla lingerie, two Hermès scarves and the Birkin bag she was toting. A week’s stay in a classy Paris hotel, and a cruise in the Adriatic, plus two airfares, first-class. But the biggest expense seemed to be what she’d called a “settlement” for Keith.

I assumed Keith was the husband.

“Keith’s a lucky man,” I said. What else can you say when somebody’s got over half a million in their bank account?

“Luckier than he knows. The deposit goes into his account tomorrow morning.”

“You gave him the money? Why, you—”

“You said we’d have each other. And Paris.”

She was enjoying this.

Mark took two steps in my direction. I got ready to run. He refocused.

“Marion. You can’t do this to me. I’ve left Carolyn. Believe me! This time, it’s over.”

“This time? You mean you’ve done this before? That idiot must really love you.”

She smiled. Very unpleasantly.

“And you’ve burned your bridges, have you? Well, mon amour, too late. C’est la vie.”

Her French was pretty basic, but it served her well.

“I’ve got a life. And a husband. Time for me to get home.”

She looked him up and down.

“Got enough for your cab fare? Well, you can always cash in your ticket. And keep the change,” she said.

“You—whoever you are—come here.”

She beckoned to me, so I held out the little black book. Couldn’t help noticing that it was the Rolls Royce of notebooks - a classic Moleskine.

She waved it away.

“Keep it. Just hand me the bag. I’ll need a little something for the limo home. And a bottle of champagne.”

She laughed and slid a handful of Ben Franklins out of an envelope.

“Mad money,” she said. “For all the things I was going to do in the City of Light.”

She lowered her voice.

“I’ll take Keith there. In the autumn. Get him to try those little blue pills. Here’s my ticket—take it. And keep the bag. It'll look good with your jeans. Maybe I’ll see you on the Rive Gauche.”

She wheeled around. Gone.

I counted up the rest of the money in the envelope and walked to the ticket office. Money talks. They changed the ticket to my name.

All I had with me was my beat-up roller bag, stuffed with dirty laundry. Not what I’d need for a week at The Ritz.

But I wasn’t worried.

Not at all.

I had the little black book, all the booking numbers, and a cool twenty thousand dollars in cash.

La vie est belle.