the grand masked ball

We’re in Paris, staying with my Grandmère (Grandmother) for a few days around Mother’s day. Peter (my bf) is getting to know my Grandmère. They’ve started to relax and enjoy each other. This time, when they met, they hugged. “You look great!” Peter said, “Have you had some work done?” She made a face that acknowledged the absurd, and shook her head ‘no’. “A rib removed?” He followed up. Last night she told him a story about the strict and regimented world she’d grown up in. When she was 8, she and her mom (‘GG’), had visited a friends' home for tea. Afterwards, GG asked her, “Did you see that?” In a horrified voice. “What?” Young Grandmère had asked. “When the houseman brought in that calling card?” GG asked, watching her daughter like she was taking a test. Grandmère thought about it - but couldn’t find the fault, “What about it?” she’d finally asked. “He just HANDED it to her - without a (silver) tray.” GG was scandalized at this debacle of civilized standards. “That’s what WE were up against,” Grandmère said, “It was a strict and judgmental world.. back then.” “But you were a strict-old-bird with my mom, right?” I asked (because I live to get a reaction from her). “Oh, nothing like the OLD days,” she sighed, looking to heaven in reverie. “Now YOU,” she said, (indicating me) like she was revealing some melodramatic truth, “get away with MURDER.” “Yep,” I admitted, “That’s me - I’m guilty.” I shrugged. Every June, there’s a grand masked ball at Versailles Palace and it’s AMAZING. Like the MET Gala, there are only some 400 tickets and those are instantly sold out. This year, my Grandmère has four extra - in an envelope. “Give them to meeeeee!” I begged, shamelessly, stretching out a quivering arm, like a junkie in withdrawal. “We’ll see,” she said cruelly. “If you do,” I bargained, “I’ll buy you some land in Camargue (an area of worthless swampland in southern France)." When she didn’t give in immediately, I decided to try and keep her engaged with sparkling conversation. “Ever noticed that the word ‘perfect’ has 7 letters? So does meeeeee,” I said. “Coincidence? I think NOT” My mind searched for leverage. Grandmère had taken Peter and I to a horse jumping competition earlier that day. I love the smells of horse, hay and leather - you know - all that - but I can barely ride. I continued to bargain. “You know,” I began (like an actress on stage), in a shaky voice meant to convey extreme, past suffering, ”my parents never bought me a horse.” It felt like there were tears in my eyes. “Ok,” she said, boredly, tapping the envelope with two fingers then sliding it, my way, across her desk. I picked up the envelope - counting the tickets. Grandmère wasn’t above withholding one as a ‘business lesson.” “Can I bring Peter, Lisa, and Dave?” I asked innocently. ‘Bring’s’ the magic word - what I’m asking is whether she’ll pay for everything (airfare, hotels, cash cards, designer costumes - maybe €60k in all). She’s no fool, she’d offered those tickets knowing this - but it’s only polite to ask. (I could pay for it all myself - dip tha-fund as they say). “Of course,” she said, offhandedly, “call François.” She’d moved on to the next thing on her desk. François, a handsome, 27ish, perfectly tailored, hipster with straight blonde fringe-hair and a Sorbonne Université MBA, is one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive-secretarial minions who’ll now coordinate all aspects of our travel and expenses. I came around that desk and gave her a big hug, which she endured as she read something. “You’re the Beatles,” I pronounced, before scurrying off to tell Peter. . . songs for this: Love Is Strange by Frenchy Depression Royale by De-Phazz Take Three by Club des Belugas Inesaurible Tu by St. Project . . slang.. dip tha-fund = take money from a trust fund. the Beatles = simply the best