Ménage à Trois or Murder: Part I

How should I begin? My name is Chloë Reinard. You may have heard of me, or at the very least, my family ought to be somewhat familiar. If you do not know who I am, suffice it to say that I am an heiress. I’ve done a bit of modeling as well, and I’m quite interested in fashion. Last year I designed a few pairs of shoes. I have extraordinarily teensy feet and awfully particular taste besides, so the exact shoes that I search for simply never seem to exist. Finally I conceded defeat and created my own. They’re dreadfully lovely. If you’re at all intrigued, they’re called Ambrosia, after my positively adorable Maltese, and they’re available in Reinard shops and most department stores, I believe.

Well, let me see, what else ought I mention by way of an introduction? I grew up in Manhattan, mostly, and I recently acquired my own loft in Soho, which is truly magnificent. I am currently nineteen years old. My birthday is August 29, which makes me a Virgo. Last spring I graduated from The Dominican Academy of the City of New York, which is entirely female and overwhelmingly Catholic. Instead of rushing off to university immediately, however, I opted to delay for a year and sort of find myself. You know, give myself a bit more time to mature.

So I spent a few months playing the incorrigible socialite, stumbling about from celebrity soirées to museum galas, charity balls to restaurant openings, and, oh God, fashion show after fashion show after fashion show in a sort of substance induced haze. When I happened to find myself conscious during daylight hours, I shopped frantically, as though I could purchase a raison d'être for myself. Please do not misinterpret, I was far from lonely. My bosom friend Kitty Douglas was by my side constantly, and we were nearly always surrounded by a bevy of privileged bon vivants who frequented all the significant social events en masse. I appeared intermittently on the party pages of glossy fashion magazines, flirted with paparazzi in order to obtain more than my fair share of the spotlight, and kissed so many movie stars that eventually the glamor of it all began to fade. The marijuana and prescription pills of my high school days expanded to include occasional GHB and eventually a bit of cocaine, which helped postpone but could not prevent the insufferable indolence that eventually ensued.

It has just occurred to me that you may assume I mention my drug use by way of an excuse. This is most certainly not the case. For quite a long time I prided myself on allowing nothing whatsoever up my delicate nostrils. This eliminated the possibility of cocaine of course, which so often was de rigueur. Even after I was educated in the ways of powdery white lines and tiny silver spoons, my substance of choice was always alcohol. I was never involved in any sordid deals; I simply accepted what was offered me, as is polite and tactful. Please, dear reader, by all means spare me your pity or judgment. I do not seek it, I only want to explain my entire story as thoroughly and honestly as I possibly can.

I ultimately fell into a lethargic fit of boredom that lasted for weeks. As the days grew drearily shorter I became weary of the tiresome Manhattan scene, with all its artistic pretensions and vapid dilettantes. After a night spent lounging about, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and sipping merlot, Kitty and I hit upon a terribly appealing plan. Clearly, I was desperately in need of a long and languid holiday. My family was not immediately enchanted by the suggestion, as it required my absence from a number of traditional holiday festivities, the most crucial of which being the annual Reinard Christmas Eve Gala. My father and his despicable new wife were not inclined to spend their Christmas outside Manhattan, but after negotiation were convinced of my need for a bit of an escape, for the sake of my mental health. Wonderful Kitty, darling Ambrosia, and myself were off to St. Barths in no time at all.

The airport in St. Barths is miniscule, and therefore unable to accommodate the Reinard company jet, so after a rather unfortunate commercial flight to St. Martin, Kitty and I chartered a small plane from St. Barth Commuter. In the Princess Juliana International Airport, which, by the way, is not air conditioned, we waited in a state of jubilant anticipation for a handsome French pilot to take us to our holiday paradise.

As we languished in the heat, Kitty and I continued a conversation begun during the previous flight. Kitty was endlessly lamenting her inability to maintain a relationship with anyone worthwhile, citing her unwillingness to compromise as the determining problem. After a brief miscommunication, Kitty clarified that her difficulty was not inability to compromise on an object of affection, that is, the problem is not that her standards are inappropriately high, but that instead she generally refused to compromise with her object of affection, that is, the problem is that she is a spoiled brat who will never in her life do anything that she does not want to do. She simply could not comprehend why any affectionate gentleman should require her to make the occasional sacrifice on his behalf. Allow me to be perfectly clear, dear reader, these are most certainly not Kitty’s own words, I am simply paraphrasing.

“I don’t mean to be selfish,” Kitty sighed. “I know that a girl has to compromise in order to have a good relationship, I just never seem to be able to make it work.”

“Maybe it’s an issue of quality,” I suggested. “I wonder if perhaps you met someone you could truly love, pleasing him would be sufficient incentive to make a few concessions from time to time.”

“I’m not sure,” she mused. “You may have a point. Is it possible I’ve yet to find someone good enough for me?”

“Well, that isn’t precisely what I meant, but more or less, I suppose. I do believe that I, for example, would do anything for a man if I were genuinely in love with him.” I paused and considered my rather bold statement. “Perhaps not literally anything,” I qualified. “I would never murder anyone, obviously. And I would not engage in a ménage à trois. But anything else, I’m fairly certain I would do if I loved someone passionately enough, and he wanted it desperately enough.”

“Murder I can understand, but you would really never have a ménage à trois?” Kitty inquired.

“Never,” I responded without hesitation, and went on to explain that in addition to the fact that I am decidedly heterosexual, I have read countless advice columns and articles warning young women of the dangers a threesome can pose to an otherwise healthy relationship. The potential problems are countless: general awkwardness and discomfort, manipulation and pressure on the part of the man, jealousy and lack of confidence in the relationship on the part of the woman. In addition, the image of one’s lover cavorting with another woman can often have a devastating effect on both partners. Apparently that particular male fantasy is one that a loving wife or girlfriend must never oblige, an assertion I agree with completely.

“That sounds logical,” Kitty agreed. “I think I may adopt that particular rule for myself. Although if I’d had gallons to drink, there is a slim chance that I might, possibly, under very specific and unlikely circumstances, be enticed to participate as the second woman,” she admitted ruefully, and I giggled in reply. “But anything else, you would do? Commit a crime other than murder, or move to Antarctica, or dye your hair brown, even?”

“I think so, yes. If I loved him enough, and he wanted something badly enough,” I repeated, “then yes. I would do anything he asked of me, ménage à trois or murder being the only exceptions.” I savored the phrase, enjoying the sound of it, and the drama, slightly proud of myself for the idea.

Ménage à Trois or Murder: Part II
Ménage à Trois or Murder: Part III
Ménage à Trois or Murder: Part IV