Page 24 of Everything About You

It doesn’t take us long to get some impressive shots—the Louvre, it seems, is impressive by nature, and even more breathtaking

when there aren’t crowds in the frame. It gives full command to the art and the architecture, each detail coming alive. We

get photos and videos of halls with arched ceilings and maroon marble columns, and corridors with gilded detailing. Many of

the paintings are so massive they take up their own wall.

I’m working on an event teaser, so I get close-up black-and-white shots of ornate flourishes and unique aspects of the buildings’

designs.

Rhodes and I aren’t really speaking, which makes this a bit more tense than it needs to be, but I know he’s still defensive

over whatever that was with Ollie. I’m not sure if it’s just that he has a complex about his brother being a famous footballer,

or if their personalities are just those of teasing boys who never grew out of it. The problem I have with that theory is

how one-sided it seemed back there.

The longer we spend in silence—though I am annoyed about his Clyde Circus comment—the more I feel a bit sorry for him.

This is the Rhodes effect, I’m sure of it.

How am I here, in the tranquility of the Musée du Louvre in absolute quiet stillness, feeling sorry for Rhodes Hamilton?

At every turn, he’s insisted I don’t know him, and I don’t understand, but the facts are still the facts.

He’s still mega wealthy and famous, even if less than Ollie, and he still got this apprenticeship because his mum called and took care of it for him.

By any standard, I think he should be doing just fine.

Which makes me feel more like shit. I guess, deep down, I know all those things aren’t going to amount to happiness. I’d imagine

they make life easier, definitely, but I wonder what it’s like to actually be Rhodes.

I didn’t, for instance, realize Rhodes was spending his evenings alone as well. I wonder, if we had gotten off to a better

start at Maison Dauphine and become friends, what that could have looked like. Maybe we would have each had a bit more fun

in Paris this entire time.

It’s pointless to imagine, but we’re not speaking, so my mind wanders until he claps his hands together and the sound is so

sharp, the echo so loud, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“That’s a wrap,” Rhodes says. “Well, until we get to the Cour Marly, anyway. What was it you wanted to see?”

“Oh, let me see.”

I pull up the map and find what I’m looking for quickly. I think it might be one of the more famous pieces of art at the Louvre,

but that could just be my interpretation.

Pointing to our right, I start walking, and Rhodes follows.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“You’ll see.”

We walk back through the halls and head down a level when we get to the massive grand stone staircase with the Winged Victory of Samothrace statue on its landing. We pass a few more exhibits, and Rhodes asks a couple more times where we’re going, before we end

up in a large room of red marble at the end of the Galerie des Antiques.

Alone, in the center of the room to pronounce its distinction, the Venus de Milo ’s stark ivory contrasts against the dark stone she stands on and the rustic carnelian blend of marble surrounding her.

“The Venus de Milo .” Rhodes chuckles. “Of course.”

“I just wanted to see it,” I say, getting as close as I can. “To see her.”

She is magnificent, and I can see why she is so famous. It’s amazing to imagine this was once only a block of stone. It’s

amazing to conceptualize Alexandros of Antioch chipping away, no blueprint or DIY tutorial, the figure emerging from the marble

born purely from his imagination.

I remember reading that because the statue’s arms had broken off, and typically the Greek goddesses could be identified by

the items they held, there were difficulties with identifying her. In fact, some might argue she is Amphitrite, the sea goddess

of Melos, while some will insist she is Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty.

“What do you think?”

“She’s stunning,” I say.

Rhodes stands next to me and knocks his shoulder into mine, glancing down. “Did you want to see her because she’s got Milo in her name?”

I nod. “Ever since I was a little kid, I thought it was the coolest thing. I don’t know. Milo isn’t that common of a name. It’s not as unusual as Rhodes, but.”

He barks a laugh that bounces off the marble throughout the empty room. “Touché.”

“Rhodes Barley Hamilton.”

“Done some googling?”

“Like, what does Barley have to do with anything?”

He fakes offense, putting his hand on his heart. “It was a family name. I suppose it means my great-grandparents were farmers

or something. Something to do with barley.”

“Probably older than your great-grandparents,” I offer.

“You’re just going to make fun of my name? Just like that? What’s your middle name, then?”

“I’m not telling,” I say. “And you’re right, sorry. I was only kidding around, but—”

He laughs again. “It’s okay. It’s a stupid-sounding name. Rhodes Barley Hamilton. How absurd. As usual, Ollie got the better

end of the stick.” Our eyes meet and he quickly glances away, like he’s said too much. “Anyway, do you want a photo with her?”

There are these moments where Rhodes temporarily wipes my memory of our ups and downs, and when he holds his hand out to take

my phone and proceeds to art direct me so that I get a good photo, that’s one of those moments. He makes me laugh, and it’s

like we’re old pals.

“I think you’re going to need some peace signs,” Rhodes says.

I lift a brow. “I don’t think she would want me to throw up a peace sign.”

“She would too. She’s probably bored of the same old thing all the time.”

Rolling my eyes, I take a few sillier photos as he calls out ideas, and then when he hands me my phone, we both seem to recognize that we’re getting along again. I’m struck by the electric blue of his eyes like lightning. It’s brand-new every time, like that day on the sidewalk all over.

It’s so quiet, I can hear him swallow.

“We should get over to the Cour Marly,” Rhodes says, voice a bit gravelly. He runs his hand through his hair and looks around.

“I’m... I think it’s that way.”

I nod and follow him through the museum, winding through exhibits I wish we could stop and marvel at, until we get to the

giant courtyard where the gala is being held.

The Cour Marly is incredible. I imagine, when filled with daylight from the glass ceilings, that all the ficus trees and white

stone architecture create a sense of calm unlike any other. Large equestrian statues are stately without feeling too extravagant.

Sculptures of gods and goddesses are the main focal points—I instantly recognize Daphne being chased by Apollo, and Neptune

with his trident.

Round white-linen-dressed tables have been added between the sculptures, with centerpieces made of tall branches and stems

of green. The wooden chairs surrounding each table look antique, though they are actually brand-new and very expensive, per

the presentation we went through with Haydée and Zoe. Dim uplighting casts a warm ambient glow over the room, along with the

pillar candles surrounding the foliage on each table.

People wearing all black are scurrying around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Some carry iPads, some are talking into headsets or walkies, and some are transporting brown cardboard boxes.

The energy and stress are palpable. We’re about an hour out from when people start showing up on the midnight carpet outside, so it’s go time.

Haydée rushes over to us, wearing a sparkling black off-the-shoulder cocktail gown. “Have you got everything you need? I must

attend to the guests soon, so I will not be available to you.”

“Where are the tripods?” Rhodes asks.

Her marked annoyance hits me like a brick wall, and I shake my head quickly. “I’m sure we can find them.”

“They are in one of the closets,” she says. “Please, you do not have the tripods yet? Do you boys both understand the importance

of the Fête à Minuit? This is not a garden party or malbouffe stand, we need to be... how would you say... steps ahead. Do you understand?”

Rhodes glances over at me and sighs. “We’ll find the tripods.”

“Quickly. Allons-y !”

We wander around but we don’t find any unlocked closets.

“Maybe we could ask someone else,” I offer. “I think Haydée is just stressed.”

“Or maybe we don’t need tripods,” Rhodes says. “I mean, these iPhones have stabilization built in.”

We’ve wandered pretty far from the Cour Marly now, but it’s quiet and I can think, so focusing on the time, I start posting

some of the teasers to the Maison Dauphine Instagram Story. We normally have to use a third-party scheduler—since it’s clearly

not the most secure option to just give the password to two apprentices—but tonight Haydée has logged into the accounts on

our phones.

The official Maison Dauphine account has over fifty million followers, and I do think Haydée should probably be approving our content regardless of the rush, but tonight she’s told us to just use our better judgment because she doesn’t have time.

She also provided the not-at-all-terrifying warning that there will be consequences for any mistakes, so to say I’m nervous posting is an understatement.

The first of the teaser stories is a super zoomed-in shot of a clock with arms set to midnight, in black-and-white and with

a slight grain that gives it an older, cinematic feeling. The rest follow suit—just small, clever details from the Louvre.

I double- and triple-check everything. It’s all fine. It’s elegant, on-brand, and it’s just what fans of the house or followers

of the Fête à Minuit will be glued to their phones hoping to see until the red carpet looks start rolling out all over social

media.

I go to post the last one as Rhodes yanks me by the arm, pulling me down a hallway with him.

“What the—”

He shushes me, and as footsteps approach, Ollie, Phoebe, and a docent walk past us.

“Rhodes.”