Amanda's Guide to Love (14 page)

Watching her victorious rival and
her baby having a good time at La Bohème was unpleasant enough. But to watch
Lena, baby,
and
Rob enjoying themselves at Jeanne’s wedding would be
torture. Whether her vantage point would be the glory of the newlyweds’ entourage
or the pillory of the singles’ table, she knew she’d hate every moment of it.

No, she definitely
wasn’t going.

“Will you accompany me to Jeanne’s
wedding?” Amanda kicked her rollerblades off and shoved them into her backpack.

She’d skated around the Champ de
Mars for a good hour, racing Kes and feeling proud at her growing ease.

He stared at her, flabbergasted.

“It’s in early July,” she said.

He sat down, pulled off his own
rollerblades, and packed them. “I thought you were hiding me from everyone.”

“I was. But . . . I’m
in a spot . . . and that spot overrides my other concerns.”

“Does it now?”

She nodded solemnly. “My ex will be
there with his wife and baby.”

“The one that ditched you?”

“Yep. His name is Rob.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I can’t. Jeanne is my friend . . .
and my boss. Besides, I’m one of her bridesmaids.”

“Who are the others?”

“There’s just one other bridesmaid,
and it’s Rob’s wife.”

He whistled. “This is seriously
messed up, ma belle.”

“I know.” She spread her arms
helplessly.

“OK.”

“Really?”

“I’ll wear my Armani suit and tell
your ex and his wife I’m a stockbroker.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know
nothing about stock trading.”

He shrugged. “Buy low, sell high.
Would that do?”

“It certainly covers the basics.”

“I have one condition.” He leaned back
and crossed his legs.

“If it’s what I think it is, the
answer is no.”

He tut-tutted. “Such a dirty mind
inside such an angelic head! No, ma belle
,
it isn’t what you think it
is.”

“Surprise me, then.”

“In two weeks’ time, you’ll come
with me to my nephew’s baptism. My folks will be celebrating it in a camp site
near Arles.”

An invitation to a Gypsy party? It
could be fun . . . from a purely anthropological point of view.

“I’m officially surprised.” She
extended her hand. “OK.”

He gave it a firm shake and then,
instead of loosening his grip, just held it in the comforting warmth of his
large palm.

She didn’t dare move.

“Am I allowed to tell your friends
I’m a
Gitan
stockbroker?” His dark gaze drilled into her.

“You could just say you’re from
Provence. Why bother with particulars if you’re never going to see them again?”

She stared into his eyes, daring
him to counter her argument, drunk on his touch and the ludicrous hope that
he’d keep negotiating.

And holding her hand in his.

And looking at her like that.

He released her hand
and stood. “Why, indeed?”

* * *

So Free

~ ~ ~

A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline # 7

The Perfect Woman has at least
three female friends.

Rationale
: Having female friends is
beneficial on many levels including, but not limited to: building confidence,
borrowing clothes, venting, bitching, philosophizing, shopping, and watching
romcoms.

A
word of caution
:
If you are pretty, make sure your sidekicks are less good-looking so you can be
the jewel in the crown. If you are plain, surround yourself with pretty
friends. Counterintuitive as it may sound, this will improve your social and
marriage prospects.

Permissible
exception
: If
you’re more at ease with men than with women, try to have at least one female
friend. If you’re a sociopath, make friends on Facebook.

Damage
control
: In the
absence of girlfriends, consider these alternatives: (a) sister; (b) female
cousin; (c) mother, aunt, grandmother; (d) female neighbor; (e) waitress in
your favorite haunt; (f) imaginary girlfriend.

Pitfalls
to avoid:
Never
share your deepest, darkest, dirtiest secrets with a girlfriend or any of the
substitutes listed above except (f).

~ ~ ~

“The numbers have spoken, boss,” Amanda
said with gravitas. She angled her laptop toward Jeanne and grinned. “La Bohème
is turning a profit.
”

Jeanne studied the table on the
screen. After a long moment, her gaze shifted to the notebook with her
handwritten records and then to the neat stacks of notes that were laid out on
the table in front of them.

Amanda followed her eyes. “Yes, I
checked every single record and bill.” She pointed at the Excel spreadsheet
she’d produced. “And I’m going to teach you and Manon how to make a detailed
profit and loss statement. If you do this every week, you won’t have to wait
for your accountant’s visit to know how you’re doing.”

Jeanne nodded, her eyes trained on
the screen. When she looked up, they were glistening. “Really?”

“I know—I’m too generous for my own
good.” Amanda shrugged. “But I don’t plan on working here forever.”

Jeanne smiled. “I meant, are you
sure we made a profit last month?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “I checked
everything three times. The margin of error is negligible.”

Jeanne leaned forward and gave her
a hug.

“Is this your first month in the
black?” Amanda asked.

“Yep. And I pray to God it won’t be
the last!” Jeanne let go of her. “Or else I’m in serious trouble.”

“If your expenses remain at this
level, you’ll do just fine.” Amanda patted her back. “Unless something goes
wrong . . . Which doesn’t take much in this kind of business.”

Jeanne smirked. “Now I’m feeling a
lot better, thanks.” She glanced at her watch and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.

“It’s almost eleven and Claude
hasn’t arrived yet.” Jeanne reached for her phone. “I hope he hasn’t relapsed.”

Amanda watched her pull up Claude’s
number, call, wait, bite her nails, and leave a message.

Thirty seconds later, Jeanne’s
phone beeped. It was a text from Claude.

I
can’t come in today. Sorry.

“Shit,” Jeanne said, looking at her
phone. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Amanda touched Jeanne’s arm. “Don’t
panic. It’s just one day.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be longer
than that.” Jeanne sighed. “Claude suffers from depression. This means he’s in
for another bout.”

“How long do they last?”

“Two to six weeks. Three on
average.”

“Is there a temp you can bring in?”

“Of course,” Jeanne said. “We have
three relief chefs. The problem is none of them are available for today. I
checked yesterday afternoon when Claude started crying over some bad
strawberries.”

“Can you or anyone else cook?”

Jeanne shook her head. “Not for
thirty covers at a time.” She clasped her hands over her head. “I’m screwed.
We’ll have to close for the day.”

“How far does Claude live?” Amanda
asked.

“He’s in the Tenth. Why?”

“I may be able to lure him out of
his lair . . . at least for a few hours.”

Jeanne chewed her lip. “How?”

“I watched tons of daytime TV when
I was jobless. There was this program about depression and how you can stave
off an attack if you catch it early enough.”

“Amanda, what Claude needs is to
see his doc and start taking his meds, not some quackery you gleaned from TV.”

“Amen to that.” Amanda shut the
laptop. “Listen, I’m just offering to try and get Claude to come into work
today
.
He can go on sick leave and start his treatment tomorrow when you have your
temp.”

Jeanne hesitated. “What’s your
plan, exactly?”

“Do you think he’ll open the door
for us?”

“I guess . . . But I
can’t be sure. Say he does . . . Are you going to hypnotize him
or shame him into action?”

“Neither.” Amanda smiled. “I’m
going to feed him and play music.”

Jeanne gave her a long look and sighed.
“So, that’s your plan—food and music?”

“Exactly. And it’s scientific.”
Amanda stood and grabbed her purse. “Give me fifteen minutes to get what I need,
and I’ll explain the details on the way to Claude’s.”

Jeanne nodded, and Amanda ran to
the supermarket down the street. As she made her purchases, she felt the
familiar rush of adrenaline she used to get when faced with a difficult
situation at work or a problem that needed tackling. Was she sure her method
would work? Nope. Maybe all that “mind over mood” and “food over mood” stuff
they’d raved about on TV was no more than a scam.

But then again, maybe not. Either
way, what harm could a healthy dinner and some upbeat music do? None
whatsoever. It was definitely worth a try.

“Details, please,” Jeanne demanded
half an hour later as they strode in the direction of Claude’s place.

“I took some herring salad from our
fridge and bought a bag of walnuts, three turkey breasts, and dark chocolate at
the supermarket.”

“Are you going to give Claude a
cooking lesson?”

Amanda smiled and shook her head.
“I’m going to feed him some ‘happy’ food. Turkey, walnuts, and dark chocolate
contain chemicals that make people produce more feel-good serotonin.”

“Hon—”

“I know, I know,” Amanda said.
“Turkey is no Prozac, and I’m no psychiatrist. But it may work. And then I’ll
play him some reggae from my ‘rainy day’ playlist.”

“You have a ‘rainy day’ playlist?”

Amanda clucked her tongue. “That’s
an irrelevant question. What you should be asking is
why
?”

“Why?”

“Reggae music always puts you in a
better mood.”

“Except when it doesn’t,” Jeanne
said.

They arrived at Claude’s address,
and Jeanne pressed the buzzer.

As they waited for Claude to
answer, Amanda refocused her thoughts on the problem at hand. She could do
this—she was great at finding creative solutions. Getting Claude to return with
them to La Bohème sounded easier than some of the situations she’d solved at
ENS. Her heart beat faster, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the
other.

Come on, Claude. Open that door. Let
us in.

He did.

But things didn’t go
quite as planned.

* * *

“Oh God, no! I can’t even look at
food right now,” Claude declared as soon as Amanda unpacked the goodies.

“This isn’t just any food—” Amanda
began.

“I don’t care. I just stuffed
myself with a bag of chips and three donuts. I think I’m going to puke.”

OK. No food, then.

Amanda tried the reggae line of
attack, but it failed just as miserably. Claude had a headache, and music made
his migraines worse.

Any music.

Just before throwing in the towel,
Amanda grabbed Claude by the shoulders and blurted. “I know you’re unwell, and
I’m not making light of your condition. But . . . the temp can’t
start until tomorrow, and we expect a full house tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I hate letting you guys
down, but I just don’t have the physical energy.”

Jeanne tugged at Amanda’s sleeve.
“Leave him alone. You heard what he said: he has no physical energy—”

“Well then, he can use the mental
one!” Amanda turned back to the miserable-looking chef and tightened her grip.
“Do this for Jeanne, Claude—she needs you. Don’t let her down.”

He swallowed, and stared at Jeanne.

She gave him a warm smile. “It’s
OK, Claude, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll do it.”

He swung around, grabbed his keys
from the hook on the wall, and marched out the door.

Jeanne gave Amanda an astonished
look and darted after him.

Amanda followed, pulling the door
shut behind her.

“If I puke in the kitchen,” Claude
said, without looking at either woman, as they hurried to the bistro, “you’ll
clean.”

“I will,” Amanda promised before
Jeanne could say anything.

She’d hate every moment of it, no
doubt, but it would be a small price to pay for how she felt right now. Her
heart brimmed with exhilaration and pride from attaining the objective she’d
set for herself and solving a tricky problem.