With a Twist (6 page)

Thank you, Anthony,
Natalie thought to herself as she made her way to Mon Plaisir, one of the oldest French restaurants in New York City. Anthony had culinary connections all over the five boroughs, and he’d found out through the grapevine that the restaurant was looking for a manager. Much to Natalie’s delight, he’d recommended her to the restaurant’s owner. So here she was, hurrying off to a 2 p.m. interview with a chef named Simon Grillet. French, Anthony had told her. Perhaps he’d interview her in their native tongue. That would be delightful.

The restaurant was large: two floors, both with fireplaces and strategically placed antiques to give it a feeling of warmth. She was no sooner through the door than Simon appeared, a short man with an extremely serious demeanor.

“Bonjour,”
he said politely.

“Bonjour,”
Natalie replied.

He ushered her to a small table. “Can I get you anything? Some water perhaps?”

All I need is a job,
Natalie thought. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“So, how do you know Anthony Dante?” he asked, slipping easily from English into French. He had a Normandy accent.

Natalie almost slipped and said, “He’s engaged to my sister,” but caught herself. Nepotism was never helpful. “He owns the restaurant across from my sister’s,” she explained, also shifting into French.

“Vivi’s, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I think I may have heard of it. Bistro-style cooking?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. We serve classic Cordon Bleu food here.”

Natalie didn’t see how that was relevant to managing the restaurant, but she nodded with interest.

“Anthony tells me you’re a very good waitress.”

“I am.”

“What makes you think you’d be a good restaurant manager?”

“I’m good at dealing with the public,” said Natalie without hesitation, despite hearing Quinn’s guffawing in her head. “I know how important it is to make guests feel special. I know how important it is to treat fellow staff with respect.”

“Your sister’s restaurant is very small, I believe.” He gestured around him. “As you can see, my restaurant is very large.” He peered at her closely. “Have you ever waitressed in a restaurant larger than your sister’s?”

“No.”

“Mmm. You’re Parisian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Natalie proudly.

“It’s been my experience that Parisians think they can do anything, even when they can’t.”

“Perhaps you haven’t encountered the right Parisians,” Natalie replied politely. A provincial who hated Parisians. Forget it. She would never get the job.

“You’re from Normandy,
oui
?” she asked him. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.” She wasn’t lying. She had many friends in Paris who regularly went on holiday there. Perhaps, by complimenting where he was from, he’d see she was personable and polite, and not just Parisian.

Simon looked unmoved. “I’ll be blunt with you: since you have no real management experience, I think a leap from waitressing at your sister’s bistro to a restaurant of this size and reputation is too great. I’ve known a lot of managers who started out small. But this is a giant step. My recommendation to you would be to try to get a job managing a medium-sized restaurant first. You have to work your way up, you know.”

“Of course. I appreciate your advice.” She looked at him inquisitively. “May I ask you another question?”

“Certainement.”

“Was this even a serious job interview? Or did you speak with me purely as a favor to Anthony Dante?”

Simon was silent.

“I see,” Natalie said primly. She rose. “Thank you.”

By the time she was out on the sidewalk, she was panicked. What if this interview was a harbinger of those to come? What if every restaurant she managed to get an interview with said the same thing? What if she didn’t get another interview for months and was forced to keep working at the Wild Hart?

She’d made enough in tips to take a cab back to her—Bernard’s—apartment. As soon as she got home, she’d call and thank Anthony for getting her an interview with Simon. It wasn’t Anthony’s fault that his acquaintance had no intention of ever taking her seriously.

Disheartened, she hailed a cab and slid into the backseat. She wished she didn’t have to work tonight. God help Quinn O’Brien if he went out of his way to make her life difficult, the way he always did.
God help him. She was in no mood.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

Natalie turned from helping Liam behind the bar to see Mason Clement sliding onto a stool. He was dressed immaculately in a starched white shirt and navy blue tie, nothing rumpled about him at all. Natalie liked him.

“Bonjour,”
she replied, approaching him. “What can I get you?”

“A Stella Artois would be great,” Clement replied in French.

Stella Artois . . . she wasn’t sure what that was. “A Stella Artois?” she said to Liam uncertainly.

Liam nodded, indicating he’d get it.

She turned back to Mason, catching a whiff of his cologne. It was lovely. She liked a man who paid attention to his grooming.

“You speak French?” she asked him.

“Of course,” he replied in French. “Having worked for years in Europe, one needs to speak more than just English.” Natalie was impressed. A man fluent in French. Sophisticated.

“May I make an observation?” Clement asked, still speaking French as Liam put the beer down in front of him.

Natalie swallowed nervously. “Yes, as long as it’s not rude.”

Mason laughed. “I don’t think it’s rude.”

“All right, then.”

He leaned in close to her. “You seem a bit too classy to be working here.”

Natalie flushed with pleasure. This Mason Clement—he saw her. “It’s just temporary,” she murmured, “until I find a job managing a restaurant. I’m just trying to bring money in.”

“I would think a bistro would be more your speed.”

“I did work in a bistro,” Natalie said, almost feeling as if he might have done research on her. “In Brooklyn. But I missed living in the city, so here I am.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Mason replied sympathetically. “New York is one of my favorite cities in the world.”

“Have you ever been to Paris?”

“Of course,” Mason replied, still in French, as if it were self-evident. “Another fantastic city.”

“Yes,” Natalie replied, feeling almost giddy.

“Tell me: Do you like to go to museums? Concerts?”

“I love to go to museums,” Natalie replied. “And I like all different kinds of music.”

Mason sipped his beer. “I thought you might. Perhaps sometime . . .”

Natalie felt her face go red. “Yes?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the door swing open. It was Quinn, followed by his friends. Their eyes met, his flashing with displeasure as he and his newspaper buddies made their way to their usual booth. “I should get back to work,” said Natalie, even though she wanted to stand there and talk to Mason Clement all night.

“I’ll probably be in tomorrow night,” he said, momentarily switching to English, raising his beer to her. “
Au revoir
.”

“Yes,
au revoir
.”

She felt slightly disoriented as she approached Quinn’s table, especially since the first thing he did was snigger. “Getting to be pals with Crocodile Dundee, are we?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I’m a reporter. My life runs on curiosity, remember?”

She shot a sideways glance at Quinn’s colleagues, who were watching this exchange avidly.

“Why doesn’t Mason sit with you all?”

All of them laughed, making Natalie feel stupid, which she didn’t appreciate.

“It seems rather cruel to me,” she continued.

“You want to know why that buttoned-down, pretentious ass doesn’t sit with us?” Quinn replied. “Because he’s our boss. And if your boss sits with you, you can’t bitch about your boss.”

“Bitch?”

“Complain.”

Natalie glanced back at Mason, who was reading the paper at the bar. Her heart went out to him. Here was a group of men he worked with, and they refused to invite him to join them.

“I think, maybe, if you give him a chance, you will find—”

“What do you care whether he sits here with us or not?” Quinn challenged.

Natalie shrugged. “He seems nice, is all. May I take your orders?”

As soon as
Natalie was out of earshot, the abuse started.

“Pardon moi,”
said Rodriguez, “but that sure as hell wasn’t a discussion between two friends.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn maintained, irked that he had to keep his attention on his friends when really, he wanted to keep an eye on Natalie to see if she and Clement managed any more face time. He couldn’t believe she’d come to the table lobbying on the asshole’s behalf. He’d charmed her. It was unreal; or maybe not. The guy was suave and rich—just her type, probably. It made him sick.

“How do you know Natalie anyway?” Durham asked.

“She waitressed at this little French place in Brooklyn I go to sometimes named Vivi’s.”

“And how the hell did you convince her to come work here?”

“I didn’t convince her. She needed a job in the city. I helped her out.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Shep said lasciviously.

“I like her,” Rodriguez said carefully, “but she’s kind of aloof.”

“She’s French, you idiot,” said Rogan. “They’re all aloof. Snobby and aloof.”

“How the hell do you know?” Quinn asked.

“I attended the International Crossword Puzzle Championships in Paris once,” Durham said smugly. “There was this French girl there sitting next to me. Every time I tried to talk to her during breaks, she looked at me like I was a worm.”

“You
are
a worm,” said Rodriguez.

Natalie’s not aloof,
Quinn thought.
Not after you get to know her. But snobby?
He managed a quick look at the bar. She was talking to Clement again. Fuck. He knew he shouldn’t care; Christ knew the last thing he had time for was a relationship. But he liked Natalie. He didn’t want to see her get hurt. He’d hang out until closing time, pop back, and say hi to his folks. And then he was going to do Natalie a great, big favor.

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