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Come on, I’m always the first one here. Always… except today.
I bite my lip. “Yes, sir.”
Olivier takes in a deep breath and continues the meeting in French. I catch most of what he says and then make a face to Marie who nods her silent agreement to explain the details to me later.
“What happened to you?” Camille hisses when the meeting dismisses.
“I thought the clouds might pass.”
Camille grabs her forehead. “This is Paris in April, ma puce. You must always keep an umbrella.” She looks me up and down and nods her approval. “But I do love the La Baume collection from six years ago. You are wearing it very well.” She marches off to catch up with Olivier.
I look down at my still dripping self. Dampness aside, even I can admit I look good.
Now to blow dry this hair.
* * *
The minutes pass like years because Olivier Dubois is watching my every move. I know it, because when I turn around quickly, I catch him staring.
I don't like it one bit.
This isn't anything like I imagined. If only I had read more rules from the book, maybe I’d know what to do in a situation like this. I’ve read hundreds of magazines and tour books and never even mind the piles podcasts saved on my phone. But none of them told me what to do about a shockingly overbearing boss who’s built like a superhero.
I’m about to clean the grounds disposal bin from the famous coffee machine when I once again find him sizing me up with crossed arms and an infuriatingly attractive raised eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” I keep my tone genuine, but I put my hands on my hips. I'm sure I read somewhere that hands on hips is very French. But there’s a certain way to do it. Oh, I think the hands need to be high on my waist. Like this.
His brow scrunches and the corners of his mouth curl. “No, no, I don't need any help at all. But it seems you do.”
“No,” I reply. “I'm fine.”
He puckers his lips and nods toward my hands, where I have unknowingly smeared coffee grounds all over my La Baume collection crepe pantsuit.
“Oh, fuddlebug.”
I am pant-less in the staff restroom when Camille comes in with a question mark on her face.
“What is happening to you, Natalie? You are the one who holds it all together under pressure. And today you are… how do you say? A big mess.”
“I know, I know,” I reply as I gently wipe the remainder of the coffee off my slacks. “I just wanted to make a good impression.”
“Then don't try so hard,” she says poking her finger into my shoulder. “Just be you. And perhaps buy less floral underwear.” She struts out with her chin high.
Don’t try so hard. Easy for Camille to say. She is exactly what I'm talking about when I think of being a real French woman.
For me there’s only one option. Fake it ’til you make it.
I'm a new woman when I emerge from the washroom. I can handle Olivier. I’ve handled all kinds of men in all kinds of situations before. The rude customs officer, the dismissive landlord, the cranky butcher…
“Here comes the drowned rat.”
Olivier mutters it loud enough for me to hear, though there's no one else around.
His chin is set in a challenge and his eyes sparkle the same way they did when I brought him his coffee yesterday.
The sound of teeth clenching echoes in my head because I will not let him get the best of me.
I just have to get through this shift. I just have to get through this shift.
