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She sets a heavy hand on my shoulder. "And how is it going with that cruel, arrogant, handsome boss of yours?"
"You don't want to go there, Veronique." Laura leans in. "We're currently making a plan of attack to deal with him."
"Oh, mon dieu. It's that bad?"
I nod, slowly and seriously. "Yes, it's that bad."
She gasps. "Wait!" she shouts, and runs to the other side of the cafe, as only the classiest of French seventy-year-olds can do. She comes back with one of the tabloids. I already know where this is going. She flips open to a specific page and holds it up, pointing. "It's you."
There it is. The famous picture of me standing amidst a pile of crashing crystal. My right hand raised with glass in hand, as if for a toast, and my left hand covering my face.
"That's exactly why we need a plan of attack, Veronique," Jess says. "If you have any advice for how to influence said uptight, cruel, arrogant Frenchman, we are all ears."
"Ah." She scratches her chin and thinks. "Yes, I can help. But first, what is today's rule?"
"That," I dig in my handbag, "is an excellent question."
I pull out the book from my handbag and flip to rule number thirty-seven. I clear my throat. "Rule number thirty-seven. Enjoy the finer things in life."
"Mais oui." Veronique claps her hands together. "I was hoping it might be a rule like this. I have the finest cheap champagne in town. And it's on the house."
She pops the bottle and pours it with grace into each of our glasses.
"Now let me tell you what you have to do with this Olivier Dubois.”
* * *
Tuesday morning. The moment of truth. The roses are once again blooming, and I have just enough time to stop and smell one of them.
Ack, there was a bee in that one.
I try to stay focused on my goal here. I wish my head were a little less fuzzy, consequence of a glass too many of champagne. But we had the best time, sitting there well into the evening hours, laughing with Veronique at her stories of the past. I always knew that woman had tricks up her sleeve. I especially loved the one about the Olympic swimmer. Veronique had guts and guts to spare. She is my inspiration for today.
I catch a quick glance of myself in the reflection of a shop window. This is the most French I have ever looked in my life. I can practically feel the classiness oozing from my pores.
It's not just the outfit, nor the French roll that Gina did in my hair this morning. It's all in the attitude. Shoulders back, chin high, and it's time to level with Olivier the way a Frenchwoman would do.
Our ideas spanned the whole range of possibilities: cry and plead, take a reduction in pay, blackmail… Veronique’s suggestions were three degrees too wild. When she started talking about tactics that included accidental nudity, we knew we were going to have to go for more—um—traditional methods.
Hence, I have a speech laid out. According to all our research, Olivier is a practical man whose interest is in the well-being of his restaurants when he’s not galivanting on yachts or sipping champagne at soirées hosted by France’s rich and famous. Ultimately we agreed that Gina’s idea was the best: since the restaurant has a very limited online presence, win him over with an argument that benefits the restaurant. I have social media skills. People pay good money for social media managers, and I can fit that in between shifts on weekends. Even if it means I’ll lose the chance to enjoy Paris, at least I won’t end up bankrupt or in jail for unpaid debt.
I run my fingers over the index cards in my pocket. I tried to memorize the speech, but I’m sure when I have him in front of me that all semblance of English, French, and all other languages will fly out the window.
I can tell I'm the first to arrive, other than Olivier in the front and Marie in the back. At the sound of the door’s jingle, Olivier looks up from the table where he has a cup of coffee that I'm guessing he made himself this time.His eyes are softer than I would have expected and he smiles on seeing me.
"Natalie, I—" he begins, but I don't let him continue.
"Olivier. It's good to see you this morning. I hope you're enjoying your coffee."
Yikes, that wasn't in the script. Just felt like I needed to get that little dig in there before I begin. After all, I'm channeling my inner Frenchwoman now.
Olivier chuckles. "Next time you'll have to show me how your barista skills have improved."
I don’t laugh. I clear my throat and his smile fades.
This is it. Time to deliver my speech. It was well-prepared, approved by the team… and has entirely flown from my mind. I pull out my index cards, but they snag on my pocket and fly across the floor. Well, that was an unhelpful twist of fate.
“Horse hooey,” I mumble and I gather them up, but they are out of order. All well and good to be prepared, but numbering the cards would have helped.
