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"Yes, madame." I'm beginning to get some family history here. Maybe this is a breakthrough.
"Now, get out."
Okay, not so much of a breakthrough.
I sigh and lean against the wall in the hallway. Just a moment of peace is all I need.
"Ooh la la, mais c’est quoi cette tisane dégelasse!”
A teacup smashes against the other side of the wall, and I jolt to attention. "Don't worry, madame. I'll be right back with a broom."
I need a new plan of action. After sweeping the shards of porcelain, I fold my hands in front of me in that very French way, and approach Madame Dubois’ bedside.
"Madame?"
"I thought I told you to get out."
“You did, but that was earlier."
She lets out an exasperated breath. "Fine then. What do you want?"
"Well," I smile. "I've been working on my French since I got here, and I thought perhaps you and I could converse in French so that I can improve?"
"How long have you been in France?"
She looks straight at me, and I freeze in place. She has some secret powers for total intimidation. SpeakNatalie, say something.
"Two," I squeak.
"Two years?" she asks, her annoyance spilling out of her lips.
"No, two months. Two months."
"Then don't talk to me in French. I don't want to hear your ghastly accent. Perhaps in two years I may entertain it long enough, if only to see the impact of the modern education system in France."
"I'm not going to school here…"
"Excellent, a drop out."
"No, no. I've graduated. I'm working."
"Are you? Because from what I can tell you're standing around at my bedside, trying to get me to help you to learn French. That doesn't seem like working to me."
Touché.
"You may leave me now," she says and turns her eyes back to the window.
At least she's not the kind of woman where you have to figure out what she's thinking.
Dinner rolls around and she barely even acknowledges my existence. This is day one on the job, and I haven't seen Olivier or anyone else except Andrée, the housekeeper. My owninextinguishable positivity is more sputter than spark, after a day of this ‘special project’. Andrée leaves dinner on a tray in my room, which I down quickly, as I need to help Madame with her evening routine.
"No," she cries. "Bring me theeau micellaire before the moisturizer. Have you just rolled out from under a stone?"
I’m tempted to tell her that the expression is crawled out from under a rock, but I bite my tongue. Once I have laid out her array of creams, balms, and potions, she demands that I leave but not go far.
As my room is on the other side of this stately home, and two floors up, that won't do. I lean my forehead against the wall in the hallway, and nearly jump out of my skin when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Madame demanded that I turn off the ringer. The pings of eager texts from my friends were too much for her delicate sense of hearing, so she told me.
"Hi," I answer the call quietly, and see their five faces smooshed in the screen.
