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“No, sir, je ne peux pas. And it's impolite for you to insist, both in America and in France.”
I know this is true, because that was rule number twenty-one.
“Indeed.” He chuckles, the corners of his lips rising in a natural smile that makes my heart melt.
I have got to get over this crush.
“Come down. Simone is already here and the meal will be served shortly.”
“Right behind you, monsieur.”
He stops on the stairs and I nearly bump into him. My body brushes against his back as he turns to look at me. “I like it when you call me monsieur.”
Darn it, there goes my heart again. Why does he have to do this to me? He swings open the double doors to the dining room where Grandmama is already seated next to Simone.
“Here she is,” Grandmama says, “the little American.”
“Je ne comprends pas pourquoi tu as besoin de quelqu’un comme elle,” Simone says, and my French is good enough to know that she's questioning why I'm here.
“Hush, hush,” Grandmama says, tapping Simone's knee. “Let's have a glass of last year's red to calm the nerves.”
“Excellent idea,” Simone mutters as Olivier takes his seat beside her.
Three out of four seats are full, and then Olivier's brother struts in.
He bows his head in greeting to me. “There she is, the apple of Grandmama's eye.” Sebastien winks at me and Simone clears her throat.
“Bonsoir, Simone,” Sebastien adds, but it's clear that he is not enchanted by her presence.
And I can't help noticing that every chair at the table is now full.
“I'll just grab a chair from—” I start, but before I can get all the words out, Simone holds up her glass. “The bottle is already open, Natalie. Won't you serve us?”
“Oh. Of course.” As I pour, I feel a growing lump in my throat.
All the glasses are now filled, including Grandmama who had me top it up to the brim.
“Santé,” Grandmama says, and everyone replies, “Santé.”
Everyone, except me. I don't have a glass. I don't even have a seat at the table.
“If you go into the kitchen…” Simone says, “…you'll see the others are there. They will show you what you need to bring out first. Make sure you listen to their instructions. Here in France, mealtime is sacred.”
“I know that,” I whisper. That was rule number six. My neck is burning as I walk past Olivier whose jaw has dropped to the floor.
“Did you do this?” he says to her in French, gesturing at the table set for four, not five.
“Do what?” she replies in a tone that could cut a casserole. “She's used to it. She works in your restaurant, and she is being employed here.”
I look back to see Olivier’s furrowed brow watching me exit through the door to the kitchen. I'm gathering up plates of that salty fish sausage called poutargues to serve the first course. But my mouth is so dry, it's like I'm hanging out in the Sahara when Olivier comes in.
“Natalie,” he says, “you don't have to do this. I didn't realize she—”
“Hey, it's okay. She's not wrong.” I laugh trying to make light of the situation. “I do work in your restaurant.”
“You don't know Simone,” he says, taking my shoulders in his hands. “I have to be careful with her.”
I don't know what's worse, being treated like a servant by Olivier’s girlfriend, or Olivier letting her treat me that way.
