The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  When I told Pierre, the waiter at my regular morning cafe, that I was looking for a way to make money, he told me that the week-night bartender had just quit and the owner had been looking to replace him.

  His suggestion intrigued me. Not only for monetary purposes, but for the experience of it all. My French was improving every day, and this would undoubtedly help. Plus, I liked that it was different. I liked that it was something that six months ago I never would have dreamed I'd be doing.

  So the next morning, I took Pierre up on his offer and met with Carlos, the Spanish owner of Cafe Bosquet, and ten minutes later the job was mine. I didn't have a work visa, but Carlos seemed more than happy to pay me under the table in cash, and I was just happy to have a place to belong again.

  I started working five nights a week. I would come in at six in the evening and leave a little after midnight. The cafe was never too busy, a dinner crowd that shuffled in around eight and fizzled out before ten and a few late night customers after that. It was a relatively quiet restaurant, in a relatively quiet section of town tucked away between the Eiffel Tower and l'École militaire (the Military School) in the seventh arrondissement. The neighborhood, or quartier, as the French call it, had a reputation of housing many French politicians and foreign ambassadors, earning it the nickname "the Washington, D.C., of Paris."

  From day one, Pierre helped me learn the ropes. He introduced me to the staff, taught me how to use the impossibly confusing cappuccino machine that I swear you need a Ph.D. to operate, and corrected my floundering French when I made comical grammar mistakes. Faux amis, he called them. False friends. English words that you'd think would translate directly into French because they're so similar but in fact have completely different meanings. Like préservatif, which actually translates into "condom" and not the stuff the American vineyards put in red wine to help lengthen the shelf life. A mistake I made only once.

  The job at Cafe Bosquet wasn't anything glamorous or important, but I found contentment in its simplicity. There was a beginning, a middle, and an end to every task that I undertook. I poured a drink, someone drank it, I cleaned the glass, and I placed it back on the rack for the next customer. When the icebox was empty, I went to the back to refill it. Small, uncomplicated cycles. No broken hearts, no crying, no betrayals. The most disappointing part of my night was when someone forgot to leave a tip. But even then Pierre explained that most French people don't tip.

  I enjoyed the people aspect of the bartender life as well. Conversing with someone new every night. It was actually a much bigger part of the job than pouring drinks. And without fail, the conversations always found their way to the subject of relationships. Nearly every customer who made conversation with me would eventually talk about love. What's wrong with it, why they can't find it, why they can't manage to stay in it.

  Maybe it was just me. Maybe lonely hearts sensed something in my past—an understanding of human nature—and were inevitably drawn to it.

  Pierre and I would talk a lot, too. He normally worked the breakfast shift, but he would come by the cafe for a drink almost every night after the dinner rush and sit at the bar and chat with me until it was time to go home.

  I quickly got used to his company. I considered him my first real friend in Paris. He was sweet and funny and easy to talk to. Plus his hilarious French antics and unusual sense of humor made me laugh. I've always loved how jokes vary from country to country. What's funny in French may not be as funny in English. Something about that unique French charm just gets lost in the translation.

  It eventually got to the point where I would look forward to Pierre's visits. Especially on slower nights when there was nothing to do but stare out into the gradually emptying cafe and watch people clear out and return home to their lives.

  One Monday night in early January was shaping up to be like that. It was just after nine-thirty, and the only people in the cafe were two businessmen—one French, one American—at the far end of the bar. They were speaking in English, which made it easier to catch bits and pieces of their conversation as I went about my side work behind the bar. Shining glasses, scrubbing down the cappuccino machine, and wiping down the leather-bound menus.

  From the chunks of dialogue I was able to passively pick up every time I came by to check their drink levels, it was evident these two men were in the middle of an important business deal. And not a very interesting one at that.

  I checked my watch and glanced toward the door. Pierre usually made an appearance between nine-thirty and ten, and I was anxious for him to show up and keep me company on such a dull night.

  I studied the two businessmen out of the corner of my eye. The French man was dressed in a light gray suit, a coral pink shirt, and a powder blue tie. It had taken me a while to get used to the French's colorful fashion sense. Especially when it came to the businessmen. When I first arrived in Paris, I'd actually found it quite comical. They looked more like they were going to the circus than the office. But Pierre had explained to me that the French just liked and appreciated color. And that to a French person, the traditional American corporate attire looked drab and dreary. As if they were going to a funeral every day of their life.

  And now I had to admit, when I glanced over at the American at the bar, dressed in his smart black suit, crisp white button-up, and conservative navy striped tie, he looked so . . . stiff. And boring.

  The American swigged down the last of his wine, and I sidled over with the bottle. "Another glass?"

  He nodded gratefully, and I poured.

  "Well, I'm positive my client won't agree to those terms," the French man was saying in impressively solid English. "He's not going to spend a half a million euros on tenant improvements for a five-year lease. It's just not worth it. He has no guarantees that you will renew the lease in five years or that your company will even make it here for that long."

  "We'll make it," the American assured him, sounding cocky and confident as only a slick American businessman can. "Projections for the European market are extremely strong."

  I finished pouring and indicatively held up the bottle to the second man. He nodded and pointed toward his glass. I began refilling it.

  "But this is your first venture outside the United States," the French man replied. "And projections are just that: projections. They are not guarantees. Now if you agreed to sign a ten-year lease, then I'd have something to go back with."

  The American man shook his head, keeping his composure despite his evident aversion to this suggestion. "Look, we both know this space has been vacant for more than eighteen months. I'm sure your client hasn't enjoyed covering the mortgage out of his own pocket. He needs cash flow. And we can help. But if he doesn't agree to the terms, we'll have no choice but to set up the European headquarters in Brussels."

  I stifled a groan as I listened to the conversation.

  What a bunch of bullshit, I thought. Brussels? Yeah, right. It was so obvious that this man was absolutely desperate to set up his company's new offices in Paris.

  "The Belgian landlord has already agreed to the five-year lease term and the five hundred K in improvements. All we have to do is sign the paperwork," the American was now saying.

  I fought back a laugh. Another load of crap.

  The wineglass in front of me was nearly full, but I just kept on pouring. I was hardly paying attention to what I was doing because I was too distracted waiting for the Frenchman to call the American's obvious bluff.

  But he didn't. His expression remained grim and defeated, and he sighed in frustration, clearly not catching on to this blatant lie at all.

  Then I heard a gasp, and I looked down to see a sea of red wine flooding the top of the bar and spilling over the edge. I jumped in surprise and pulled up the bottle. The two businessmen had leapt up from their seats to avoid a Cabernet shower.

  "Oh, God!" I exclaimed as I mopped up the mess. "I'm so sorry about that. I just totally blanked out."

  "It's fine," they both assure
d me with smiles, although the Frenchman's was slightly less genuine. No doubt his head was still stuck on the ultimatum he had just received.

  The American excused himself to use the restroom and try to reduce some of the stain's damage, and I continued to wipe up the spill and apologize profusely.

  "Je suis si desolée," I transitioned into French.

  "Pas de problème," the Frenchman repeated, wiping his pants with a spare napkin I had tossed to him. "The deal was going sour anyway. It was perfect timing, in fact."

  I studied him intently, taking note of the disappointment on his face. Did he really not know the man was lying? Was it really not obvious?

  My mind flashed back to the dinner meeting I had attended with Jamie. I thought Hank Chandler's bluff about having an offer from another company was the most transparent thing in the world, but Jamie didn't have a clue.

  Ever since I had arrived in Paris, I had found it difficult to read French men. But that man in the bathroom was American. And I had been able to read his true intentions as clear as day. Was it really just a question of language? Did the secret behind my special men-reading superpower all come down to nationality?

  "You know," I began cautiously, eyeing the restroom for the American's return, "he doesn't have the option to go to Brussels."

  He looked up at me with curious eyes. "What are you talking about?"

  I continued wiping the bar with slow, purposeful strokes. "I overheard what he said. About putting the European headquarters in Brussels." I shook my head. "It's a lie. He has to put it in Paris."

  The man continued to study me with apprehension. "How do you know that?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I just do. To me, the lie is as obvious as that wine stain on your shirt."

  He glanced down at the front of his soiled pink shirt, wiping it haphazardly with his napkin. He was far less concerned about the stain than he was about the questionable information I was imparting to him.

  "And I'm sorry about both," I offered quietly. "The stain and the lie."

  Another stunned silence. He wasn't sure what to make of this new development. Or if he should even believe it. "So what are you suggesting I do?"

  I tossed the now-red rag into a bucket of soapy water by my feet. "Don't give in to his demands. He'll rent the space regardless."

  The American returned to the bathroom just then and tossed a fifty-euro bill down on the bar. "Let's get out of here," he said. "I've got an early call tomorrow morning with the New York office."

  The Frenchman nodded absently and followed his drinking buddy out the door. He took one last inquiring glance in my direction, and I smiled back, happy to have offered some advice that didn't have to do with someone's love life. Whether he took it or not.

  Pierre showed up a few minutes later and ordered his usual Jupiler beer. Like every night, tonight he stayed with me until it was time to close up. It was all part of our usual routine. I sometimes wondered why he never seemed to have anything else to do than come down here five nights a week and drink beer at the bar. But I always assumed it was because he enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed his. He would always tell me funny stories and jokes while I cleaned up the bar and counted out my cash register. And then after Carlos locked the door behind us, he would usually offer to walk me back to my apartment, which I would always insist was unnecessary since I lived only a block away. Then we would part ways with a double-cheek kiss. Very French.

  Yes, he was attractive, and I definitely noticed how the American female tourists and even the French local women looked at him when they came into the cafe. But I never saw him as anything more than that: a double-cheek kiss.

  And he seemed perfectly fine with our casual, platonic relationship. Never crossing the line, never implying or hinting that we could be anything more than just friends.

  Which is probably why I didn't see it coming when he asked me out.

  Although in retrospect I probably should have. You would think that someone who had flirted with men for a living would have been able to pick up on something like that. But whatever the reason, I was caught completely off guard.

  Carlos had just locked the door behind us and I was still buttoning up my coat when Pierre said, "Tu veux dîner avec moi demain soir?"

  I stopped midbutton, and my hands fell lifelessly to my sides. My head slowly tilted toward him as I struggled to keep the look of panic from registering on my face.

  I knew what the sentence translated to: "Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?" Dîner is one of those classic French verbs that you learn early on because it's easy to remember and its conjugation is regular.

  But I couldn't be sure what kind of "dining" he was referring to. Because obviously it was one thing to grab a ham-and-cheese sandwich from one of those carts on the sidewalk, but it was quite another to sit down to a candlelit meal at some romantic French bistro. Plus, he was so casual about the whole thing. Just slipping the question into the conversation as if it were nothing. What if dîner was just another of those "false friends" that I kept learning about? And in this context it actually meant "to visit an educational museum in a very platonic, nonsexual way"?

  Pierre laughed at my stunned silence, and it was then that I realized my mouth was hanging open. "Can I take that as a yes?" he asked hopefully.

  I quickly shut my gaping jaw. "Um," I stuttered, trying to find the right words. They didn't really teach you how to let someone down easy in high school French class. "I . . . I don't think so," was my eloquent reply.

  "Pourquoi pas?" he immediately asked, his face dripping with evident disappointment. French men certainly didn't have any problems showing their emotions. An admirable quality. Just not for me. Not now.

  I knew that after I said no, things probably wouldn't be the same between us. That's how it always is when someone reveals secret feelings that turn out to be unrequited. And the thought of losing Pierre as a friend saddened and frustrated me at the same time. Because knowing that all his helpfulness and affections and funny jokes had probably been just one big ruse to take things to the next level suddenly made me feel somewhat betrayed. As though he had been the faux ami.

  I continued buttoning up my jacket, this time with considerably more fervor than when I had first started. "Because I just don't think it would be a good idea."

  Pierre looked at me with a slightly confused expression. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  I yanked my gloves out of my pocket and slid them over my hands. "No."

  "But you used to," he speculated observantly. Then, upon seeing my silent reaction, he added, "Very recently."

  Emotionally transparent and astute. What a combo.

  "Yes," I replied curtly, wrapping my scarf tightly around my neck as if I were preparing for a mile-long stroll across town, not the fifty paces it took to get to my dad's apartment from here. "I used to, but not anymore."

  He cocked his head to the side and studied my distressed expression. "That's why you're here, isn't it? In Paris."

  I stared down at the ground, kicking my left toe against the sidewalk. "I'm here for a lot of reasons."

  Pierre sensed my uneasiness and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "I can help you forget him. French men are good at that sort of thing."

  I chuckled politely. But it wasn't because what he said had been funny. It was because the very same thought had crossed my mind the minute he asked me to dinner. I knew that Pierre was the kind of man who would make me forget about Jamie. Or at least distract me long enough for the pain to dull. And believe me, it was tempting. As tempting as a lifeboat in a tumultuous sea.

  I hesitated, fingering the frayed ends of my cashmere scarf. "I'm sorry, Pierre," I replied as graciously as possible. "I just don't think I can."

  I expected his shoulders to slouch, his head to drop, and his hands to shove into his pockets in bitter defeat. But instead he just flashed me this coy little smile, as if he knew something I didn't, and leaned forward to kiss me on both cheeks.<
br />
  "You'll change your mind," he assured me. The way he said it wasn't in any way foreboding or threatening. In fact, it was actually somewhat endearing. He was so confident of himself, as though he had been given a rare glimpse into the future. I had to laugh.

  He grinned back at me. "Oui?" he presumed, misreading my amusement.

  I laughed again. "Peut-être," I finally admitted with a shy smile.

  And it was true. Maybe I would change my mind. Maybe someday I would wake up in the morning and the first thought that popped into my head wouldn't be about Jamie. And maybe one night I would fall asleep to the fantasy of someone else's arms wrapped around me. But I knew I couldn't depend on anyone else to save me. I had to get there myself. In my own time. With my own lifeboat.

  33

  . . . a window opens

  When I got home from the bar that night, my dad informed me that someone named Zoë had called for me on the landline while I was gone.

  My immediate response was disbelief. Zoë hadn't returned any of my calls or answered any of my e-mails since I got here more than a month ago. "Are you sure it wasn't Sophie?" I verified, standing in the middle of the living room with skeptical eyes.

  My dad pursed his lips. "Pretty sure she said Zoë." He nodded toward a piece of paper on the kitchen counter. "I took a message and told her you'd call her back when you got home."

  I felt nerves boiling up in my stomach. I checked my watch. "What time is it there?"

  My dad glanced at the clock on the stereo. "A little after three in the afternoon."

  "Thanks!" I said as I grabbed the landline phone from the cradle and skidded down the hallway toward my room, dialing Zoë's number as I went.

  The line rang twice before she picked up. "Hi," she said in a low voice without any formalities.