Plan C

by Lois Cahall

  “Vous parlez trop vite!” I say. You speak too fast.

  He slows down this time, and I’m certain that he’s asked me to “come to his hotel room and see the double-headed ‘his and her’ shower.”

  “If one more guy asks me to see his double-headed shower today, I don’t know what I’ll do,” I say, laughing, but he has no idea what I’m talking about, my mind is still coaxing my body to consider him. I could fuck his brains out and never see him again, but that’s so not my style. I certainly didn’t leave Ben for this. But how I long to do the wild, unadulterated sexcapades that Kitty seems so capable of.

  But, I don’t want to think about Ben. Or this guy in the wrinkled cashmere jacket. I know it’s cashmere because he’s now clinging to my arm. Politely, I excuse myself and head over to Kitty who’s commanding a group that includes Christian Louboutin.

  “…So then I’m 22 and director of this very prominent gallery,” says Kitty. “In walks Dustin Hoffman and he says to me, ‘have we met before?’ He wants to buy a Kim Wanki and Leonard Basin – this depressed artist with dying birds - and I just moved to New York City and he says, ‘I’m performing in ‘Death of a Salesman’ come as my guest. So I had to take the train all the way back to 181st Street because my apartment was up near the George Washington Bridge in the middle of fucking nowhere. Anyway, I got changed into my funky jeans, and next thing I know I’m back downtown at the show and even got to go backstage afterwards. His lovely significant was there. We all hung out and went to dinner. I went to his shows and he learned art from me.”

  Everybody chuckles except for one short French guy sandwiched between two seven foot models. “Maybe we need to stop living in the past,” he says, with more arrogance than a Classics professor addressing an unprepared student. “All our stories are about how we used to be. You know? People get tired of how we used to be. I don’t like how I used to be, do you?”

  I don’t like how you are now, pal. Does anybody have some garlic and a crucifix? Everybody falls silent. Kitty is speechless - burying her nose in her champagne glass - while I run a cautious eye over this French man the size of Napoleon, only smaller, and with very bad hair that’s not even his own. He wears a toupee apparently designed for those Fischer Price people you plug into the little round holes in the toy school bus.

  One of the two models on his left arm - wearing shoes so high they could cause vertigo - breaks the silence. In what sounds like a Russian version of Valley Girl English she says, “I never like tell anybody that I was three times almost Bond girl. Any day now I like getting big break.” The other woman giggles. Both their bodies are so emaciated I worry they’ll pass out from the strain of laughing and we’ll have to move them to the sofa and force-feed them intravenous. Though maybe they’re fine. I think I just saw one of them gorge on a triple shot of fresh air.

  My eyes move back to the arrogant Frenchman. Nations have started wars over men like this. But as I tip my head studying him, I feel like we’ve met before. Where? Maybe it’s pure coincidence that he resembles Ben’s ex Rosemary’s ex from those family tree photos that the twins have in their bedroom.

  “Libby, this is Jean-Francois,” says Kitty.

  I snap to attention. Oh my god, he even has the same name as Rosemary’s ex!

  “Bon soir,” I say, because I’m in France and it’s the only thing to say.

  His eyes move over my torso as though I’m today’s special hanging in the glass case of the butcher shop. He takes my hand, leaning forward to kiss it. “How do you say ‘you had me at bonjour…’” He lips hit my hand and he leaves them there as if he’s doing me the favor. What a moron.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Here solo, ma belle?” says Jean-Francois looking around to find my escort.

  “Oui.”

  Jean-Francois is like a tiny hamster who wants to be a tiger. I bet he’s hung like a hamster, too. He whispers, “Do you like the smell of my Jhee-von-shee?” I want to respond by telling him Givenchy would be pissed off that a pig like him is wearing his scent.

  Kitty interjects. “Libby is a writer back in the states.” Oh God, why did she have to tell them that? Say I sell drugs to rock stars. Say I’m the voice of the GPS lady in the car dashboard. You know, the sexy reassuring one who tells you that you’ve gone the right way as opposed to the stern one who orders you to “make an illegal U-turn now.” Say I’m anything! Just don’t tell this loser and his bimbos that I’m a writer.

  “Oh, you’re from America?” says one of the dumb models. “So much has happened there lately.”

  “You must mean our President Obama,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, him too, but I meant, like, um, on ‘Gossip Girl.’ I like love that show. My cousin…” Now she up-talks. “He like sends me all the DVDs.” Okay, I was wrong. She’s not twenty-one. This girl is clearly thirteen.

  “And ‘America’s Next Top Model,’” says the Russian girl. “Is my favorite.”

  “Oh. Me. Gawddd!” says the other model, squealing with delight. “Like the way that girl like tossed her cat at her boyfriend.”

  “The one that was cheating on her?” says the other girl.

  “She was like such a bitch,” she says. “But he deserved it!”

  Are these girls for real? I bet they think a 401K is a rock band. Kitty just shakes her head and returns to a real conversation. “Libby’s fiancée is the world renowned composer, Ben Taylor.”

  “The composer?” says Jean-Francois fastening his eyes on me. “He was married to my ex wife, no?”

  “No, yes, I’m not sure…who’s your ex?”

  “Rosemary. You know my ex?” and then he turns to the crowd as though wanting to share his thoughts with everybody. “How do you say? Rosemary was complee-cated. The whole thing - complicated.”

  That’s an understatement, I think to myself, half intrigued and half in shock of his straightforward nature. But tell me more, says the naughty devil on my left shoulder. How long I had waited to meet this mysterious little French man who dumped his twins in our lap. But before I can begin to wonder further, he’s already spilling.

  “Ahhh, Rosemary…” he says, “Her life was a mess, her house was a mess, her kids were a mess, she was an emotional mess. Who wants all that – mess.” He nudges Kitty’s arm.

  “Huge mess,” says Kitty, trying to make the best of it. All I can do is stare at him with medieval dagger eyes.

  “She was never interested in servicing a man,” says Jean-Francois. “She just wanted a man who could service her.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” says Kitty, suddenly seeing it his way.

  “Who needs to mow her lawn or shovel her walkway,” he says, nose-diving into the breasts of the woman he’s got his arm around. She giggles. “She never gave me a blow job.” Can’t say as though I blame her…Probably couldn’t find your tiny cock. “Now I can go home with anybody I choose.” And then, as though I might be his third possible conquest, he scans me from head to toe for a second time. In your dreams pal, my eyes are saying. If there’s one thing I hate, its men who belittle ex-wives publicly when they themselves are a disgrace – hanging out with girls young enough to be their granddaughters… And furthermore, this Jean-Francois has no right to pick on Rosemary. That’s my job! Who the hell is he to badmouth the mother of his kids? He called her kids “a mess?” They’re his kids, too. Had he forgotten that?

  While he’s babysitting seventeen-year-old women, the rest of us are fighting recession. Does he know the heartbreak of raising a kid and suddenly finding yourself so broke that the kids are stuffing college acceptance letter back in the envelopes? I bet this asshole never even changed a diaper let alone filled out a FAFSA form.

  To my surprise, a new emotion pushes my anger away. It’s as if a stubborn fog had suddenly been lifted from the shoreline. Now it was as clear as a July beach day with a tanning index of ten that the twins can never get what they need from this loser. The twins are so much better off with Ben. This p
ig may have impregnated Rosemary, but clearly Ben has become their real daddy. If Ben and I didn’t take care of those little boys they certainly weren’t going to get any form of emotional or financial support from this clown.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Jean-Francois “I’m sure it’s past your dates’ bedtime,” and then I turn to leave, hunting down Kitty whom I find between the columns and archways by the window. I can feel Jean-Francois’s confused eyes digging into my back as I stride away.

  But I’m focusing on the man that Kitty is conversing with. Elegantly dressed in a simple silk turtleneck and custom-fit blazer, he’s clearly got a 24 karat pedigree. By his side sits a very obedient dog. Kitty and the man face the window and toast the Eiffel Tower just across the river. It’s that time of the evening when the tower gives off a golden shimmer. I can’t help but wish Clive and Ben were here. Ben was the man who first showed me the Eiffel Tower so tiny in the distance when it came into view. We were in Montparnasse and had just rounded a corner after dining at a quaint Bistro, and he said, “Look now!” and I did, and there it was – so elaborate and yet so perfectly simple. I cried, and we kissed, and then he held me for a very long time. My mom never lived to see the Eiffel Tower, but Ben had fulfilled the promise that I would see it for her.

  “Luscious, Libby!” says a voice behind me, startling me out of my daydream. I turn. It’s Helmut. “Have you seen my “Ejaculating Shaft?”

  “Now, Helmut, behave,” I say. “I just had your restraining order lifted.”

  Helmut throws his head back in thunderous laughter. “I meant my new installation,” he says.

  “I know what you meant,” I say. “I babysat the bull sperm with Kitty when we went through customs.”

  Kitty drapes an arm around my shoulders. I long to tell her Helmut is a pig who would sleep with anybody, including her best friend, but right now she seems so happy with all of us here in Paris, and she’s already introducing me to…

  “Jacques Gagne, one of France’s greatest Michelin three-stars!”

  “Bonsoir,” I say, putting out my hand. “Enchante.”

  “You should recognize the name,” says Kitty. “Jacques lives in the apartment building you’re staying,” says Kitty. “Jacques, this is Libby Crockett.”

  “Of course I’d know your name. It’s all over the many fine restaurants in our neighborhood. I love the one across the street best.”

  “And this,” he says beaming at the dog standing like a statue at his side, “General Patton.” The dog barks, as though trained to say, “Hello.” “I do hope you’ll join us for New Years,” says Jacques, taking both of my hands in his. “Kitty and Helmut will be there, too. It will be a small intimate gathering at my home. Please come.”

  “Upstairs?” I ask.

  “Convenient, no?” he says.

  “Convenient yes, I’d be honored,” I say.

  “And you won’t have to travel far after that last cocktail,” says Kitty. “I might even crash on your couch.”

  We all chuckle and Jacques pats my back affectionately. “Well, then, on that note, ladies, Helmut…General Patton and I must be off. We have another engagement.” General Patton stands like a trained soldier at his side, nose and feet perfectly aligned.

  “So we’ll discuss delivery on those sculptures tomorrow,” says a hopeful Kitty to Jacques.

  Jacques nods and then he’s off with General Patton, while Helmut goes back to working the room like a politician whoring for campaign funds.

  “He’s huge in Paris!” says Kitty. “This is such an honor.”

  “And such a sexy older man,” I say admiring him as he goes. “French men – they’re like French women. Always sexual.”

  “What a lovely party,” says Kitty, calmer than usual.

  I see this as my sudden ‘in.’ “Hey, Kitty…we should talk….”

  “In a moment,” she says. “First I have to see what Helmut is up to.”

  My eyes scout the room for Jean-Francois. He’s made his way to a new group of conquests on the black velvet sofa. I watch him run a hand up the thigh of a young woman barely old enough to get her driver’s permit. She wriggles her nose at his touch, nervously sipping her wine before tossing her head back from something funny he’s whispered in her ear. He worms his lips over her neck, and the next thing she knows he’s kissing her hard on the mouth as one of the other two models squeeze between them for a potential four-way delight. And my poor Ben is probably home right now reading “Goodnight Moon ” to this moron’s twins.

  And then I sneeze.

  “Gesundheit,” says Helmut who’s arrived next to me and Kitty. She’s staring fixedly at Helmut and I can’t take it anymore – she’s getting a little too “Fatal Attraction.” Next thing I know somebody will be boiling a bunny! Doesn’t she know that the person who cares more in a relationship has less power? She’s given Helmut all the power. And he’s just not worth it. Whereas Clive - gosh, Clive is worth any risk. But would Clive even take her back? It might be her biggest gamble on earth, but Clive is definitely the Bellagio.

  And then it occurs to me, the one way to get through to my Kitty Kat is her Blackberry. She never ignores her Blackberry, but unfortunately I didn’t bring my cell phone. “Mommy’s in Paris,” remember?

  But then there’s that guy from earlier – with the wrinkled cashmere jacket and broccoli fetish. I reach out to him as he passes, that I need to borrow his cell. He obliges, handing me his phone and I thumb in her number. The text reads, “We need to talk NOW! xo Libby.” I hit the send button, hand the phone back to the guy, and shoo him away.

  I walk back to Kitty’s side just as her phone beeps – but for once, she ignores it! “Kitty, your phone…” I say, but she continues to ignore it and worse than that, now she’s ignoring me! Her eyes melt into Helmut’s who makes his way to her face with his lips. “Don’t give me that look,” I hear him whisper to Kitty. “You know I have to withhold the cock from you every now and then.”

  Who’s he kidding? Like any man in the entire universe would ever say that to a woman. And certainly not a man who was all about his cock! I can see through him as if he were holding a microscope at my kitchen drain. And what I’m seeing is pure impotence.

  Kitty’s lips are under his nose. “Fine. I can wait,” she murmurs. “But how many women have you slept with in your lifetime?”

  Helmut inhales and glances up to the ceiling. “One hundred and fifty three and a half.”

  “A half…” I say.

  “You fucked a midget?” says Kitty.

  “Yes, but she was all woman,” he says.

  “Well, it doesn’t’ matter,” says Kitty giggling, “because I intend to pour all my passion into your art. We’ll keep it strictly business.”

  “That’s right. My art is everything. But you aren’t just my gallerist,” says Helmut kissing her forehead, “you are my muse, my inspiration. You make my love for art larger than life.”

  They can sense me staring at them. My stomach churns. I think I’m going to vomit. “I’m gonna call it a night,” I mumble, turning to go.

  “Auf wiedersehn,” says Kitty.

  But as I go, I run smack dab into a tall, dark and handsome man who’s wearing a black Italian silk shirt which exudes a hint of Davidoff cologne. How do I know this? Because my nose is buried in his chest. He steps back to admire me and extends a hand. “Enchanté. Etienne Langlois.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Honoré de Balzac once said, “The bar of a café is the parliament of the people.” Well, if that’s the case then why is this place so empty? From where I’m sitting, in this striped banquette at Café Laurent, it’s deader than Pere Lachaise. The drizzly view outside the window isn’t much better - pitch dark and dreary. The days are getting shorter as they inch their way toward Christmas. Even “La Vie En Rose” is beginning to sound like the same “Auld Lang Syne.”

  And when your daily baguette has lost its thrill, what’s left? I thought Paris would inspire me to w
rite more, but my creativity has been completely shattered. I have nothing to show from days on end at my keyboard except a few crumbs. My internet was down until this morning when I anxiously hit the send/receive button and saw my inbox filling with emails. Emails from an editor who owes Simone a favor, offering me a food writing assignment; emails from everybody back in the states; emails from everybody except Ben.

  American assignments seem miles away - probably because they are, and probably because my customarily article-inspired mind has been overwhelmed by the disturbances coming from the apartment building across the street. Every morning, when I toss open the sash on my fourteen-foot windows, I’m greeted by construction men sand-blasting floors in the next building. As I sip my coffee and head for my keyboard, the construction guys up the air pressure on the conveyor-belt, sending giant farts exploding through the neighborhood. So much for the music of pedestrians’ heels click-clacking up the street, or the echoes of their morning “Bonjours!” Even the clanking of dishes being stacked by Jacques’s busboy in the restaurant below has been subjugated.

  I tried hanging out in the laundromat - a place where I can separate my towels from my delicates, and my bad ideas from my good ones - but a pair of lovers has chosen my folding-bench to lip-lock the afternoon away, and that’s not a spectacle I’m in any mood to watch.

  Of course there’s always the Seine. But today a chill wind is whipping off its blackened wave caps. The river bank is where I used to fantasize about romance, but now I just scurry past, hiking my collar up to warm my neck and chest. Standing under the Invalides Bridge this morning, thinking darkly about how my pathetic supply of euros has been translating to even-more-pathetic dollars, I heard the traffic overhead and wondered what would happen if I threw myself in the river. The way my luck has been running, it wouldn’t be the potential love of my life who would jump in and save me. It would be the homeless man, whom I’d just passed as he was setting up his cardboard shack. Swimming to shore would constitute his first bath in months. Maybe he’d have to practice his rusty CPR on my mouth, his whiskey-laden breath jolting me horribly back to life.