Amanda's Guide to Love

by Alix Nichols

  Amanda hesitated. “I’ve never waitressed before.”

  “I don’t expect you to be a good waitress, but I don’t think you’d be an awful one.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Besides, you have an MBA—you can help me with the books.”

  Amanda cocked her head as an idea struck her. “Was Didier good at it?”

  “Very.”

  “Was he paid more than the other waiters?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take the job if you pay me what the previous owner paid Didier.”

  Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “Didier was a headwaiter. You have zero waitressing experience.”

  “True. But I’m smart and good with numbers.” Amanda grinned. “And you’re desperate.”

  Jeanne placed her beer on the table and did some mental math. “I won’t be able to pay you what I’m paying the new headwaiter, Manon. But I can get close.”

  “Text me the salary and the estimated tips, and I’ll give you my answer.”

  Jeanne smiled. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “If I’m going to have to smile at customers—some of whom might be my former colleagues—I need a decent pay.”

  “Your former colleagues don’t come here,” Jeanne said. “You were the only one from ENS.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know my customers.”

  “Anyway,” Amanda said with a shrug. “If I were to run into Julien Barre, I’d rather it were here.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I prefer to serve him an overpriced cappuccino in a crowded café than a free Nespresso in a minimalistic meeting room at some intercompany consultation.”

  “You think you’d bump into him if another outfit hired you?”

  “The Parisian green energy sector is a small world. If I become a PA to a director or CEO of another company, I’m sure to bump into Julien sooner or later.”

  “I see.”

  Amanda pulled a face and mimicked talking over the phone in a low-pitched voice. “Mademoiselle Roussel, could you please bring six espressos into the meeting room? And some milk . . . Oh, and do you mind printing out ten copies of my Strategic, Analytical, Action-Oriented and Visionary Manifesto Memorandum Report?”

  Jeanne snorted.

  “Make it twenty,” Amanda said, her voice still deep. “In color and laminated, please. Thank you—you’re a darling.”

  Jeanne chuckled, then drained her beer and stood up. “My point exactly. I’ll text you the figures tonight.”

  “I’ll text you back tomorrow morning.”

  “Can you start immediately?”

  Amanda placed a five-euro bill on the table and smirked. “Of course. Provided I like your text.”

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  La Bohème

  ~ ~ ~

  A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

  Guideline # 5

  The Perfect Woman lives in Paris.

  Rationale: There are many beautiful cities in the world. Some of them are big and bustling, others are small and quiet. Some are in France, others are elsewhere in Europe, and a few are oversees. Some offer a great art scene, others are gastronomic delights, and yet others are shopping havens. But all of them have one major flaw—they aren’t Paris.

  A word of caution: The only thing Paris doesn’t have is a beach (the fake riverfront ones don’t count). If you’re a beach fan, there’s Deauville two hours away and Marseille, three hours by train. But if you need your dose of sand, sails, and sunshine every day, you’ll have to give up living in the center of the world. And being a Perfect Woman.

  Permissible exception: If you’re rich and flexible enough, you may live in other places part of the year. New York is lovely in spring and Saint Petersburg in summer. If you’re poor, live in a remote suburb. Your zip code won’t start with 75, but you’ll have the honor of commuting to Paris daily.

  Damage control: If you find Paris too crowded and polluted for your liking, spend a month in Shanghai or Mexico City. When you return, you’ll see Paris in a new light.

  ~ ~ ~

  It had been over twelve hours since Amanda told Vivienne about her new job, but she could still hear the mixture of shock and disappointment in her mother’s voice.

  Vivienne had been scandalized.

  She qualified Amanda’s decision as rash and ill conceived. She argued that selling the apartment—even at a loss—was an infinitely better option than working in a café. Waitressing was an unsuitable occupation for someone of Amanda’s stature. “Demeaning” was the term she had used.

  “Have you thought about your reputation?” she kept asking. She also kept predicting that Amanda wouldn’t last a week as a server. And what if Amanda’s former colleagues saw her there? What if Vivienne’s friends saw her there? And, oh my God, what if Aunt Margot got wind of this? What would she think of Amanda?

  “Maman, you hate Aunt Margot. I hate Aunt Margot. We haven’t seen her in ages. Who cares what she thinks?” Amanda said, driving Vivienne to tears.

  If anything, the conversation only strengthened Amanda’s resolve. She wouldn’t back down. She would not let Vivienne blackmail her emotionally and manipulate her like so many times in the past.

  Amanda rubbed her forehead as if to clear her head and opened the door to La Bohème.

  I can do this.

  Learning to carry a loaded tray and operate a coffee machine was nothing compared to what she’d learned on her previous job.

  When she was stationed in Bangkok, her boss had asked her to fill in for their compliance officer during said officer’s maternity leave. The month-long training she’d received had been the steepest learning curve of her life. At the end of it, she was able to examine most types of ENS facilities and spot the slightest nonconformity to safety regulations. She didn’t understand the advanced mechanical and chemical processes that made their equipment function, but she could tell when it wasn’t operating correctly.

  Amanda perked up. She was capable of installing a solar panel with her bare hands, for Christ’s sake. Waiting tables would be child’s play.

  “Look who’s here!” someone called from the back room. A moment later, Amar—the young waiter Jeanne had recruited a few months ago—approached her and bowed theatrically.

  Amanda gave him a nod. “Don’t you dare be too smug about this whole thing.”

  “Me, smug? Please.” He rolled his eyes. “So I take it you’ve accepted the boss’s offer?”

  “Your powers of deduction never cease to baffle me.”

  He grinned. “I’m assigned to train you. This is going to be fun.”

  “But you’re new yourself. Why can’t Jeanne train me? Or Manon?”

  “I’ve been here for a year now, and they’re way too busy.” He spread his arms in fake apology. “You’re stuck with me.”

  Amanda let out an annoyed huff. “OK then, boy. Let’s establish some ground rules. I’m new but I’m seven years your senior, so you can’t boss me around.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave her shoulder a friendly pat. “Relax, Amanda. I’m not a vengeful person.”

  “Why would you say that? What have I done to you?”

  “Nothing. Apart from mocking my working-class manners and my immigrant origins, nothing at all.”

  Amanda opened her mouth to protest when Jeanne emerged from the kitchen carrying a pile of folded clothes. She placed it on the countertop and gave Amanda a hug before drawing back and surveying her outfit.

  “What do you think?” Amanda asked. “I thought this dress was appropriate. And I dug out my ballet flats.”

  “You look lovely, hon, but you’ll have to wear the bistro uniform like everyone else.”

  “I feared so.” Amanda sighed. “Let me see it.”

  Jeanne handed her the pile from the countertop. It contained two white button-down shirts, two pairs of black pants, and two black aprons.

  “Should be the right size, but I ha
ve a bigger and a smaller one, too, if this doesn’t fit.”

  Amanda placed the pile back on the bar, picked up the pants, unfolded them, and stared with a mixture of disgust and horror.

  “I’m aware this isn’t a fashionable cut,” Jeanne said. “But they’re comfy and can be machine washed. They dry superfast.”

  “God, they’re ugly.”

  Jeanne closed her eyes and sighed.

  Amanda checked the label inside the pants. “I knew it!” She cocked her head and looked at Jeanne as if she’d just unearthed her friend’s criminal past. “They’re polyester.”

  “Er . . . I guess. So what?”

  “Really?” Amanda pulled a face, held the garment between her index finger and thumb, and handed it to Jeanne. “I. Do. Not. Wear. Polyester.”

  “Fine,” Jeanne said, taking the pants from her. “The shirts and the aprons are pure cotton. I hope that’s acceptable to mademoiselle?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Good. Tomorrow you can bring your own bottoms, provided they’re black. But today you’ll wear these.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Amanda stepped out of the staff room, clad in the bistro uniform that fit her like a glove. Her hair was pulled back into a fashionably loose bun, and she held a notepad and a pen in her hands. She was ready to begin her first lesson with young Amar.

  How long she’d manage to hold on to this job remained to be seen. She seriously doubted her ability to refrain from sneering at customers, in particular those who really ask for it. As she followed Amar into the kitchen, she asked herself the same uncomfortable questions: Had her decision been too rash and ill considered? Should she have listened to Vivienne and sold her apartment instead? Had she set herself up for failure and more humiliation than she’d already been through? Would she ever manage to get her career back on track?

  To say nothing of her life . . .

  * * *

  “The review says that the ropes and gags in this movie have no BDSM overtones.” Amanda paused to scan the rest of the article. “Monsieur Almodóvar claims it’s a romantic comedy.”

  Kes snatched the magazine from her. “Let me see that.”

  Sprawled in his velvet-upholstered seat, he perused the review. His eyes moved fast as he tried to finish the article before the lights went out and the movie began.

  Her gaze lingered on his amazing lashes—so thick and dense they appeared double-layered—and his high cheekbones.

  After two weeks of seeing him daily, she should’ve been used to his exotic splendor. She should’ve been taking it for granted. That was how it worked. She’d gawk at a thing of rare beauty, thinking she’d never tire of it. But it would only be a matter of days—sometimes hours—before she’d have enough to stop marveling. And then she’d stop noticing it altogether.

  It was human nature. Parisians would stare at their phones when their bus passed the Eiffel Tower. Tokyoites wouldn’t look up from their manga books to admire Mount Fuji during their bullet train commute. Liz Taylor’s lovers would grow indifferent to her out-of-this-world violet eyes.

  Why would Kes’s eyes be any different?

  “OK.” He handed her the magazine. “Now I see why the film is called Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! He’s a real visionary, Monsieur Almodóvar.”

  “How so?”

  “He made this movie in 1990, two decades before bondage became fashionable.”

  “Good point.” She smirked. “Bondage is so trendy these days it’s slipping into mainstream.”

  “Which is a sure way to make it untrendy and ultimately kill it.”

  She shrugged. “Good riddance, I say.”

  “Pity, I say.”

  The lights went out before Amanda had time to gauge if Kes was being serious. She spent the next two hours watching the unlikely love story unfolding on the screen. And just as during the previous two movies they’d seen together, she’d been unable to lose herself in the fictional world as she normally would. A barely detectable brush of his hand, arm, or knee was enough to quicken her pulse. Even when no parts of them touched, she was still acutely aware of him. Just because he breathed.

  When the final credits rolled, she sighed with an emotion that was half relief and half anticipation. The next part of the evening program was her favorite. They’d go to a nearby bar for a lazy drink and a debriefing about the movie. She’d be able to prolong the pleasure of his company without the dangers of his proximity in a dark room.

  “I started the job at La Bohème this morning,” she said as soon as they arrived at the bar.

  “Great!” He pulled out a chair for her. “La Bohème. I like the sound of it.”

  She sat down. “Vivienne was livid. I half expected her to ask me to choose between her and the bistro.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look and screwed up his forehead as if trying to recall something. “Where did you say that place was?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t want you to show up there.”

  “It’s OK—don’t tell me. I’ll google it. And because I’m a good person, I’ll give you a few days to hit your stride before I make an appearance.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Wonderful,” he said with a satisfied smile.

  “Er . . . Does an eye roll translate as ‘sure, go ahead’ in Gypsy Land? Because here in Paris, it means frustrated disapproval.”

  “It’s the same where I come from. The reason I’m happy is that you only rolled your eyes.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “When you’re really mad, you put more effort into your frustrated disapproval. You do this.” He rolled his eyes and jiggled his head at the same time. “But when it’s only the head or the eyes, it means your annoyance level is light to moderate.”

  Amanda stared at him. “You think you’ve figured me out in ten days?”

  “And a weekend a month ago.”

  “Oh yes. That changes everything.”

  He shrugged. “I notice little things about you. Something new every time we meet.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the way you wrinkle your nose when you smile for real, the way your eyes remain cold when you do your polite smile, the way you place your feet when you walk, the way you tuck that strand behind your ear—”

  “Enough. I get it.”

  “When I’m not with you,” he continued, “I remember those things. I picture you smiling, walking, talking, and I . . .” His paused, peering into her eyes. “This is obviously making you uncomfortable, so I’ll just shut up.”

  She trained her gaze on her drink as it occurred to her that she’d been doing the exact same thing. She’d watched him, noticed little things about him—the soft wave in his hair, the chocolate tint in his black eyes, the rich timbre of his laughter, the feline grace with which he moved . . . And then she remembered those things at night and added another brushstroke to the hero of her fantasies.

  She cleared her throat. “So what did you think about the movie?”

  “I loved it. You?”

  “I’m not sure. Antonio Banderas is perfect as Ricky, and so is Victoria Abril in Marina’s role, but the whole premise? Hmm.”

  “What, you disapprove of a guy who kidnaps and ties up an ex-one-night stand in the hope of getting her to love him?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, his half smile betraying that he too had noticed the parallel with their situation.

  “I think,” he said, “there are less intrusive and more respectful ways to win a woman’s heart.”

  She wiped the imaginary sweat off her forehead. “Phew.”

  “Even though Ricky did achieve his goal at the end.” He gave her a defiant look.

  “Only because Marina was a junkie and a porn star.”

  He held his index finger up. “A former porn star.”

  “And because it’s a romantic comedy.” Amanda leaned in. “If anyone ever held me captive, I’d find a way to murder him in hi
s sleep.”

  He grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Good.” She sat back and took a sip of her cider. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Banderas?”

  “I’m flattered, but I don’t see any resemblance beyond the color of our hair and eyes.”

  “There’s definitely more than that.”

  He shrugged. “He’s Spanish. Maybe he has Gitano blood.”

  “That must be it. And that’s why he can play a low-life psycho and make him endearing.”

  Kes cocked his head. “Am I imagining things, or did you just pay the Gypsy people a warped compliment?”

  “I never said your people were entirely without charm.”

  “The Gypsies,” he said, “are just like any other ethnic group. There’s the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

  “Oh, come on, Kes, the Gypsies are nothing like any other ethnic group.”

  He smirked. “Our way of life is a little exotic for the modern world, I’ll grant you that. That’s why the gadje either romanticize or demonize us. But they can’t see that beyond our unusual ways we’re not that different.”

  She frowned, digesting what he’d just said.

  “Take my parents,” he continued. “They are loving and generous to a fault, but they’re also narrow-minded, bordering on oppressive. Sound familiar?”

  It did.

  “When I went to Las Vegas for the first time, the peeps I met on the Strip asked me where I was from. I said, ‘I’m a French Gypsy.’ You know what their reaction was?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ha-ha,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “That’s what they said: ‘Ha-ha. Very funny, man.’ At first, I was confused. Then I realized those guys thought Gypsies were fictional.”

  “Get out.”

  “No, I’m serious. In the States, they don’t really have itinerant Gypsy communities like we do in France. To Americans, we’re a thing of the past.”

  “Which you are,” Amanda interjected. “Totally anachronistic.”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, the guys I met on the Strip thought Gypsies were mythical creatures. You know, like vampires.”

  She widened her eyes in exaggerated terror and drew her chair back. “Are you a vampire?”