Amanda's Guide to Love

by Alix Nichols

  Wasn’t it ironic that she should remember Christophe when she was considering the least disgusting method of eliminating the spider in her bathroom? The real-life thing was a lot less cute than her book hero, and it couldn’t sing or dance. Even if it had turned around when she told it to stop staring.

  Which was, of course, a mere coincidence.

  Hmm, did spiders have brains?

  Amanda pulled on her pj’s and slipped between her crispy Egyptian cotton sheets. To her surprise, instead of going over her day, she said a clumsy prayer that her voyeuristic bath crasher move its little ass and vacate her apartment during the night. As she addressed the universe, she felt her ears flame with embarrassment. Was she getting sentimental? Was she praying for an arachnid because of her trip down memory lane?

  No way.

  She shook her head. Amanda Roussel had never been too squeamish to flatten a pest. Neither was she a touchy-feely ninny who would naturally evolve into a crazy spider lady in her old age.

  She had hesitated earlier only because . . . because . . .

  She loved her shoes.

  * * *

  “So I open the bathroom door and peep in. I have my least favorite shoe in one hand and a dozen paper towels in the other.” Amanda paused for effect.

  “And?” Manon leaned forward.

  “It wasn’t there. The little voyeur was gone.”

  “Good.” Manon sat back and drank from her cup.

  It was ten-thirty in the morning—the quiet hour between the rushed breakfast grabbers and the boisterous lunch crowd. During this lull, the servers gravitated toward the coziest corner by the window for a coffee and a chat while Claude—the bistro’s legendary chef—did his magic in the kitchen.

  Amanda’s mouth watered as she read the name of today’s special Jeanne had written on the chalkboard earlier in the morning: sea bass en papillote. Mmm. Another hour, and the staff could enjoy their complimentary serving before setting tables for the lunch guests.

  Manon put her hand on her lower abdomen and pulled a face. “I hate having my period. And this one is heavy.”

  “Too much information.” Amanda frowned before mellowing a little. “Tea is great for cramps. I can make you some if you want.”

  “Really?” Manon gave her a big-eyed look, barely disguising her sarcasm. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Oh, come on,” Jeanne said, sitting down across from Manon. “Amanda’s not as bad as she seems.”

  Amanda turned away and surveyed the street. “What’s that weird building with the permanently shuttered windows?”

  Jeanne followed Amanda’s gaze. “It’s a Freemasons’ lodge. It’s called Le Grand Orient.”

  “Can you believe it?” Manon chimed in. “These guys didn’t allow the initiation of women up until a few years ago.”

  “I have a rule,” Jeanne said, looking Manon in the eye. “Anyone who joins a secret society must step down from the headwaiter position and resign.”

  Manon cocked her head. “You don’t mean it.”

  “Oh yes, I do.”

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly itching to be initiated . . .” Manon pouted her pretty mouth. “But I did toy with the idea. Their mission is to serve humanity.”

  “Sorry, hon, but rules are rules.” Jeanne shrugged. “You see, there’s a conflict of interest: you can’t serve humanity and La Bohème patrons at the same time.”

  Amanda snorted. “What other rules do you have, Jeanne? I wouldn’t want to get fired over a gaffe.”

  Jeanne took a deep breath before opening her mouth. “Let’s see. You can’t check your cell phone during the shift.”

  “Unless you’re on your coffee break,” Manon added helpfully.

  Jeanne nodded. “Right. What else? You can’t taste the guests’ wine, even when they’re offering.”

  “The same applies to the food, naturally,” Manon said.

  “Naturally.” Amanda pulled out her notebook and began to scribble, mumbling loudly enough for the other two women to hear. “Note to self . . . Stop swiping . . . customers’ fries . . . or else, guillotine.”

  “She does this to me all the time.” Amar slumped next to Jeanne and turned to Amanda. “I never know if you’re actually trying to learn something or just laughing at me.”

  Jeanne patted his hand. “She’s doing both, honey.”

  “You think so?” Amar gave his boss a hopeful look.

  “I know.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” Amanda waved her little notebook. “I use this for purely educational purposes. And for taking orders.”

  “As you should.” Amar nodded in approval. “We all do—even Jeanne for complicated ones.” He paused before adding, a note of admiration in his voice, “Only Manon never writes anything down. She has a phenomenal memory.”

  Amanda opened her mouth to say that so did Kes, but shut it without uttering a sound.

  “Thank you.” Manon smiled at Amar and blushed a little.

  Amar swallowed, his gaze shifting between Manon’s eyes and mouth. Then he blinked and looked down. “It’s the truth.”

  “What’s the deal with you two?” Amanda asked.

  Manon coughed. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you guys seeing each other in secret because dating a coworker is against one of Jeanne’s many rules?”

  “We aren’t seeing each other,” Manon and Amar said in unison.

  Manon’s cheeks were now flaming red, and Amar looked like he wished he could disappear.

  “Leave them alone,” Jeanne said to Amanda. “And, FYI, I don’t have a no-dating rule. I’m happily engaged.”

  Amanda frowned. “How are those two facts connected?”

  “I want everyone around me to find their happiness, too.” She surveyed her three employees. “Especially the people I care about.”

  “How are the wedding preparations coming along?” Manon asked.

  Jeanne faked pulling her hair out. “Thank God Mat’s mom is giving us a hand.” She wrinkled her brow. “No, actually, it’s us giving her a hand.”

  “Isn’t she a professional event organizer?” Amar asked.

  “She’s a PR consultant, so yes, she does organize lots of events.” Jeanne smiled. “She showed me the invitations this morning. They’re funky—you’ll see.”

  Amar’s eyebrows rose. “Am I invited to your wedding?”

  “Of course you are!” Jeanne narrowed her eyes. “I hope you guys have marked the date on your calendars because it’ll be here soon.”

  “Who else is coming?” Amanda asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Our families and friends, some close colleagues of Mat’s. Let’s see . . . Daniela—you know, my next door neighbor who stops by with her kid sometimes?”

  “Yes, I know Daniela,” Amanda said impatiently, “but what I really want to know is whether Lena and Rob confirmed they were coming.”

  “They did.” Jeanne touched Amanda’s arm. “Honey, Rob is Mat’s best man and Lena is my bridesmaid.”

  “You can’t expect Lena and me to be your bridesmaids at the same wedding.”

  “I have no intention of getting married a second time, so yes, that’s what I expect.” Jeanne sighed. “I hope one day you’ll get over your animosity, and we can revive the old gang—”

  Amanda’s gaze grew hard. “Not everyone shares your nostalgia, Jeanne.”

  “Even so. Your history with Rob is ancient now,” Jeanne said. “Besides, you’ve told me you’re over him.”

  “I am.”

  “So, then? There’s no issue.” Jeanne stared into Amanda’s eyes. “I’m warning you, Amanda, as your friend and current boss—I’d be very, very upset if you didn’t show.”

  “And I’d be very, very upset if I didn’t get an invitation,” a vaguely familiar voice said above their heads.

  Amanda looked up. Next to their table stood a short, impeccably dressed man with hair and eyes almost as dark as Kes’s.

  Jeanne sprang from her se
at and bellowed, “You!”

  She nearly strangled the poor fellow in a tight embrace.

  Amanda struggled to place the object of Jeanne’s enthusiasm. She knew him from their student days . . . Somehow, he belonged here and yet he didn’t . . .

  Pepe! The Spaniard who had worked at La Bohème and hung out with the “gang” four years ago. She’d never forget those days soaked in sunshine and possibility. She’d had even less money than now and lived with Vivienne. But she believed she and Rob were destined to form the most glamorous couple in Paris. She was happy . . . until he grew obsessed with Lena and pushed Dad to number two on her top-ten list of men who had let her down.

  * * *

  When Jeanne finally let go of Pepe, his face was red with pleasure—and probably failure to draw a breath.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said, a happy grin on his face.

  “Look at you! All grown up.” Jeanne circled around him, still incredulous. “How long has it been?”

  “No more than a year. You came to Copenhagen for Freja’s christening, remember?”

  “Of course I do. How is she? You haven’t posted any pictures in a while.”

  “She’s doing fine. Thank God Nana works from home.” Pepe’s gaze met Amanda’s. “Look who’s here!”

  Amanda stood to greet him.

  “Wait a second—” Pepe surveyed her uniform. “Are you working here?”

  “Who, me?” Amanda widened her eyes, feigning shock. “No way. I’m just cross-dressing as a waitress. Didn’t you hear? It’s the kink du jour in hip circles all over Europe.”

  Pepe’s eyebrows began to climb, and his mouth started forming an O when Manon giggled and ruined the effect.

  “As mean as ever.” Pepe glared at Amanda.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she said.

  Once the introductions with Manon and Amar were made, Pepe informed the group that he’d been transferred to Paris to set up the local office of the real estate agency he was working for. Oh, and he wasn’t just setting it up, he was going to manage it because, well, he was going to be the local manager in charge of managing all the accounts.

  “Well done, Pepe!” Jeanne patted his back. “I’m happy they sent you here. Paris hasn’t been the same without you.”

  “I know.” Pepe grinned. “When my bosses decided to open an office here, I told them I was the natural candidate for the job. I speak perfect French, after all.”

  “No, you don’t,” Amanda said. “Your French sounds like Spanish.”

  “None of my bosses in Copenhagen speak a word of either language.” Pepe shrugged. “So who cares? Besides, I’ve taught myself some Arabic and Chinese.”

  “Really?” Amar asked, a sly smile lurking behind his polite expression.

  “I have big plans,” Pepe said. “I’m going to target rich buyers from China and the Persian Gulf countries.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Amanda said before draining her cup. “Let’s hope your Arabic is distinguishable from your Chinese.”

  “I haven’t had much practice with either,” Pepe admitted, “but I’m hoping to find a tutor for private lessons. I’ll start with Arabic.”

  “I could teach you,” Amar offered. “Forty euros an hour, here at La Bohème, nine to ten a.m.”

  Pepe looked Amar up and down. Amanda expected him to inquire about the waiter’s level of proficiency in Arabic, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and smiled, probably deciding that Amar’s vaguely Middle Eastern features were enough of a qualification.

  “It could work.” Pepe whipped out his phone and checked something on it. “The agency I’ll be managing isn’t far, so I could stop here on my way to work. I’ll pay you twenty.”

  They shook hands on thirty.

  On the métro ride to the Champ de Mars, Amanda went over the events of the day and got stuck on Jeanne’s invitation.

  She wasn’t going to the wedding. Bridesmaid or not, she just couldn’t face Rob, Lena, and their cute baby boy—a happy little family, all smiles and benevolence—while she was a failure in every way. Amanda pictured herself at the wedding reception—a wallflower dressed in a puffy-sleeved pastel monstrosity with no date to lean on.

  She shuddered at the image.

  So what if Jeanne was going to be very, very upset? Big deal. She should be able to understand Amanda’s problem, no? A year ago, she herself had been shunning social gatherings to avoid the pain of seeing Mat with Cecile, his girlfriend at the time.

  Not that Amanda expected to feel pain anymore. She’d hurt for a year after Rob broke up with her, but her prevailing emotion during that time wasn’t love. It was anger streaked with humiliation and regret. Even now that she was completely over Rob, the regret was still there. Rob was handsome, educated, and successful. The kind of man she deserved. The kind of man that she, the nearly perfect French woman—and not that mousy foreigner—should’ve ended up with.

  What a shame they were all connected through Jeanne!

  Amanda had to endure Lena’s weekly visits to La Bohème. The woman who’d stolen her Mr. Right didn’t mind crossing the city with her laptop and baby in tow just to spend some time with her best friend Jeanne. Amanda never failed to greet her—manners and all—but she always let one of the other servers take care of her.

  Lena would typically stay for about an hour. She’d read and chat with Jeanne and some of the other waiters. If the baby napped, she’d work on her translations.

  Amanda grimaced.

  Watching her victorious rival and her baby having a good time at La Bohème was unpleasant enough. But to watch Lena, baby, and Rob enjoying themselves at Jeanne’s wedding would be torture. Whether her vantage point would be the glory of the newlyweds’ entourage or the pillory of the singles’ table, she knew she’d hate every moment of it.

  No, she definitely wasn’t going.

  “Will you accompany me to Jeanne’s wedding?” Amanda kicked her rollerblades off and shoved them into her backpack.

  She’d skated around the Champ de Mars for a good hour, racing Kes and feeling proud at her growing ease.

  He stared at her, flabbergasted.

  “It’s in early July,” she said.

  He sat down, pulled off his own rollerblades, and packed them. “I thought you were hiding me from everyone.”

  “I was. But . . . I’m in a spot . . . and that spot overrides my other concerns.”

  “Does it now?”

  She nodded solemnly. “My ex will be there with his wife and baby.”

  “The one that ditched you?”

  “Yep. His name is Rob.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “I can’t. Jeanne is my friend . . . and my boss. Besides, I’m one of her bridesmaids.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “There’s just one other bridesmaid, and it’s Rob’s wife.”

  He whistled. “This is seriously messed up, ma belle.”

  “I know.” She spread her arms helplessly.

  “OK.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll wear my Armani suit and tell your ex and his wife I’m a stockbroker.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know nothing about stock trading.”

  He shrugged. “Buy low, sell high. Would that do?”

  “It certainly covers the basics.”

  “I have one condition.” He leaned back and crossed his legs.

  “If it’s what I think it is, the answer is no.”

  He tut-tutted. “Such a dirty mind inside such an angelic head! No, ma belle, it isn’t what you think it is.”

  “Surprise me, then.”

  “In two weeks’ time, you’ll come with me to my nephew’s baptism. My folks will be celebrating it in a camp site near Arles.”

  An invitation to a Gypsy party? It could be fun . . . from a purely anthropological point of view.

  “I’m officially surprised.” She extended her hand. “OK.”

  He gave it a firm shake and then, inst
ead of loosening his grip, just held it in the comforting warmth of his large palm.

  She didn’t dare move.

  “Am I allowed to tell your friends I’m a Gitan stockbroker?” His dark gaze drilled into her.

  “You could just say you’re from Provence. Why bother with particulars if you’re never going to see them again?”

  She stared into his eyes, daring him to counter her argument, drunk on his touch and the ludicrous hope that he’d keep negotiating.

  And holding her hand in his.

  And looking at her like that.

  He released her hand and stood. “Why, indeed?”

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  So Free

  ~ ~ ~

  A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

  Guideline # 7

  The Perfect Woman has at least three female friends.

  Rationale: Having female friends is beneficial on many levels including, but not limited to: building confidence, borrowing clothes, venting, bitching, philosophizing, shopping, and watching romcoms.

  A word of caution: If you are pretty, make sure your sidekicks are less good-looking so you can be the jewel in the crown. If you are plain, surround yourself with pretty friends. Counterintuitive as it may sound, this will improve your social and marriage prospects.

  Permissible exception: If you’re more at ease with men than with women, try to have at least one female friend. If you’re a sociopath, make friends on Facebook.

  Damage control: In the absence of girlfriends, consider these alternatives: (a) sister; (b) female cousin; (c) mother, aunt, grandmother; (d) female neighbor; (e) waitress in your favorite haunt; (f) imaginary girlfriend.

  Pitfalls to avoid: Never share your deepest, darkest, dirtiest secrets with a girlfriend or any of the substitutes listed above except (f).

  ~ ~ ~

  “The numbers have spoken, boss,” Amanda said with gravitas. She angled her laptop toward Jeanne and grinned. “La Bohème is turning a profit.”

  Jeanne studied the table on the screen. After a long moment, her gaze shifted to the notebook with her handwritten records and then to the neat stacks of notes that were laid out on the table in front of them.