Amanda's Guide to Love
Page 10
Amanda followed her eyes. “Yes, I checked every single record and bill.” She pointed at the Excel spreadsheet she’d produced. “And I’m going to teach you and Manon how to make a detailed profit and loss statement. If you do this every week, you won’t have to wait for your accountant’s visit to know how you’re doing.”
Jeanne nodded, her eyes trained on the screen. When she looked up, they were glistening. “Really?”
“I know—I’m too generous for my own good.” Amanda shrugged. “But I don’t plan on working here forever.”
Jeanne smiled. “I meant, are you sure we made a profit last month?”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “I checked everything three times. The margin of error is negligible.”
Jeanne leaned forward and gave her a hug.
“Is this your first month in the black?” Amanda asked.
“Yep. And I pray to God it won’t be the last!” Jeanne let go of her. “Or else I’m in serious trouble.”
“If your expenses remain at this level, you’ll do just fine.” Amanda patted her back. “Unless something goes wrong . . . Which doesn’t take much in this kind of business.”
Jeanne smirked. “Now I’m feeling a lot better, thanks.” She glanced at her watch and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.
“It’s almost eleven and Claude hasn’t arrived yet.” Jeanne reached for her phone. “I hope he hasn’t relapsed.”
Amanda watched her pull up Claude’s number, call, wait, bite her nails, and leave a message.
Thirty seconds later, Jeanne’s phone beeped. It was a text from Claude.
I can’t come in today. Sorry.
“Shit,” Jeanne said, looking at her phone. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Amanda touched Jeanne’s arm. “Don’t panic. It’s just one day.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to be longer than that.” Jeanne sighed. “Claude suffers from depression. This means he’s in for another bout.”
“How long do they last?”
“Two to six weeks. Three on average.”
“Is there a temp you can bring in?”
“Of course,” Jeanne said. “We have three relief chefs. The problem is none of them are available for today. I checked yesterday afternoon when Claude started crying over some bad strawberries.”
“Can you or anyone else cook?”
Jeanne shook her head. “Not for thirty covers at a time.” She clasped her hands over her head. “I’m screwed. We’ll have to close for the day.”
“How far does Claude live?” Amanda asked.
“He’s in the Tenth. Why?”
“I may be able to lure him out of his lair . . . at least for a few hours.”
Jeanne chewed her lip. “How?”
“I watched tons of daytime TV when I was jobless. There was this program about depression and how you can stave off an attack if you catch it early enough.”
“Amanda, what Claude needs is to see his doc and start taking his meds, not some quackery you gleaned from TV.”
“Amen to that.” Amanda shut the laptop. “Listen, I’m just offering to try and get Claude to come into work today. He can go on sick leave and start his treatment tomorrow when you have your temp.”
Jeanne hesitated. “What’s your plan, exactly?”
“Do you think he’ll open the door for us?”
“I guess . . . But I can’t be sure. Say he does . . . Are you going to hypnotize him or shame him into action?”
“Neither.” Amanda smiled. “I’m going to feed him and play music.”
Jeanne gave her a long look and sighed. “So, that’s your plan—food and music?”
“Exactly. And it’s scientific.” Amanda stood and grabbed her purse. “Give me fifteen minutes to get what I need, and I’ll explain the details on the way to Claude’s.”
Jeanne nodded, and Amanda ran to the supermarket down the street. As she made her purchases, she felt the familiar rush of adrenaline she used to get when faced with a difficult situation at work or a problem that needed tackling. Was she sure her method would work? Nope. Maybe all that “mind over mood” and “food over mood” stuff they’d raved about on TV was no more than a scam.
But then again, maybe not. Either way, what harm could a healthy dinner and some upbeat music do? None whatsoever. It was definitely worth a try.
“Details, please,” Jeanne demanded half an hour later as they strode in the direction of Claude’s place.
“I took some herring salad from our fridge and bought a bag of walnuts, three turkey breasts, and dark chocolate at the supermarket.”
“Are you going to give Claude a cooking lesson?”
Amanda smiled and shook her head. “I’m going to feed him some ‘happy’ food. Turkey, walnuts, and dark chocolate contain chemicals that make people produce more feel-good serotonin.”
“Hon—”
“I know, I know,” Amanda said. “Turkey is no Prozac, and I’m no psychiatrist. But it may work. And then I’ll play him some reggae from my ‘rainy day’ playlist.”
“You have a ‘rainy day’ playlist?”
Amanda clucked her tongue. “That’s an irrelevant question. What you should be asking is why?”
“Why?”
“Reggae music always puts you in a better mood.”
“Except when it doesn’t,” Jeanne said.
They arrived at Claude’s address, and Jeanne pressed the buzzer.
As they waited for Claude to answer, Amanda refocused her thoughts on the problem at hand. She could do this—she was great at finding creative solutions. Getting Claude to return with them to La Bohème sounded easier than some of the situations she’d solved at ENS. Her heart beat faster, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
Come on, Claude. Open that door. Let us in.
He did.
But things didn’t go quite as planned.
* * *
“Oh God, no! I can’t even look at food right now,” Claude declared as soon as Amanda unpacked the goodies.
“This isn’t just any food—” Amanda began.
“I don’t care. I just stuffed myself with a bag of chips and three donuts. I think I’m going to puke.”
OK. No food, then.
Amanda tried the reggae line of attack, but it failed just as miserably. Claude had a headache, and music made his migraines worse.
Any music.
Just before throwing in the towel, Amanda grabbed Claude by the shoulders and blurted. “I know you’re unwell, and I’m not making light of your condition. But . . . the temp can’t start until tomorrow, and we expect a full house tonight.”
“I’m sorry, I hate letting you guys down, but I just don’t have the physical energy.”
Jeanne tugged at Amanda’s sleeve. “Leave him alone. You heard what he said: he has no physical energy—”
“Well then, he can use the mental one!” Amanda turned back to the miserable-looking chef and tightened her grip. “Do this for Jeanne, Claude—she needs you. Don’t let her down.”
He swallowed, and stared at Jeanne.
She gave him a warm smile. “It’s OK, Claude, you don’t have to—”
“I’ll do it.”
He swung around, grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall, and marched out the door.
Jeanne gave Amanda an astonished look and darted after him.
Amanda followed, pulling the door shut behind her.
“If I puke in the kitchen,” Claude said, without looking at either woman, as they hurried to the bistro, “you’ll clean.”
“I will,” Amanda promised before Jeanne could say anything.
She’d hate every moment of it, no doubt, but it would be a small price to pay for how she felt right now. Her heart brimmed with exhilaration and pride from attaining the objective she’d set for herself and solving a tricky problem.
Oh, and getting a friend out of a tight spot in the process.
Claude didn’t thro
w up, God bless his soul. To Amanda’s immense relief, he didn’t break down and call it quits, either. He soldiered on until midnight and even refused to ride home in a cab, saying a walk in the fresh air would do him good.
Apparently it did, but not enough to avert his depression.
“Two weeks if we’re lucky,” Jeanne announced to the staff the next morning. “Four or more if the meds take time to kick in.”
Fortunately, the best of her three relief chefs was available for as long they needed him. They avoided the catastrophe, and business continued as usual.
The “usual” meaning an ever-increasing influx of tourists as summer progressed to its peak. Amanda didn’t mind the tourists. She even appreciated the moneyed ones who routinely left tips that Parisians would consider extravagant. But then there were also other tourists: the ones who ordered the cheapest dishes and didn’t tip.
This afternoon, they infested the sidewalk terrace. A group of four middle-aged women peeved Amanda more than the others. They all had short salt-and-pepper hair (such negligence!), bulky hiking shoes (in Paris!), and horrendous khaki-colored pants with zippers at midthigh (an unpardonable crime against style and good taste).
One of the women—likely the chief of the “Wildling” gang by virtue of the massive fanny pack she wore across her belly—waved in her direction. “Garçon! Garçon!”
Amanda flinched and approached her with a deliberate slowness.
“Bonjour,” she said in French to Fanny Pack before switching to English. “First of all, garçon means boy, and as you can see, I’m a girl. Second, garçon is demeaning to the waiter, and the French stopped using it about a hundred years ago.”
The woman’s smile slipped, and she mumbled in heavily accented English, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Amanda’s irritation gave way to a pang of regret.
That was so unprofessional.
She was supposed to be friendly to guests—even the ones who wore ridiculous accessories and used obsolete expressions. Damn her insensitive bluntness! Why couldn’t she keep her mouth strategically shut, as a real lady would do in a similar situation?
As Rob’s mousy wife, Lena, no doubt would.
Amanda schooled her features into the kindest smile she could manage. “I’m not offended. I was just . . . sharing information for your future reference.”
The woman’s face brightened. “Oh, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Amanda surveyed the group. “Are we ready to order?”
While the women fumbled with their menus, Amanda scanned the terrace to see if any other waiter had overheard the exchange. She didn’t spot any waiters, but she caught sight of someone else—someone very familiar.
Kes lounged comfortably just a couple of tables to her left and eyed her with vivid interest. He must have heard everything.
Merde.
Then again, it was just Kes—her pastime companion. He never judged her. He was here today and gone tomorrow.
She acknowledged him with a fleeting smile and returned her attention to the Wildlings, who appeared ready to order.
Over the next hour, Amanda shuttled between the kitchen and the terrace, stealing glances at Kes, who looked fully absorbed in his book and a glass of red wine. She wanted to be angry with him for ignoring her clear request not to turn up at her workplace, but she couldn’t. He was such eye candy. How could you be mad at someone whose lashes held more beauty than all the marble Venuses and Apollos combined, and whose eyebrows were in a league of their own.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
A pretty redhead spent at least half an hour sipping her espresso at the table next to him. She didn’t read or check her phone in the long intervals between her tiny sips. She just ogled Kes. Much like the bimbo in the Deauville casino, this elegant woman used every trick in the book to signal her interest. She wetted her lips, touched her neck, stroked her ankles, and played with her earlobes.
And much like with the bimbo, Kes didn’t seem to realize she was there. Finally, the redhead placed a few coins on the table and walked over to Kes. She bent down and murmured something, pointing at the cigarette in her hand. He shook his head apologetically. She scribbled something on his napkin and placed it in front of him.
“Call me,” she said in a throaty voice before sashaying away.
Why did this bother Amanda so much? Why did she freeze in the doorway, waiting to see what Kes would do with the darn napkin?
Someone prodded her back. “Hey, you’re blocking.”
She stepped aside, letting Jeanne pass. Then she spun around and marched toward Kes. “What are you doing here?”
“Reading. Having a drink.” He followed her gaze to the napkin. “Getting propositioned by good-looking women.”
“Are you going to call her?” she heard herself ask.
“Nah.” His lips quirked. “Why? Are you interested in her?”
“No! I was just . . . curious.”
He nodded. “What are your plans for tonight?”
Amanda opened her mouth to say she had none when Jeanne’s excited cooing made her turn to see what was going on.
A man and a woman stood by the entrance of the bistro, and Jeanne was hugging them as if they were her long-lost siblings. The man held a blind person’s cane. His face was vaguely familiar.
“Isn’t that Cyril?” Kes asked. “That rock singer who disappeared for a while after his car accident and then came back with a fantastic album?”
“Yes, of course! That’s him. And the woman must be his wife.”
“Wow. You should’ve told me this place attracted celebrities.” Kes knitted his brows in mock reproach. “I would’ve brought my paparazzi camera.”
Jeanne ushered the couple inside.
“Cyril was a regular here a few years back—before I went off to Thailand. He was trying to drown his misery in large amounts of beer.”
Jeanne strode out the door and headed straight to Amanda. “Can you ask everyone to move inside? We’ll close early tonight and enjoy a semiprivate concert.”
Amanda grinned. “Cool.”
“Mat is on his way.” Jeanne could hardly contain her excitement. “He luuurves Cyril’s music.”
“So do I,” Kes said. “May I stay?”
Jeanne looked him over, looked at Amanda, and then looked back at Kes. “Are you Amanda’s rollerblading pal?”
“Oui, madame, I am he. I also swim, jog, and go to the movies with her.”
Jeanne smiled.
He stood up. “My name is Kes.”
“Jeanne.” She stood on tiptoe to do the cheek-kiss greeting.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Jeanne,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“And I haven’t heard nearly enough about you.” Jeanne grinned. “But we’ll make up for it tonight.”
An hour later, the entrance door was locked, lights dimmed, tables cleared, autographs scribbled on various materials including dress shirts, and an improvised stage set up by the bar.
Cyril finished his beer and informed the lucky guests this would be the first public performance of his newest album.
“My mom and dad love it, and so does my wife, Emma, our baby, and our close friends,” he said with a shy smile. “But then again, they love everything I do, so I never know if I’ve created a really good song or a total fluke until I play it for an unbiased audience.”
“I love everything you do, Cyril!” a woman cried from the back of the room.
Cyril turned in the direction of the voice. “Thank you—and compliments on your good taste. But I beg you—all of you—to forget my previous work and listen to these songs as if they were by some new guy you’d never heard of, OK?”
“OK!” at least a dozen guests shouted at once.
“Great.” Cyril adjusted his guitar and strummed a few chords. “The first song is a bit of an experiment, both vocally and musically. It’s called ‘So Free.’ ”
She’d never seen him like this before—no smile curling his lips, no boyish mischief, none of the passion that had awed her in the beach cabin. All those layers were stripped, baring a deeper part of his soul. She found herself wishing she could touch it and enjoy a share of the treasures it held . . .
Kes didn’t notice her inspection. He was listening, fully absorbed in Cyril’s song.
A gaping window.
A gauze curtain
slips outside, flaps
and hurtles
toward the star-filled
heart
of the night.
Riding the evening breeze,
Into the outer space,
Planting a white-hot kiss
Onto the moon’s sweet face.
And if I didn’t
know better,
I’d bet it soared
untethered—
So free it seems.
So free.
It seems.
Throughout the song, Amanda remained trapped in Kes’s eyes and mesmerized by what she saw in them. By the end of the first verse, his soul had left the bistro. She knew where it had gone—it was riding that adventurous curtain toward the moon. Then she watched it crash to the ground at Cyril’s last words.
Everyone clapped and cheered.
Kes blinked a few times, looking disoriented, and joined in the cheering.
Cyril bowed his head, visibly relieved at the enthusiastic response. “I just need some water, and I’ll be right back with the next song.”
His wife went to him with a glass and softly whispered something into his ear while he drank.
“Beautiful, huh?” Jeanne said.
Amanda hadn’t seen her approach and sit behind them. She hadn’t seen or heard much of anything over the last three or four minutes.
Kes turned around and nodded.
“So tell me—er . . . Kes, right?” Jeanne gave him a friendly smile. “How do you know Amanda?”
“We met six weeks ago in Deauville.”