by Alix Nichols
The nights were a different story. In bed she was pliable, yielding, and happy to be led. In fact, she enjoyed being led. Just like when she danced her favorite salsa.
Kes knew it. He let her pick the movies and the restaurants. She set the pace of their jogs. When she wanted to watch a TV program or listen to music he didn’t care for, he just opened a book and immersed himself in it.
The world’s most laid-back guy.
Except in bed, or wherever they happened to have sex. At those times, he stopped accommodating and took charge. A simple “come here” delivered with the easy confidence of a man who knew how much his lover wanted him made her knees wobble. The feel of his hand on her lower back, crushing her to him, was enough to turn her from a snarling tigress into a purring kitten.
He led—she followed.
It lit her fire.
And in the morning, when she morphed back into a tigress, he didn’t seem to resent or resist her transformation. She suspected he even liked it that way.
Weird, baffling man.
* * *
When her shift ended, Amanda still had a couple of hours to kill until her dinner with Patrick. He had booked a table at a chic restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. This meant she could take Line 7 down to Louvre-Rivoli and hop on Batobus—the shuttle boat she loved but hadn’t used in years. She was always in a hurry, and the métro was so much faster.
Well, if she wanted to treat herself to a scenic ride on Batobus, now was the time.
Besides, she sorely needed something to put her in a better mood. She didn’t regret accepting Patrick’s invitation—after all, he was Friend #4 on her famously short list. Had he not said those disturbing things the other day, she would’ve been looking forward to the evening. But now she felt uncomfortable about it.
On the boat, she took in the sights along the Seine and told herself it wasn’t a big deal. They’d have a chat, and then she’d go home. She didn’t have to say anything in response to Patrick’s idea that they’d make a perfect couple. He didn’t expect any immediate decisions or commitments from her. She could postpone deciding until Kes was on another continent and her body and mind had begun to shed his spell.
The boat slid along the peaceful river, past the Orangerie Museum and Champs-Élysées. After that, with no notable sights in view, Amanda watched the people on the quays: solo readers, couples kissing gently, and groups of friends enjoying an improvised picnic. They all seemed to be telling her, It’s summer, it’s Paris; stop fretting and go with the flow.
It helped.
Soon the magnificent Pont Alexandre III came into view. Amanda peered at its art nouveau lamps and baroque cherubs, and felt almost serene.
When she walked into the restaurant at seven o’clock sharp, Patrick had already arrived. Sleek and well groomed, he was a pleasant sight, like the perfectly rounded laurel trees in Vivienne’s garden.
As expected, he didn’t press her for an answer but instead focused on exposing the many reasons why she should give him a chance. They were good reasons, too. Excellent, even.
The problem was Patrick was . . . bland.
He was so utterly and completely within the norm—the very norm she’d once asked Kes to be. Turned out said norm was vastly overrated. It was boring. It was monochromatic and fragrance-free. If she could take a bite out of it, she figured it would taste like yesterday’s gum.
When the waiter cleared their appetizers, Patrick reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
She froze, unsure what to do.
“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he said with a smile.
“I will.”
“You can take as long as you need.”
“OK.”
“Within reasonable limits, of course.”
“Of course.”
He kept staring into her eyes.
“So . . . it’s a deal, then.” She placed her other hand on top of his and patted it before withdrawing both hands.
When they finished the dessert, Patrick suggested they check out the new piano bar in Saint-Germain that all of Paris was talking about. Amanda invoked a migraine, and he accepted her “maybe next time” with grace.
She was home at half past nine. In the twenty minutes it took her to reach her apartment from the restaurant, she’d made up her mind about Patrick.
He was wrong for her, and no amount of “thinking about it” or “giving it a try” would ever make him right. Given that insight, it would be cruel to leave him hanging.
Relieved, she called Patrick and told him she hoped they could remain friends.
* * *
The caller ID was Karine’s.
As soon as Amanda’s brain correlated that information with the late hour, her heart began to race. There must have been a good reason for the friendly PA to call her at ten in the evening. The possibility that the board had just given Julien Barre the sack definitely counted as one.
She picked up her phone.
“They fired him,” Karine said.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t be calling you if I weren’t.”
“Oh. My. God. Details, please!” She sounded like a giddy teenager, but she didn’t care.
“Sure,” Karine said. “I wasn’t given the unofficial title of ENS’s best-informed PA for nothing.”
Amanda began to pace to soothe her nerves. “Come on, talk.”
Karine cleared her throat. “When the extent of our losses became known, everyone expected Julien to resign. But as you know, he didn’t. Then the board asked him to step down. He told them they had to trust him and he could still fix everything. That’s when they fired him.”
Amanda took a deep breath. “I owe you a drink at the Ritz for this news.”
“The official announcement will be made tomorrow morning, but I thought you’d sleep better if I told you now.”
Amanda grinned. “I’ll sleep like a baby. You made my day.”
“Wait, I’m not finished yet. Patricia Bernier was named acting CEO. She should be confirmed in a week or so.”
“Patricia is good,” Amanda said.
“I think her main asset is that she’s solid, and she’s been with the company for twenty years.”
“She deserves the job.”
“There’s more.” Karine paused. “It concerns you.”
Oh God. Could it be . . .?
Amanda didn’t dare form the question.
“Patricia wants you back. She’ll call you tomorrow, and if I understood her correctly, she sent you an e-mail earlier to—”
“Can you please repeat what you just said?” Amanda sat down. “Slowly.”
“Patricia. Wants. You. Back.”
“How do you know that?”
“She asked me if I had your private e-mail. I said I’d have to search, but I’d find it a lot faster if I knew what she was planning to do with it.”
Amanda smiled. “Now I see how you got your unofficial title.”
“Information is king, my dear, and I do what it takes to have it.”
Amanda found herself struggling to wrap her mind around the news. “I had no idea she appreciated me.”
“I’m sure she has no idea you appreciate her.” Karine chuckled. “You guys have a lot in common. Anyway, Patricia is smart and knows what’s good for the company.”
When Amanda hung up, her hands were shaking. She fired up the laptop that sat on her little desk and opened her inbox.
There it was. Patricia’s short but oh-so-significant note.
To: Amanda Roussel
From: Patricia Bernier
Subject: Job Offer
Dear Amanda,
You may have heard by now about the latest events at ENS. My assistant will call you tomorrow morning to see if you could drop by my office later during the day. But I wanted to give you a heads-up so you can start thinking. I’d like to create a new, tailor-made position that would allow ENS to benefit fully from your unique set of skills an
d talents. They were sorely missed this summer.
We’ll discuss the details, but please know that I won’t give up until you accept my offer.
Kind regards,
Patricia
Right.
Amanda pinched herself and reread Patricia’s e-mail three more times. She wasn’t dreaming. ENS wanted her back, and boy, she wanted to be back. She’d negotiate and play hard to get, as anyone in demand would, but in her heart she knew Patricia’s offer was as good as signed.
Then she noticed another e-mail that had landed in her inbox a few hours earlier. It was from Kes, and the subject line read, “A Woman’s Guide to Love, Part III.”
Amanda opened it.
Personal Note: It’s four in the afternoon. I’m sitting in front of the family caravan, staring at the smaller caravan next door and waiting for my parents and siblings to reassemble. I’m in the shade, but the heat is liquefying my brain. Maybe that’s why I just had a revelation: you, Amanda Roussel, are a human version of Garfield.
Not convinced? Open my next e-mail and use the gift card to download an e-book titled Garfield Classics, Volume Fifteen (it’s my favorite Garfield volume). Read it tonight, if you can, and tell me what you think.
Introduction to Part III: Behavioral psychology has a method that can be highly effective in some situations. The subject must simulate feeling a certain way until she begins to actually feel that way. The idea is that if she behaves as if she were experiencing an emotion or a state of mind, there’s a chance it’ll become real. For instance, if she’s sad, she should force herself to smile, and continue smiling for as long as she can until she begins to feel happier. Or not. In any case, she should stop when her facial muscles lock into a painful spasm.
It’s unclear where the cutoff line should be when the subject is pretending to be in love. We suggest she does it for three days and then assesses the situation.
Instructions: Over the next three days, act as if you were in love with a man (for instance, a certain Gitan with highly symmetrical shoulders).
Here are some ideas:
1. Forget you disapprove of his origins and occupation.
2. Tell friends and colleagues how irresistible he is, how he makes you melt, and so on.
3. Isolate yourself five to ten times each day and think about him.
4. At least once a day, imagine the kids you’d make together (hint: they’d be amazing).
Bonus Points: Go to a tattoo parlor and get his name tattooed somewhere. If this seems too melodramatic or if you’re afraid of needles, get a temporary tattoo. It’ll still earn you a point or even two, depending on its size and location on your body.
~ ~ ~
This is the third and last part of “A Woman’s Guide to Love.” We hope you find it useful, and more than ever, we count on your goodwill and cooperation.
Amanda closed Kes’s e-mail and downloaded the Garfield book to her laptop. The rational voice in her head whispered she should forget about Kes’s assignment and focus on preparing for her talk with Patricia. But she told that voice to shut up. She’d think about the job tomorrow morning.
Right now, she wanted to think about Kes.
Amanda changed into a silk nightie and made a mental note to tell Kes how unfair it was to give Vivienne a hand-painted scarf and to give her an e-book. As for the experiment he wanted her to conduct . . . why the hell not? It would be fun. She’d do the ridiculous things he asked her to do, and they’d laugh about it.
It would be easy to act as if she were in love with him. She wouldn’t even have to pretend.
Amanda froze at that thought.
Wait, wasn’t she supposed to do something right now? Something super urgent, like . . . er . . . brush her teeth? Yes, this was the perfect time to brush her teeth. She rushed into the bathroom. After she put her electrical toothbrush down and turned off the lights, she returned to the living room.
What now?
A glance at her watch told her she still had over an hour until Kes’s arrival. She picked up the laptop, climbed into her favorite armchair, and opened the Garfield book.
The very first cartoon showed Garfield alone, thinking to himself, “I wish Jon was here. I’ve had to annoy myself all day.”
Amanda grinned.
There was no denying she and Garfield shared some traits.
And no denying that in two short months Kes had gotten to know her surprisingly well.
Maybe even better than she knew herself.
* * *
Kes strode toward his building, a bounce in his step and an indefensible lightness in his heart.
The daylong stay with his family had been a bumpy ride, but he’d kept his end of the bargain and told his folks he loved them. They didn’t freak out—even if they did inquire about his health.
He told them he was fine. Better than ever.
The hiccup occurred when part of the family reassembled for dinner, which was served inside the caravan because of the rain. The party consisted of his parents, sister, eldest nephew, and himself. Nouna had declared she’d made enough of an effort and stayed in bed. His brother and brother-in-law were working late, harvesting grapes for a local wine producer.
A young woman who looked vaguely familiar stopped by to borrow some table salt. She lingered to chat with Rosanna and Mama, sounding like she knew them well.
Kes smiled politely.
“I’m Clara,” she said, pausing to let him process the information. “Don’t you recognize me?”
He furrowed his brow. This woman couldn’t be Clara. No way. Clara was Alberto and Maria’s girl—a scruffy, gangly kid with mussed hair who played elastics with her friends all day long. The woman before him must have been eighteen. She had expertly made-up green eyes, a silky black mane that cascaded down her back in tame waves, and soft curves.
Had he been an objective onlooker, he would have found her gorgeous.
But he wasn’t. Clara’s beauty made him think of Amanda—a gadji Snow Queen to this Gypsy Venus. It reminded him of how that Snow Queen—his Snow Queen—made him feel. Of how just looking at her made his heart pound with giddy joy, and his cock harden. And when she shared one of her dry, misanthropic observations, he found them funnier than Garfield’s best punchlines.
Amanda enthralled him in a way that no other woman ever had.
Or ever would.
He smiled. “You’ve changed, Clara.”
“I hope it’s a compliment.” She searched his eyes. “Do you like what you see?”
“You’ve become a beautiful young woman.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that . . . because you’re the most handsome man in the whole world.” Clara blushed furiously and ran away.
“What was that about?” he asked when she was out of earshot.
“No idea.” Tata suddenly became fascinated by something on his plate.
“Oh come on, Django, you’ve got to help me here.” Mama put her fork down and gave Kes a grave look. “As you said yourself, son, Clara has blossomed into a real beauty.”
“Good for her.” Kes nodded.
“Good for you, too”—Mama arched an eyebrow—“because she likes you.”
Kes looked down at his plate and discovered a morsel just as fascinating as the one his father was inspecting.
“We’ve talked with Alberto and Maria,” Levna plowed on. “Luckily for you, they are prepared to overlook your connections and even let Clara live among the gadje, following you wherever your . . . business takes you.”
“Once the two of you are married, of course,” Django said, finally looking up.
Oh God.
If he told them bluntly there was no way he was marrying Clara, the family dinner would turn into yet another shouting match that would end with him getting banished or vowing never to return.
Either of which sucked.
“I already have a girlfriend,” he said.
“Who? That washed-out gadji you brought here for Lysandro’s christening?�
�� Levna looked like she would’ve spat on the floor had she been less genteel.
“Mama, her name is Amanda,” Kes said.
“As if I cared.” Levna shrugged. “What matters is that Clara is better in every way. She’s younger, prettier, sweeter. An eighteen-year-old Gypsy rose ready to be picked.”
Levna peered at him.
He stared back, poker-faced.
“In case you didn’t catch my drift,” she said, “Clara is a virgin, as our tradition requires. Never had as much as a petit ami. Everyone in the clan can testify to that. Maria told me the girl has been obsessed with you for years.”
Django stroked his beard. “She’d make you a perfect wife, son.”
If only Marco had been around to crack a joke and defuse the tension! Even if his cousin weren’t a fan of Amanda, he wouldn’t let Kes down. He never did.
But Marco had taken off at dawn, and no one had seen him since. He didn’t pick up his phone or call back.
That left Kes with only one possible ally.
He turned to his sister. “Rosanna? Feel like saying something? You’re always complaining that Gitane girls are married off too young and miss out on opportunities. Clara is only eighteen.”
“I do believe our girls deserve more education and choices.” Rosanna avoided his eyes—a bad sign. “But the thing is, you are Clara’s choice. She told me her dream is to go away with you.”
Kes pressed his mouth into a hard line and weighed every word before speaking. “I’m sorry to break the family consensus, but marrying Clara isn’t my dream. And she isn’t my choice.”
Levna took her head in her hands.
“Little pral.” Rosanna touched his arm. “You’re blinded by your attraction for that woman, but if you could reason with clarity, you’d see that we’re right. We want the best for you.”
He smirked. “And Clara is the best for me?”
“Besides all the qualities Mama just mentioned, Clara is a Gitane.” Rosanna squeezed his arm as if trying to convey something beyond her words.
