by Maggie Way
The other option was to call Didier, ask him to brave rush hour, and drive to rue Cadet to collect her. She decided to give the métro another chance.
The evening before, Pierre had beckoned to her and Didier. “I want you two to go to Baleville tomorrow morning.”
Jeanne’s mouth fell open. Why did Pierre want her and Didier to go to Mat’s hometown?
“What for?” Didier asked.
“Our main cheese supplier, Monsieur Conchard, wants to showcase his new products. I suspect he may also want to renegotiate the prices.”
“Why won’t he come here?” Didier asked.
“He doesn’t feel like traveling to Paris with an assortment of smelly cheeses in the back of his car . . . and who can blame him?”
“So you want us to assess the new products and negotiate the prices, right?” Jeanne asked.
“It’s time you learned to swim on your own, children,” Pierre said. “Because in this business, you’ll be swimming with sharks.”
Jeanne smirked. “You make it sound so attractive.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” Pierre said with a wink.
He gave them the necessary instructions and promised to keep his cell phone on. Jeanne agreed to meet Didier in front of his building at nine o’clock the next morning and drive to Baleville in his car. It was eight forty now. Jeanne clenched her fists and edged closer to the track. To hell with good manners—she was a shark in training, after all.
Twenty-five minutes later, she spotted Didier on the corner of his street, glancing at his watch. She waved. He beamed and waved back. And even though Jeanne knew why he was so friendly, she couldn’t help warming to him a little.
“I like this look of yours,” he said as she sat in the car.
She was wearing low-rise skinny jeans, a mustard-colored cashmere pullover, and a tailored leather jacket that reached the waistline of her jeans.
“You usually come and go from work dressed in the uniform,” he added.
“I live next door,” she said. “So it makes sense to change at home.”
They drove in silence for a little while.
“Have you been in Baleville before?” he asked after they got onto the A13.
“No, never.”
“It’s a nice town. Only twenty minutes from the sea, but much more affordable than seaside places like Deauville.”
“Sounds nice,” she said. “Do you know how big it is?”
Hopefully big enough to minimize the risk of running into Mat.
“Ten thousand or thereabouts,” he said.
A hundred thousand would’ve been better, but then again, ten is better than five.
“And it’s only an hour and a half from Paris,” he added.
Way too close, if you want my opinion.
Didier tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looking pleased with himself. “If Monsieur Conchard doesn’t invite us to lunch, I’ll take you to Le Cheval Bleu. It’s a nice local restaurant I discovered a few years ago, when I toured the Cider Route with some friends.”
“I’ve wanted to do the Cider Route for years now, but instead I always end up going south,” Jeanne said.
“You’re from the south, aren’t you?”
“Nîmes. My family are still there and some good friends . . . Where are you from, by the way?” She realized she’d never bothered to ask Didier that basic question.
“I’m from Lille.” He smiled. “The Great French North.”
She smiled back. What a strange guy.
He enjoyed being mean to customers, but he was usually courteous with his colleagues. Now that she thought of it, he’d always been particularly nice to her.
They arrived in Baleville a little before eleven o’clock, parked in front of Monsieur Conchard’s shop, and ran inside to avoid getting soaked in the heavy rain. The supplier greeted them, an enthusiastic smile on his face. At twelve thirty they were done. As it turned out, Monsieur Conchard had no intention of a price hike, but only wanted La Bohème to order his new cheeses. Immensely relieved, Jeanne and Didier promised to call him within a week with a definitive answer.
“How about lunch? I’m starving,” Didier said as they stepped out onto the wet street. Fortunately, the rain had exhausted itself into a drizzle while they’d been inside with Monsieur Conchard.
“How can you still be hungry after tasting twenty different cheeses?” she teased.
“How can you not be hungry?” he retorted.
“If we leave now, we’ll avoid traffic, because everyone’s having lunch,” she offered.
“I’m not leaving without having eaten properly.”
Seeing his determination, Jeanne stopped arguing and followed him to his favorite restaurant. As they walked, she tried to form an opinion about the town. It wasn’t as pretty as the more touristy places in Normandy, but its half-timbered houses certainly had a lot of charm. And it was provincial through and through even compared to her hometown of Nîmes.
“Jeanne?”
She slowly turned away from the church they were passing, already knowing who it was. She’d recognized his voice. She would have recognized it in a crowd of people shouting her name.
“What are you doing here?” Mat stared at Jeanne as if she were an apparition.
“Meeting with a supplier,” Jeanne said before introducing the two men to each other.
“We’ve met before,” Mat said to Didier. “I used to frequent La Bohème a few years back, when Rob worked there.”
Didier put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can’t recall.” He turned to Jeanne, “We need to hurry if we want to get a table.”
“Where are you guys headed?” Mat asked.
“Le Cheval Bleu—why?” Didier shot Mat a hostile look.
“What a coincidence! That’s where I’m going for lunch.”
“No kidding,” Jeanne said in her driest voice.
“It’s the best place in town, and I only go for the best.” Mat squinted at her and smiled his crooked smile. “Do you mind if I tag along? We could talk about our common friends and remember the good old times.”
Jeanne stole a glance at Didier. He’d folded his arms across his chest, lifted his head, and straightened as if trying to reach Mat’s height. His mouth had thinned into a hard line, and even though he remained silent, his body language was loud and clear.
This was a disaster in the making.
Yet some treacherous part of Jeanne’s mind was thrilled to spend the next hour in Mat’s company.
“Fine. Whatever.” Didier tugged at Jeanne’s sleeve. “Let’s move.”
“I’ll catch up with you,” Mat said. “Just need to make a quick phone call.”
Jeanne and Didier were already seated when Mat walked into the restaurant. He exchanged a handshake and a few warm words with the chef and the waiter who rushed to add a chair and utensils to Jeanne’s table.
After they ordered, Mat fixed his gaze on Jeanne, staring at her for much longer than was polite.
She shifted in her seat.
“I’m not used to seeing you in jeans,” he said by way of apology. “Either of you, that is,” he added, turning to Didier.
“Why, did you think I was born in a server uniform?” Didier asked, a muscle pulsing on his jaw.
Mat turned to Jeanne again. “I much prefer your current look to the Gothic stuff you wore outside work a few years ago.”
She smiled. “Oh yeah, my Gothic phase.”
“Do you still hang out with Goths?” Mat asked.
Jeanne shook her head. “I never did, actually. I was what the Goths call a poseur. I loved their esthetics, I copied their dress, but I never shared their worldview.”
“Which is?” Didier asked.
“A fascination with all things tragic and morbid,” Jeanne explained.
“Was that why you dyed your hair blue rather than black?” Mat asked.
“Yeah,” Jeanne said. “I guess it was my touch of rebellion against their rebe
llion . . . I never enjoyed Gothic music, either.”
“You used to like Sting,” Mat said.
“Still do.” Jeanne looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m faithful like that.”
Mat swallowed hard and held her gaze. For a few moments, no one spoke. Jeanne and Mat peered at each other, while Didier’s face grew tenser and redder by the second. Then, thankfully, their food arrived.
They ate in silence.
“It was nice seeing you . . . guys,” Mat said when they finished the meal and stood to leave.
“Take care,” Jeanne said.
Didier glared at him and walked out of the restaurant.
On their drive back, Jeanne thought of Mat, noting with satisfaction that her initial excitement was giving way to anger. He had no right to intrude on their meal. He had no right to look at her like that—as if she had mattered to him—or talk to her as if he had cared. He had no right to treat Didier with contempt.
Then she thought of Didier, telling herself he was a solid guy who had enough trust and respect for her to want to be her business partner.
And, possibly, more.
Chapter Three
November
Cécile climbed into bed next to Mat who looked up from his iPad and smiled. She had a pencil, a highlighter, and a thick binder in her hands.
“Things are looking better for my client,” she said.
Given her penchant for understatement, he inferred she expected to win the case. “That’s my girl. Would it be premature to announce it during the public debate at the town hall?”
“When’s the debate?”
“Saturday. I’m counting on your presence.”
“I’ll be there. This GMO case will set a precedent in the region, so the judge is taking longer than usual.” She tapped her teeth with her pencil. “I should be able to tell you on Friday if you can make an announcement.”
“What about the windmills?”
She sighed. “We’ve got the Government’s Environment Pact and the greater good on our side, but the plaintiffs’ arguments are more . . . emotionally charged.”
“They can’t sleep because of the noise and they hate the skyline, right?” He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to take a public stand on this. Sooner or later someone’s bound to ask what I think about the windmills.”
“Has anyone polled the locals?”
“Mom surveyed a sample of sixty Balevilleans. The opinions were divided, almost fifty-fifty,” he said.
“So, what’s your stand going to be?” She cocked her head. “You’re a Green—you can’t turn against wind turbines just because some people find them ugly.”
“And noisy. Besides, some Greens are concerned about their impact on wildlife.”
“Oh, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “A wind turbine kills an average of one bird per year. Fossil fuels kill a lot more.”
He threw his hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“I’ll prepare a fact sheet with references to serious studies,” she said. “I did tons of research for my case, so it won’t take a lot of time.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, baby. What would I do without you?”
“Lose the election?”
“I may lose it anyway,” he said.
“Not if you follow my advice.” She winked at him. “I want you to become mayor of this town just as much as you do.”
“For environmental reasons?” he asked.
“And for private ones, too.” She smiled.
He stroked her taut cheek, and his hand slid down to caress her bony shoulder through the fabric of her silk pajamas. He didn’t try to bare it. As much as he liked the sight of her dainty frame in her sleek clothes, she was so skinny it pained him to look at her naked. Oh, how he wished she had curves. Not like Jeanne—that would’ve been too much to ask. He’d be happy with a hint of flesh in one or two strategic places. But Cécile was a calorie-counting, low-carbing, fat-avoiding vegan, which made acquiring said flesh virtually impossible. Once in a moment of drunken honesty, she shared the real reason behind her multiple food restrictions. Cécile hated the act of eating. But she didn’t want to explain this to anyone, so she’d come up with all those diets to conveniently invoke at mealtimes.
She had denied her confession vehemently upon sobering up.
Mat kissed her and tugged on her binder. “Put this away,” he whispered.
“Mat,” she said admonishingly.
“Yes?”
“I have to read all this before the hearing tomorrow.”
“Can’t you read it first thing in the morning?”
“I won’t have the time.”
He pulled away a few inches and peered into her eyes.
She looked down at her papers. “Besides, it isn’t Saturday yet,” she said, her tone reproachful.
He removed his hand from her shoulder and sat up. Christ, she made lovemaking sound like a chore that had to be done on certain days. Like vacuuming or changing the bed linen. Was it what sex was to her—a chore? Was it the real reason why she’d only do it on Saturdays? And only those when she didn’t have her period, a headache, or . . . no energy.
Whenever he asked her if she wanted him to do things differently, she’d always say she was happy with his methods. But he couldn’t shake the feeling she resented their couplings, rare as they may be. Was having sex like eating for her—another bodily function she hated but wouldn’t dare admit it? He loved her but, God, how he wished she had a tenth of Jeanne’s sensuality!
As he stared unseeing at his tablet computer, he pictured Jeanne in his mind’s eye, her out of this world body, her sweet face, her lush lips, and irresistible smile. He recalled every detail of how she looked in her wicked cocktail dress at Rob’s party and then in those tight jeans when he’d run into her last month. His pulse picked up.
Great.
Mat clasped his hands over his head. How could Jeanne still make him feel this way, after three years of no contact? The half dozen curvaceous, beautiful women he associated with on a daily basis left him as cold as ice. What was it about Jeanne that affected him like this?
He finally fell asleep after convincing himself that his visceral reaction was residue from his youthful crush. It would peter out. All he needed to do was stay away from her. It would be madness to risk losing Cécile—the woman he planned to marry one day—over a romp with a hot babe he had nothing in common with.
“I’ll have a double this morning,” José said. “Haven’t slept well.”
“A double it is.” Jeanne tilted her head to the side. “You do look a little tired.”
“That kid on the third floor played the guitar again . . . almost until dawn.” José shook his head in despair.
“Is he any good?”
José blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Not that it matters, of course,” she said quickly. “He shouldn’t disturb his neighbors’ sleep.”
José gave a tentative nod.
She handed him his coffee and smiled to reassure him she was on his side.
His face relaxed. “I see you hired a new server,” he said, taking a sip and nodding in Amar’s direction.
“Nothing escapes your notice, José.”
“Looks a little too . . . young.” He grimaced as he said young.
“It’ll pass. And it isn’t contagious,” Jeanne said.
José sighed and drank the rest of his coffee in thoughtful silence.
During the staff lunchtime three hours later, Jeanne caught Amar red-handed: He was about to shove a plate into the microwave.
“Freeze!” she yelled.
He dutifully froze, holding the plate midair while gripping the microwave door with his other hand.
“Now slowly close the microwave, put the plate down, and turn to face me,” she ordered.
He turned around.
She shook her head. “Thank God it was me and not Claude who ca
ught you trying to nuke that meat.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? First, if Claude gives you a cold dish for lunch, it’s supposed to be eaten cold.”
“And second?” Amar tilted his head.
“No one ever uses the microwave. It’s a firing offense.”
“Then why do you keep one here?”
“How shall I explain it . . .” Jeanne pinched her chin. “You see, every bistro must have a microwave oven. Yet, every good bistro makes a point of never using it.”
“Of course, it’s totally obvious,” Amar said, deadpan.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Jeanne nodded, somehow managing not to smile. “So, I’ll forget what I just saw, and we’ll pretend it never happened, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned away to greet Amanda who’d just come in. Her office was around the corner, and she was a regular during lunch at La Bohème, eating it at the counter to chat with Jeanne. She once told Jeanne she would have come more often if it hadn’t been for fear of running into Lena or Rob. Being the latter’s ex, she didn’t particularly relish the prospect.
“Do you think you could close the place off after nine on Friday?” Amanda asked.
“Depends on the number of people you’re bringing. What’s the occasion?” Jeanne asked.
Amanda beamed. “My big promotion. I’m now officially number two in the department.”
“We’ll close if you can get twenty-five people. Thirty would be better.”
“I’m inviting all the colleagues I’ve worked with directly, which should be about twenty,” Amanda said. “And all my friends.” She paused before adding, “Which should bring us to twenty-five . . . I hope.”
“Are you inviting Rob?”
“No way,” Amanda said.
Jeanne gave her a sympathetic look.
Amanda sighed. “I’m not . . . angry anymore. I just don’t want to see him, that’s all.” Then her face brightened. “But I’m inviting Mat and Rob’s business partner, Patrick. They’re my friends regardless of their connection with Rob.”
Jeanne didn’t register much after the word “Mat.”
I’m going to see him Friday night . . . unless he declines Amanda’s invitation.
