by Maggie Way
“Isn’t your nausea supposed to be gone by now?”
“That’s what I keep telling my doctor. Apparently, it can linger beyond the first trimester in some cases. I just hope it won’t stay throughout the entire pregnancy!”
“There must be some Russian grandma remedy for it, no?”
“Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Russian, French, Chinese, Indian—you name it.” Lena sighed before adding, her tone brighter now. “Anyway, I didn’t call you to whine.”
“Of course not.” Jeanne grinned. “You never call me to whine. That you end up whining is purely coincidental.”
“Smartass. I called for a status update on the ‘Mat situation.’ ”
Jeanne’s smile slipped. “I wish I could tell you I’m miraculously over him.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“Hey, I’ve been trying a new tack,” Jeanne said doing her best to sound light. “The other day I dug out some old pictures from our trip to Nice four years ago, when he was still super skinny.”
“Ooh-la-la, he was skinny,” Lena said. “I used to think of him as ‘Mr. Clothes Hanger’ before I found out what his name was.”
“That’s a good one. You should’ve told me earlier.”
“So, what did you do with those pictures? Don’t tell me you stabbed his chest with a needle.”
“You’re full of great ideas today! No, I just looked at that thin toad-eyed guy with wild hair and told myself, This is who he really is, behind his sleek suits and hard muscles.”
“Did it work?”
Jeanne bit her nails. “I’m starting to find the guy in those pictures attractive.”
“Shit.”
“As you said.”
The town of Baleville reelected Mat to sit on the Municipal Council and the Communal Council. But it favored Laetitia Mercier—the outgoing deputy mayor and Mat’s main rival—for the top job.
That was three days ago. This morning, the new Municipal Council formalized the citizens’ vote by electing Laetitia mayor of Baleville.
When the results were announced, Mat smiled and shook Laetitia’s hand. It wasn’t too difficult. Despite his conviction that he’d be a better mayor for his town, he’d never stooped to personal attacks during the campaign. Laetitia was unimaginative but upright. He admired her for having played her “benevolent matriarch” card so well.
It was a lot more unpleasant to continue smiling when the Councilors took turns at patting him on the shoulder and saying stupid things like “You’re still too young for this job. Try again next time.”
The next municipal elections were in six years.
He’d be thirty-three by then and probably married with kids. He’d enjoy more notoriety and influence. With some luck, he might lose his hair and sport dark circles under his eyes.
Would they see him as better mayor material then?
It isn’t the end of the world, Mat rationalized on the way home. He still had his PR job that he liked, was reelected Councilor, and would continue his involvement with the Greens. He’d remain active in their pesticides and GMOs regional working group. The members appreciated him and he was eager to do more.
This is just a setback, he told himself, not the end of my political career. The whole running for office thing had been a great learning experience, and he’d established a solid foundation to build on over the coming years.
Only . . . why this guilt? And the shame?
“Watch out, you moron!” someone yelled, startling Mat and returning him to reality.
He stopped in his tracks and looked around. He was smack in the middle of a busy intersection surrounded by cars, scooters, and bicycles.
Fuck.
Raising his hands in an apology, he rushed to the sidewalk where he leaned against a wall, loosened his tie, and tried to collect himself. It was there by that wall, his heart racing from his near escape, when he realized what bothered him almost as much as his defeat.
Actually, more.
With sudden clarity, Mat knew why he felt so guilty and ashamed. There was no more hiding from the truth: He hadn’t given his campaign all he had, all he could, and should have given. For one simple, embarrassingly banal reason—his obsession with Jeanne.
For the past ten months, he had been consumed by his longing, crushed by his lust for her. He’d lost his drive and sharpness. He’d thought about her all the time—as he shot ads with his mom, sat on the Municipal Council, took Cécile out to dinner . . . He’d been chronically sleep deprived, but not because of stress or too much work. Every night, he would go to bed with a stack of papers in his hands, full of noble intentions to read a report on organic farming or draft a speech. And then, half an hour later, he’d catch himself fantasizing about making love to Jeanne.
While Cécile would be halfway through her own stack, a highlighter between her teeth, and a look of fierce concentration in her eyes.
Mat took a deep, ragged breath, and resumed his walk.
You brought this upon yourself.
As he pushed open the door to the apartment he and Cécile occupied in a handsome limestone building, he knew she was home. Had she seen his text? She’d been devastated by the results of the public vote, but she’d held onto the crazy hope that the Council pick him in spite of Laetitia’s majority. He was going to tell her it was over now. She’d put on a brave face, swallow her disappointment, and say something to comfort him. Like she always did.
“You pathetic, frolicking fool,” Cécile spat as soon as he walked into the kitchen.
His jaw went slack. In their two years together, they’d never insulted each other in any circumstance. He’d thought Cécile incapable of uttering an insult.
She strode over, stopped a few inches from him, and gave him a withering stare. “Last summer you were Baleville’s golden boy. You had the town eating out of your hand. And you lose to that old cow who has no ideas and no charisma!”
“She’s a seasoned politician, and she knows her stuff—”
Cécile shook her head. “She’s nothing. She got elected only because you gave up at some point.”
“What do you mean, I gave up?”
“It’s been a while since your speeches moved or inspired anyone. Your statements lost their punch and your campaign went from hot to lukewarm.”
“I didn’t realize . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”
Cecile narrowed her eyes. “I do. It’s all because of that woman, that barmaid of yours. She took too much of your energy, too much space in your shriveled brain.”
Oh God. She knew.
“I’ve heard you say her name in your sleep,” Cécile continued. “Night after night since last fall. Accompanied by a monumental hard-on.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve known all this time?”
“Do you think I’m dumb? I chose to close my eyes because I believed in your future. I’d invested so much in it . . . I didn’t want to hold up your ascent.” She smirked. “But instead of going up, you rolled down. You slipped from the leader I thought you’d become back to your old wacky ways.”
He stared at her, a vein pulsing on his neck.
Cécile’s shoulders fell and her gaze turned melancholy. She touched his chest. “All this muscle you’ve gained and all these stylish clothes I’ve picked for you aren’t enough to fool people, Mat. Because people, they know a loser when they see one.”
She dropped her hand and brushed past him. “I’m going out for a walk. Can’t stand to look at you right now.”
He remained planted in the middle of the kitchen for a long while, processing the conversation, adjusting to the new reality. Then he shook his head, as if waking up from a trance, marched into the living room, and began to browse his music collection until he found what he was looking for. It was a new Cyril song about a life-ruining obsession. He’d heard it on the radio a few days ago and purchased it immediately. Because had he possessed any talent for music, he could have written it.
Mat remo
ved his tie, sat on the floor next to his designer stereo, and played the song.
I’m ablaze drowning in the ocean,
I’m adrift pacing in my room,
In my heart only one emotion—
Every
night I
crave
you,
Like a crazed wolf howling at the moon.
You’re under my skin—
tattooed.
Chapter Ten
July
Thank God, Claude came into work in the morning, ending his sick leave and Thierry’s stint at La Bohème. Relieved beyond measure, Jeanne made up her mind to restore peace with Didier. She’d propose a truce as soon as the lunch service was over. It wasn’t in the interest of either of them to bicker and poison the atmosphere at the bistro. Instead, they should agree to pressure Pierre to make his decision and put an end to this unhealthy rivalry.
She placed two freshly brewed espressos on a tray and handed it to Manon. After she filled some pitchers with water and lined them on the counter, she surveyed the room for Didier.
Speak of the devil.
The headwaiter walked right past her, stopping at the table of a young couple engrossed in their conversation, hands entwined across the table.
“Are you ready to order now?” Didier asked with barely disguised annoyance.
“I’m so sorry. We got sidetracked.” The young woman nervously flipped through the menu and turned to her boyfriend. “How about paella?”
“Nah . . . I’d rather have a couscous,” the young man said.
“How do you feel about sushi?” Didier asked sweetly. “I highly recommend it.”
The couple exchanged enthusiastic nods, and the man said, “Wonderful idea! We’ll go for sushi then.”
Didier smiled pleasantly. “What makes you think we have any?”
“But you just said—” the woman began.
“I gave you my opinion about sushi, which is a great dish. I thought we were exchanging views on foreign foods.” Didier brushed an invisible speck off the sleeve of his shirt and gave the couple a look of misunderstood innocence.
The young man puffed out his chest. “Rubbish. You misled us deliberately.”
Didier picked up one of the menus and held it in front of the man’s face. “Had monsieur bothered to read our menu, he would’ve noticed that it lists none of the dishes we’ve just discussed. And, in any case, someone your age should know what kind of food to expect in a bistro.”
He paused for added drama, then placed the menu on the table, and turned to leave. “Wave when you’re ready to order.”
He strode toward the bar, propped an elbow on the counter across from Jeanne, and said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Good for you.” Jeanne gave him a bright smile.
“I’m serious, Jeanne. These past months have shown me we can’t be a functional couple. But after the way you handled Thierry, I doubt we can even be business partners.”
“We can’t. I’ve come to the same conclusion,” Jeanne said.
Didier shook his head. “I’m sorry for you. You’re going to regret not having seized your chance.”
“What makes you so sure you’ll have the bistro?”
Didier shrugged. “Pierre is a sensible man.”
“Exactly,” Jeanne said, giving him a defiant look.
“You won’t get La Bohème, Jeanne. If I were you, I’d start adjusting to the idea.”
She glowered at him.
“I’ll be happy to let you keep your current job,” Didier said. “You’re a fine barista and a decent bartender. But you’ll have to ditch your opinions and do as I say.”
Jeanne gave him a doe-eyed look. “You’re too generous, Didier. Truly, you are. But I’m afraid I’m quite incapable of doing as you say. So . . .”
“I see . . . You want all or nothing.”
She nodded.
“You’ll have nothing,” he said.
It was Jeanne’s turn to shrug. “That’s OK, as long as I get to keep my opinions.”
Didier rolled his eyes and walked away.
You’ll have nothing.
Didier’s remark reverberated in her head, chilling the blood in her veins. On a self-destructive impulse, she imagined herself in the near future and shuddered at the bleakness of what she saw. Didier had La Bohème. Cécile had Mat.
She had nothing.
Fortunately, her indomitable optimism finally kicked in. Cut this self-indulgent crap.
She still had a chance—a solid chance—with the bistro. As for Mat, well, he was deeply convinced the thing between them was purely physical.
What if he was right? What if she was deluding herself, mistaking attraction for feelings, and lust for love?
She’d called him a fool for thinking they could purge their “systems” of their obsession if they went all the way. But what if he was right? Could she admit for a second they were crazed because the fruit was forbidden? Yes, they’d kissed and fooled around, and it only made things worse. But maybe it was because they never made love, never found release together.
Could sex set them free?
Could Mat have been right about it, and she—a fool?
Later in the afternoon, Amanda stopped by for a coffee. She was as well groomed and dressed as ever, but her gaze was uncharacteristically dull.
“What brings you here at this time of the day?” Jeanne asked, after they exchanged a cheek kiss.
“Just needed a break. And a good coffee. Can’t stand the gunk that comes from our coffee machine anymore.”
“A noisette, as usual?”
Amanda nodded.
Jeanne began to prepare Amanda’s coffee, expecting the customary flood of witty banter. When none came, she glanced at Amanda over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You’re unusually subdued.”
“I’m touched by your concern, but don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“Boy trouble?”
“No boy, no trouble.”
“Work trouble?”
Amanda shook her head. “Still queen of the hill.”
Jeanne handed Amanda her coffee. “Your majesty.”
Amanda smirked. “What about you? I’ve seen you staring into the void recently—several times. You never used to do that before. It’s about a boy and I must know who.”
“Curiosity killed the queen.”
“Oh come on, Jeanne. Give me something. I’ve had a really tough week, if you must know.”
Jeanne raised her brows.
“I’ve worked around the clock and am completely unplugged from the office grapevine. Now I’m running out of juice. I need info that’s not related to work.”
“Shall I get you my copy of Le Monde?” Jeanne asked. “Or you could watch some TV.”
“Officially, I don’t own a television. It’s considered too lowlife in certain circles. And I only read Le Figaro and The Economist.”
Amanda took a sip from her cup. “Ooh, the bliss . . . Have I mentioned you make the best coffee in Paris?”
“On several occasions.”
“Do I know him?”
Jeanne blinked, a little disoriented by the sudden question, then shook her head. “I’m not telling.”
“Oh my God. It means I do! Let’s see . . . Didier?” Amanda studied Jeanne’s face. “No. OK. The chef? Nah, he’s too old and not your type. Oh no! Please don’t tell me it’s Amar! He’s young enough to be your son.”
Jeanne snorted. “He’s only six years our junior. So there’s no way he could be my son. Anyway, it’s not him.”
Amanda’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She placed her cup on the counter, cleared her throat and leaned in. “I know who it is. I should’ve guessed immediately. I remember how he stared at you during my promotion bash. I just didn’t think you’d fall for a guy who’s already taken . . .”
Jeanne looked away.
Amanda shook her head. “I’ve been in C�
�cile’s shoes, as you may remember, and I can tell you it sucks.”
“I know.” Jeanne rinsed a glass and put it on the drying rack. “I’ve been in her shoes, too, with Ludo. I left him in the end.”
“So you’re hoping Cécile will dump Mat? Or he’ll dump her for you?”
Jeanne wiped her hands on her apron and refused to answer Amanda’s questions or look at her.
“Get real, my dear. Those two are in a symbiotic relationship that goes beyond sentiments. Besides . . .” Amanda’s voice trailed off and she fixed her gaze on her cup.
“What?”
“Never mind. If I say it, I’ll risk our friendship . . . and I can’t afford losing a friend right now.”
Jeanne flattened her hand on the counter. “I swear on this authentic copper I won’t cut you off, no matter what you say.”
“OK.” Amanda gave her a long sympathetic look. “You’re a lovely, funny, sexy woman. But you’re no match to Cécile. She’s in a different league, Jeanne. And so is Mat.”
* * *
The next morning, Jeanne got out of bed with a plan hatched during the sleepless night. Quite possibly a stupid plan that would make things only worse, but she hated feeling helpless. So, any plan was better than none.
First, she’d corner Pierre and demand a decision. She might give him three days—a week tops, but no more—lest she explode from not knowing.
Second, she’d call Mat and tell him she had changed her mind. If she really was nothing more than a hot chick to him, then she’d act like one. She wanted him, and she would have him. There was the scary scenario wherein the “curative” sex worked only for him, while she’d end up lovesick and heartbroken because she was a hot chick with a gooey heart.
But she refused to dwell on it now.
She was going for broke, and she’d deal with the consequences later.
Hmm . . . all things considered, she’d start with the second part of her plan.
Jeanne grabbed her phone and scrolled to his number.
There.
“Jeanne?” He sounded baffled.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“I lost the elections last week.”
