Best Maid Plans

by Klaire, Jody

  “A lesbian café.”

  My stomach dropped. I peered over the bonnet at her. “A what café?”

  Rebecca stopped polishing and fixed me with a glare. “A lesbian one. Why do you look like you’re going to pass out?”

  “Because I might,” I squeaked, holding onto the wheel. Winston was getting a massage too.

  “Pip, you get Berne is a woman, right?” She folded her tattooed arms.

  “Hard to miss,” I mumbled.

  Rebecca grinned and cocked her head.

  “Oi.” I attempted a glare which was hard as all the blood had drained from my face. “Stop imagining her naked.”

  Rebecca held up her hands with a guilty smile on her face. “How did you get that?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I know the look.”

  Rebecca flapped the rag at me. “Anyway, it’s a lesbian café...” She sighed. “Pip, stop clamping Winston’s wheel, you’ll warp the rim.”

  I wasn’t squeezing that hard.

  “If you’re going there with us...” she said looking at me from under her unruly eyebrows. “You need to know how to cope in that situation.”

  “Can’t I just wait in the car?” I wasn’t really a flag-waving kind of girl.

  Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “Do you want to ring Doug for a job?”

  I sighed. “Fine. What do I need to do?”

  “One: no staring, panicking, hyperventilating or running off.” Rebecca held up her hand, ticking out her points. “Two: No compliments. You will sound flirty and I don’t want to be rescuing you from women with more muscles than me.”

  More muscles?

  “Or flab, whichever.” Rebecca shrugged. “Three: Don’t mention Doug.”

  Why would I mention Doug? “Has he done something to offend them?”

  “Who?” Rebecca furrowed her brow.

  “The… well… the women with muscles.” Panic swirled in my stomach. Doug was a nice guy. How could anyone dislike Doug. Even Berne liked him.

  “No panicking,” Rebecca muttered. “You know I’m a lesbian too, you Cloth-head.”

  “You’re a person though, not the odd stereotypes my mother and Catherine put in my head.” I smoothed over Winston’s bonnet. The way my mother and big sister had cringed in disgust when they talked of “those women” still prickled at me.

  “So are the women you’re going to meet. They’re people, they will be French. You like French people.” She smiled at me.

  “I do like them.” I could cope with that.

  “If they’re like the rest I’ve met so far, talking about how to prepare a salad may be a hot topic.” Rebecca chuckled. “Maybe football or rugby too.”

  “I can talk about food.” Rugby, I could have a go at; football, I was clueless but Berne’s dad said a lot of things when he watched it, I’d use them.

  “Good, which means we can find jobs and not need to beg for food.” She held my gaze. “Or call Doug.”

  “Thought you said not to mention him.” I poked my tongue out as I spotted Berne and Babs sauntering toward us, their laughter filling the air. “What do you think, Barnaby?”

  He wasn’t the most well-behaved dog.

  “Nah, Babs’s laughter says it’s, as you would say, ‘smutty.’” Rebecca’s lop-sided grin showed how much she loved Babs... or my term for naughty jokes.

  “You get that from her laughter?” I pricked up my ears. Well, technically I couldn’t prick them up; I couldn’t even wiggle them. Rebecca could wiggle hers. So unfair. “Berne doesn’t do smutty.” Did she?

  Berne’s laughter filled with a different sound, one I’d not heard before, at least hadn’t noted.

  “I’d say she does, Pip.” Rebecca held out her arms as Babs hurled herself into her, wrapping her legs around Rebecca’s waist and planting a passionate kiss on her lips.

  Berne raised her eyebrow when I turned to her.

  “If I tried that, you’d be on painkillers for a week and I’d pull something,” I whispered.

  She sighed. “It does not mean I like it.”

  I slid my arms around her waist and pecked her on the nose. “But they don’t have massages, do they?”

  Berne grinned, that laugh, the one I’d not noticed before, oozed toward me. Hmm, I liked it. I liked it a lot.

  Chapter 5

  My shoulders twinged at the tension as I drove us into Marseille. Babs, Berne and Rebecca chatted away with more smutty laughter but I just got tighter. There were many things I struggled with: rude people, spiders in my bathroom, and running out of crisps being but a few; another was how I was seen by others.

  I’d spent my childhood, and most of my time with Doug, making sure that I did and said the right things. I knew how to do that, how to dress for social occasions but since I’d been with Berne all the rules had changed. In fact they’d changed and were in French.

  I didn’t want to navigate yet another box I wasn’t going to fit into. I’d fought so hard to be true to myself when I’d left Doug. I was proud of that. I’d won the battle to be me and I didn’t want to backtrack, ever: I was ridiculous and proud of it.

  Only... I really wanted to fit in; I needed to make an impression for Rebecca; I wanted to make a good impression for Berne, and I was strangling Winston’s steering wheel.

  I wanted to be more relaxed, be welcoming. I could do that. I knew three gay people: one extremely well, another more than was normal sometimes, and Babs was, well, Babs.

  Speaking of the French dynamo, she’d relished Winston being in France and grinned the whole way into the city as she directed me to the café.

  “It is there, park here.” Babs flicked her finger to a space with a cone in it.

  “It’s reserved.” I looked in the mirror at Rebecca. To us British people a cone was unmoveable.

  “It was, Pepe.” Babs flicked her finger again. “Besides, it is only there for you.”

  “It is?” My voice was shrill. My eyebrows shot up on “is” making me look like I was either a model with too much Botox or I’d drawn my eyebrows back on.

  “Oui, my little English blancmange tells me of your desire to have a space with a cone.” Babs winked at me. “And there is nothing more pleasing than to see you smile.”

  I rubbed my hand over my throat, quite unsure why that brought tears to my eyes. “That’s so sweet.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Told you she’d get emotional. Come on, Pip, park him up, I’m starving.”

  I pulled into the space enough so Babs could get out; Rebecca followed suit, clambering from the back; then ushered Babs back and moved the cone for her.

  “Maybe we did speak some sense into her?” I mumbled, half at Berne, half to myself as I got out of the car and pulled the seat forward for Berne to fight her way out—Not the most glamorous car to arrive in but my little baby was loving the French sun. His paint wasn’t though. I sighed, picking at a patch of rust. I’d need to fix that before it spread.

  “She likes to make you feel at home, non?” Berne said with a sweet smile.

  “I meant Rebecca not Babs,” I said. Berne was still looking at me. “I know Babs can charm me.”

  Berne raised an eyebrow.

  “You know what I meant.” I motioned to the café and Berne’s eyes warmed. Rebecca and Babs strolled toward the place arm in arm. The café had a big rainbow flag which flapped in the sea breeze and a huge window underneath. What if Berne’s friends didn’t like me? What if they told her she would be better off with her ex-girlfriend? Maybe I could go and wait in the car?

  “Pepe, you forget something?” Berne turned and cocked her head.

  I stood there, rooted to the spot. She wanted me to be relaxed, confident, not terrified. I could do this.

  “No, I’m good,” I whimpered and followed her into the café.

  It was packed. Lunchtime was in full swing. A classic zinc counter, stools, booths, tables next to the window. It looked more Parisian for some reason. Not a theme I could imagine was popular in Marseille
but what did I know?

  “The owner is from England also,” Berne whispered to me. “It has been a running joke for some time.”

  At least I wasn’t the only foreigner relentlessly teased then.

  I tried to ignore the way most of the café took interest in Babs, Rebecca, and even more so, Berne. One woman glowered our way: A severe drooping grimace and shaved black hair. She slammed her chair back and skulked toward us—I clutched my handbag but Berne leaned in.

  “This is Emilie,” she said, smiling at the scary woman. “She works at the airport.”

  I wanted to hide. I couldn’t do this. Rebecca nodded at me. Right. I had to do this. I thrust out my hand, expecting the woman to judo throw me. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Emilie glared at my hand and then turned away from me, launching into conversation with Babs and Rebecca. Right. Nice lady.

  Berne joined in the debate. She voiced some viewpoint on the finer aspects of genre fiction versus literary and I glanced at the door. Could I slip away unnoticed? I’d turned up to the café and walked inside, that was showing willing, wasn’t it?

  Before I could creep away, a blonde woman strolled inside; eyes intense yet her smile was a gentle one; She had a swagger that could have made Rebecca jealous, and boy, could she command attention. Most of the place stared at her. Probably helped she was gorgeous. That, and her royal blue blouse was stunning; It had to be tailored. There was no way a blouse fit that well without being made to measure.

  “Bonjour, you must be Pepe, oui?” She oozed at me as a sure smile spread across her face. “And, Bebe, you look very handsome.”

  Berne turned and beamed. She strode to her and hugged her until the woman chuckled. “Pepe, this is Stephanie.”

  My stomach dropped, as it always did, when Berne knew a woman who looked like she could grace a catwalk—was I more overawed by the woman or her dress sense? I managed a small wave, hoping that it didn’t look as inane as it felt.

  “Come sit,” Berne said. “Babs and I will get the orders.” She held out her hand and Babs left Rebecca. Leave me? Oh no. Not good. Berne flashed me a charming smile and led Babs off.

  “Pip, sit,” Rebecca muttered.

  I sat, hitting the edge of the seat. Rebecca rolled her eyes as I righted myself. Yes, I had no coolness, we knew this.

  “Smile,” she said, nodding at me like I was an embarrassing child or a grandparent who’d lost their marbles. We were one side of the table, a chair in between us, while slinky Stephanie and terrifying Emilie sat opposite.

  I didn’t blame Stephanie one bit for opting to put two chairs in between her and Emilie. I tried to avoid meeting Emilie’s hardened stare and not imagine her either throwing me through a window or demanding I hand over my jewellery.

  Stephanie’s blue blouse was easier to cope with. It was one of those delicious blues. The kind that provoked most people to say they admired it. Was it azure? It was a word fit for the colour anyway.

  “Pip, stop staring,” Rebecca hissed my way as she clambered into the free seat next to me. Maybe she hadn’t fancied sitting near Emilie either?

  Would Rebecca know if the colour was azure? Wait, Rebecca and clothes? And she had been saying something... staring... right.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.

  Rebecca sighed and turned to them both, engaging them in conversation. I scanned over the leaflet on the table about an open mic night. Lesbians seemed not only to be able to build a house, furnish it by hand but also to fill it with friends and entertain them using a variety of music, poetry and comedy.

  There was no way that I was a lesbian then. I had played the harmonica, once, I couldn’t remember standard rhymes let alone make them up, and the only comedy I could pull off was accidental slapstick.

  “Emilie works at the airport,” Rebecca said, prodding me in the side. “Stephanie was a gendarme and trained with Berne’s brother. She is the one who owns the property business.” She fixed me with her best “snap out of it” look. “Try something work related.”

  I looked up. Which one was which again? Nice blouse lady could never have been a gendarme, not with that smile. No, she definitely looked like a trolley dolly.

  Should I ask about her blouse? Back home, in Doug’s circles, that was allowed. A woman would be delighted that I’d loved it so much but Rebecca’s “no compliments” rolled through my head. What if she had a partner with muscles?

  “Do you like planes?” I asked. That was surely non-seductive albeit stupid.

  Emilie raised her blonde eyebrows. “About as much as I like cars.” Her lips twitched in a smile. She wore gloss. Tinted. It had to be a French brand.

  Rebecca shook her head at me.

  I shrugged. I was trying my best while attempting not to be in anyway seductive. “Do you like those a lot then?”

  Emilie ran a hand through her blonde hair. I half-expected her to pull out a shampoo bottle. She shrugged in that non-committal French way—I didn’t blame her.

  I cleared my throat, turned to Stephanie and forced myself not to cower. “Do you like cars?”

  Rebecca stared at me like she’d never seen me before. “Pip, what are you doing?” She muttered in English.

  “What does it look like?” I flashed both women my best “I’m not petrified” smile. “I know nothing about planes. I know about cars. I thought I could draw the conversation that way.” I sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about the police.”

  The flicker of the accident I’d once witnessed rippled through my mind and I swallowed, wiping my clammy hands on my jeans.

  “I speak English,” Stephanie grunted: Hard stare, mean scowl. Uh oh.

  “It’s not that I don’t like the police. I mean... I just have... um... issues.” That was really going to win the woman around, wasn’t it? I didn’t hate the police, I was just crazy. Yes, well done, me.

  Stephanie’s eyes hardened more than they had been.

  “I mean... I don’t have a record,” I whispered, ready to dive under the table.

  Rebecca took my hand, squeezing it as if she was envisioning throttling me. “Pip saw an accident a while ago.”

  I dug my nails in and she yelped. Why was she telling them that?

  “Oui, Bebe tells me of this,” Emilie said, leaning forward. Her blonde hair flopped into her face and I caught the glimmer of a gold chain and cross poking out from under her shirt. I looked back up. Emilie raised an eyebrow, amusement in her eyes.

  I strangled Rebecca’s hand back. Oh dear.

  “It is not your fault. What you did was very brave. We accept that there is danger in our career.” Emilie’s smile was gentle and bemused.

  She wasn’t the only one. “Do you have a lot of accidents at the airport then?”

  Rebecca dug her finger into my knuckle and I yelped. “She’s Stephanie, cloth-head.”

  “Oh.” My voice sounded like my mother’s when she disapproved of something. Maybe it was better I left? If I started swimming now, I could be back in England by Christmas.

  “It must be hard. We all carry scars in our hearts.” She shot a withering glance at Emilie who grunted.

  “Berne talked to you about it?” I sounded too calm, like I’d develop a nervous twitch any second.

  “Of course, Bebe shares much with me.” She smiled a disarming smile.

  I blinked a few times, torn between demanding answers about their closeness, protesting that Berne dared talk to anyone about me, and asking what she said.

  “If you ever need to talk, I am happy to listen.” She reached over and took my free hand, giving it a quick squeeze. She had manicured nails, clear varnish, smooth with a perfect finish.

  “It takes Pip a while to come out of her shell.” Rebecca patted my hand like people did to children. “Didn’t tell me about Berne until we came to France.” She laughed.

  I glared. “Is it any wonder when you blabber out my business?”

  Stephanie laughed. “I once had a lover who...
”

  My gaze drifted to Emilie. She’d not said anything other than, “I speak English.” Could she blink? Could she smile? She didn’t really look like a trolley dolly.

  “...and she would...” Stephanie continued on with her story.

  Rebecca’s cocky chuckle gave me the cue to laugh—Sounded strangled. Emilie glared at me. I wanted to look away but couldn’t.

  “What do you do at the airport?” I asked. A bit better but it still sounded like I was in a conversational class. Maybe that would work? I could ask her marital status, how many children and if she knew the way to the bathroom. Then, I could slip out the back and hope Winston was ready to escape without me needing to push him.

  “I fly,” Emilie grunted. She hadn’t blinked yet. How weren’t her eyes stinging?

  I laughed, a polite laugh so she wouldn’t punch me.

  She scowled.

  I stopped laughing and cleared my throat. “You must be on your feet a lot then?”

  I couldn’t imagine her serving tea or coffee. She looked more like she’d serve someone time in solitary.

  “Non.”

  Stephanie rolled her eyes. “She is a pilot.” She turned to Emilie and muttered something in French which I didn’t catch.

  Emilie shot something back with a sneer. She didn’t look like a pilot. Imagine the welcome speech. I’d met more talkative lampposts.

  “So when did you start flying?” I hoped that was a nice question.

  She raised a bored eyebrow. Now hers did look pencilled back on. “As soon as they gave me a plane.”

  I laughed a false laugh. It sounded horrible to my ears. It sounded hysterical. “You’re joking... right?”

  Stephanie sighed and muttered something too fast at Emilie for me to catch again. Emilie sneered something back.

  I shot a pleading look at Rebecca. This wasn’t awkward at all, was it? If Stephanie with her style couldn’t get anything but snide comments off Emilie, how was I expected to win her around?

  “Emilie likes to tease, non?” Berne’s voice sounded even more sublime than usual. She handed the drinks over and slid into the free seat the other side of me from Rebecca. I was ready to throw myself at her. What was she doing leaving me and subjecting these poor unsuspecting women to me?