by J. D. Fox
“I don’t care if you believe it, it’s true,” Gen countered, taking a sip of her coffee with a grin. The second time she’d visited the brasserie, she and Sadie had come to an understanding: they would mix English and French as needed to be mutually intelligible. Sadie had learned English mostly from British tourists who came through the town on vacations, visiting the one-time English territories in Normandy. Rouen was not far away, nor was Omaha Beach, or the sites of various battles from various wars, all of which drew visitors to the surrounding area.
“I cannot believe there is no…story, as you say, behind a young woman choosing to leave her life, family, everything, to come to a different country to be an au pair,” Sadie said. Gen sipped her coffee again and opened the little packet of speculoos cookies that the older woman put with all the coffee she sold.
“Je n’aimais pas mon ancienne vie,” Gen said simply. Saying you didn’t like your old life is pretty simplistic, she thought. It was true, but it didn’t tell the whole story; it barely told half of the story.
“Ah! Vous ne voulez pas me dire, alors… tell me at least who it is you work for now.” She hadn’t been upfront about that detail the past few times she’d come to see Sadie before picking Mathilde up from the school. Instead, they’d talked about more basic things: where she was from in the US, what her current job was, how long Sadie had been living in the town, and so on.
“The Laurent family? Olivier Laurent is the father,” Gen replied.
Sadie raised both eyebrows at this, looking away from her for a moment. “Does he pay well Gen wondered at the woman’s reaction. It wasn’t quite disapproval in the older woman’s eyes, but she was clearly curious.
“He pays very well,” Gen replied. “Why?”
“I was—comment dit? Curieuse?”
“Curious,” Gen supplied.
“Yes, curious,” Sadie agreed. “A friend of mine does housecleaning for him de temps en temps. He has a normal cleaner, but sometimes needs extra help, you know?” Gen nodded; it fit with what she knew about her employer.
“Does he not pay her well?” Sadie shrugged.
“Il est généreux,” she said simply. “Of course, a man like him can be easily généreux.”
“Generous, yes,” Gen agreed. She ate one of the crunchy cinnamon cookies and sipped her coffee, puzzling over the other woman’s reaction. “Why did you want to know how he pays?”
Sadie smiled. “You are une américaine,” she explained. “I want to be certain that you are not being—what is the term? Ripped?”
“Ripped off?”
Sadie nodded. “So many américaines come to be au pairs, and elles ne réalisent pas qu’elles ont des droits, you understand?” Gen considered the mishmash of English and French for a moment, mentally translating the foreign part.
“Believe me, I know that I have rights,” Gen replied. “But I take your meaning—a lot of young women don’t know that they should be paid fairly.”
“Oui, c'est ça,” Sadie agreed.
“I will tell you that the job I left was very, very well-paid,” Gen said, reflecting again on the career she had torched to leave her whole life behind. “And I still have a very good salaire.”
“Ah, I may learn your story yet!” Sadie said proudly. Just then someone came into the brasserie, and she rose to her feet, leaving Gen for the moment. Gen sipped her coffee and looked around, soaking in the ambiance around her. From what Sadie had told her, the brasserie had been around for decades; she’d only taken it on from her grandparents about fifteen years before. Sadie greeted almost everyone like an old friend, and Gen thought that in such a small town, it was likely that most of the people were long-time friends.
As Sadie chatted with the new patron and took the older man’s order, Gen considered her new situation and her new employer. Why had Sadie had such a reaction to learning who had hired her? And why had she wanted to know if Olivier paid well? She didn’t buy the excuse that Sadie wanted to make sure that a foreigner wasn’t being taken advantage of. Why would she think that Olivier might take advantage of her?
Then again, Gen reflected, her new boss was undoubtedly more generous than she had been led to expect; both in the living quarters he’d prepared for her, and in the salary she got every week. She’d received more than she would have believed possible. Then, there was also the fact that he was so secretive about what he did for a living. You’re being ridiculous, Gen. Plenty of people are secretive about what they do. She had accepted that without question before—why did she suddenly find it suspicious? Gen shook off the impression she’d gotten and told herself that she was just being ridiculous.
She sipped her coffee slowly, savoring every bit of it. When Sadie eventually got back to her, it was almost time to leave to pick Mathilde up from school. Gen danced around answering too many questions about her life before coming to France, finished her coffee and cookies, and wished Sadie a good day before leaving the brasserie. She took the long way to Mathilde’s school, browsing the shop windows as she passed them. The school was about a mile away from the Laurent house. It wasn’t a bad walk; Gen had gotten used to the distance after the first week. She had walked a good deal in her former life as well, but only in short bursts between subway and taxi.
Gen smiled to herself, thinking about what she had in mind to do with Mathilde on the way home. They’d get a quick snack at the bakery and stop at one of the parks for the girl to play for a bit to get out some of her pent-up energy. Then they would go back to the house and Mathilde would change out of her school clothes and play while Gen started dinner; then she’d have some time to relax and enjoy a glass of wine with Olivier before the meal. It had become their routine, and there was something so comforting about a life that had no networking commitments, no obligatory “coworkers happy hour” nights out, no need to work late on some report or waiting up for information from another office.
Before she knew it, Gen had reached the school; only a few of the parents were waiting outside so far, and Gen spotted a couple of younger women who seemed like they were au pairs like her. She hadn’t introduced herself yet—she was too shy of her stumbling French—but the other women didn’t seem to have the same kind of affectionate interactions with the kids they picked up and walked home with that she had with Mathilde. She’d heard one of the kids call one of the women by name, instead of “Maman” or something similar, which seemed to indicate that the adult in question wasn't the child’s mother, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
Gen waited as more parents and caregivers arrived to collect their kids. Generally, by the age of seven or eight, the kids would be trusted completely to go to and from school on their own—but at five, it was still a bit much to ask, even by French standards. Finally, she heard the kids on the other side of the door, and within a few minutes the kids had emerged, filing out in neat groups by age. She spotted Mathilde and waved to her, laughing when the five-year-old jumped up and down in glee at being done with school and the promise of playing outside. Gen grinned down at the little girl and took her hand as she led her away to get on with the rest of their day.
Chapter Eight
“I wanted to show you that I truly can cook,” Olivier told Gen as she settled into her seat at the table. Mathilde was at her grandparents’ house for the weekend, and the atmosphere at home was relaxed.
“I never questioned that,” Genevieve said, sipping at her glass of sparkling water with a little bit of grenadine syrup mixed in. Olivier had offered her wine, but she had said she’d rather wait for a bit. She had recently learned about diabolos and the French tradition of adding some flavored syrup to water, and that had become part of her drink repertoire, something she looked forward to with almost as much excitement as his daughter.
“Ah, mais I have to actually show you,” Olivier told her. He was getting better and better at English, but as Genevieve got more accustomed to spea
king French, they mingled the two.
“So tell me what it is that you’re cooking for us,” she said, setting her drink down. Olivier had come up with the idea of cooking for Genevieve and himself when he’d dropped Mathilde off at his dead wife’s parents’ home; he wanted to ask her for more help with translating documents, and was sure that cooking for her would put her in an excellent state of mind from which to help him.
The new documents were much trickier than the ones he had shown her before, and it just wasn’t possible to isolate the specific words and phrases he needed help with; he needed her to translate entire passages for him to ensure that nothing was happening that would make him lose out on the deal. Olivier was still going back and forth on the wisdom of letting Genevieve read the documents for him and make sure everything was in order, but he reminded himself that in the worst case scenario, he could play stupid.
“I am making a very simple meal,” Olivier said, sipping the glass of wine he had poured for himself. “Steak-frites, with sauce roquefort.”
“That sounds fancy,” Genevieve said. “Are you sure I can’t help with anything?”
Olivier raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Comme tu m’as laissé t'aider, ah?”
Genevieve chuckled. “Right, I don’t let you help me, that’s a good point,” she conceded.
“This is a straightforward meal,” Olivier repeated. “I will be making une salade verte aussi, maybe you can help with this.”
“I would be glad to,” Genevieve said, putting on a false-prim air that Olivier had seen before. Olivier briefly considered telling his au pair about her name but decided against it, turning his attention back to the stove. He had taken out a cast-iron skillet his grandmother had passed down to him, along with a deep pot for the fries. He smiled to himself slightly, looking everything over. He had made this meal countless times before—more than a few of them had been for Charlotte. It was simplicity itself, at heart; mostly it was just a matter of technique.
Olivier went into action then; he started with the fries, which needed to be cooked twice. He’d cut up the potatoes while Genevieve had cleaned the dishes from that morning and poured her drink, and now he plunged them carefully into the hot oil, spreading them out to avoid congealing. The steaks were coming to room temperature and would need nothing more than salt before they hit the skillet.
“I wonder if you would be willing to assist me in translating some more documents,” Olivier said as casually as possible. He checked on the fries, giving them a slight stir to make sure that they didn’t stick to each other.
“I’d be happy to,” Genevieve said. “Although I should point out that it would be a lot easier if the passages I translate have some context.”
Olivier chuckled. “That will not be a problem this time, I believe,” he told her.
“And why is that?” Olivier glanced at Genevieve, estimating that he should give the fries another few minutes for their first phase.
“When I was reading the documents, I realized that I do not understand entire—comment dit?” Olivier mused for a moment. “Passages?”
“Sections, maybe?” Olivier considered the suggestion.
“Oui, je pense,” he said. “En tout cas, I could not comprehend entire sections, and so I have those entire sections for you, if you are willing.”
“That will certainly make it easier,” Genevieve said. “If you can’t leave the stove, I can just go into your office and retrieve them.” Olivier shook his head quickly.
“Non—no, it is no trouble,” he said, thinking of the fact that Genevieve would be able to discover more than just the documents he needed her to translate in that room. Of course, he reminded himself, most of what she’d be able to find in his office would be in French. She likely would have just as hard a time translating that as he had had with the English documents his new business partner had sent him, but the risk was there. “I will get them for you.”
He finished the first phase of cooking the fries and set them aside before going into his office to retrieve the documents that he wanted Genevieve to translate. Olivier came back into the kitchen, and as he handed the papers to his au pair, their fingers brushed, sending a little jolt through him. Ignore-le, he told himself firmly. Elle est ton ouvrier. Even if she was beautiful and Mathilde had already fallen in love with her, Olivier knew he couldn’t afford to let himself appreciate the woman too much.
“This is a surprising amount of paperwork,” Genevieve commented, as Olivier went back to the stove to get back to the critical work of making dinner.
“It’s a bit complicated, it seems,” Olivier explained. “If you are unable…”
“No, I am able,” Genevieve said quickly. “Get back to making dinner, and I should be able to get everything translated by the time you’re done.”
Olivier relaxed at that, alternating between working on their dinner and talking to his nanny as she worked through the paperwork he had given her. “What I truly need to know is if any of this puts me in danger,” he explained.
“From what I can see so far, there’s no danger in this for you,” Genevieve said, her voice temporizing. “It basically looks like a new business being incorporated that you would be in charge of—is that right?” Olivier shrugged.
“More or less,” he said, hoping that would be the end of her questions. He glanced at Genevieve and reminded himself that she had no reason to think that he was anything other than legitimate.
“Okay,” Genevieve said, as Olivier took the steaks out of the cast iron skillet and set them aside. “This says that the business will be created in France, in your name, and that it will be a securities and finance company.”
“That is what I had understood the deal to be, so that is good,” Olivier commented. Genevieve chuckled.
“It looks to be as much on the up-and-up as one could expect for a company like this,” Genevieve added. “No obvious attempts to put in any shady penalties or anything like that.” Olivier took a moment to parse through some of Genevieve’s slang.
“Explain me ‘up-and-up’ and ‘shady,’” Olivier said, starting the sauce for their steaks. He knew his phrasing wasn’t that good, but also knew that Genevieve would understand the request.
“Oh! Saying something is ‘on the up-and-up’ means that it’s…legitimate, or authentic if that makes sense.” Olivier stirred crumbled Roquefort cheese into his sauce base and considered that.
“Ah! Ça veut dire honnête?” Olivier made sure that the cheese was melting correctly without breaking the sauce, and looked at Genevieve.
“Yes! Honest would be a good alternate meaning,” Genevieve agreed.
“So then ‘shady’ would mean ‘malhonnête’?” Olivier smiled slightly.
“With a certain kind of subtext, yeah, that would be about right,” Genevieve said.
“Here we sometimes say, ‘véreux,'" Olivier explained. “It means something full of worms, or—what’s the word? For the worms that become flies?”
“Maggots?”
“Yes! That,” Olivier said, nodding. He took the sauce off of the heat and set it aside. “All that is left is our salade.”
“And I can help with that?” Genevieve stood, draining the last of her water and syrup.
“Si tu veux,” Olivier said. “Certainly I can make a simple salade myself.” He grinned at her.
“After making steak and fries and sauce Roquefort, I would assume so,” Genevieve conceded.
“This is nothing,” Olivier said dismissively. “One day I may show you Mamie’s coq au vin.”
“So let me ask you something,” Genevieve said. She set down the papers she had been translating and made her way toward the counter.
“Certainly, go ahead,” Olivier said, retrieving the lettuce from the fridge.
“Clearly you can cook, you have someone to clean the house, and you aren’t away fro
m home very much,” Genevieve pointed out.
“Yes, these are all true,” Olivier agreed.
“So, why exactly did you hire me? Or any au pair for that matter?” Olivier looked over the bottles of vinegar in the pantry, deciding which he would use for the salad dressing.
“I wanted Mathilde to have… how to say it?” He paused and decided on sherry vinegar to go with the Batavia lettuce. “I wanted her to have a woman in her life. My wife, Charlotte, died before Mathilde even had an opportunity to form memories of her. She’s never had a mother, really.” Genevieve took the lettuce from him and began tearing the leaves free of the core with practiced hands, setting them in a colander to be washed. It was—once again—a strangely comforting scene, an oddly familiar dynamic that Olivier hadn’t even been aware he had missed. He pushed the idea out of his mind.
“So you hired me basically to be a mother-figure to your daughter, and also to help her with her English,” Genevieve suggested. Olivier nodded.
“And I thought that to have a foreign woman helping to raise my child would be unique,” he said, shooting a grin and a wink in her direction.
“Oh, so I’m a trophy au pair,” Genevieve countered, raising an eyebrow.
“Oui, you could say this,” Olivier agreed.
“I feel like I should be insulted, but mostly I’m just glad I’m sufficiently exotic,” Genevieve told him.
Olivier chuckled. “A woman such as yourself would be very exotic wherever you would go,” he pointed out. He caught sight of the quick rush of pink into her cheeks before she turned away.
“I am not certain that an employer should ever say that about an employee,” Genevieve said.
Olivier chuckled again. “Does it make you uncomfortable for me to say this?” He began mixing the vinaigrette for the salad, adding oil and vinegar together with shallots, mustard, salt, and pepper.
“I didn’t say that,” Genevieve countered.
