In the Bag (14 page)
“We can catch the Metro right over there,” Coco said, leading the way. “Oh, wait. What about my bag? You don’t want to drag it all over town.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
Okay, that sounded pathetic. Of course I minded. Just say it! Take charge! Show some initiative.
“Maybe it’d make sense to dump it somewhere,” I said.
“Let’s go back to the apartment first,” Coco said. “You can drop off the bag and . . . you know, whatever.”
Huh. Oh. Maybe she wants to have sex now. Just a catch-and-release kind of deal. Hooking up and all that. I guess that’d be okay. I hope she knows how to do it because I sure as hell don’t. I mean, c’mon, I’m sure I can figure it out. I’ve thought about it enough. And if my lamebrain friends can do it, I can, too, right? Right?
“Back to the apartment,” I said. “That works for me.” I sounded like a slack-brained dolt.
Coco led the way to the Metro station in the bowels of underground Paris. She bought Metro tickets for both of us. She was confident and take-charge. I liked that. But as my body bumped into hers in the Metro car, I felt like an ignorant, inexperienced ten-year-old boy with his older and wiser babysitter.
I remembered what she’d written in one of her e-mails about not wanting a luggage-stealing conviction on her record. She said she needed that like she needed herpes. Okay, so she was definitely experienced. This was good, right? And the herpes part was just a joke, right? Of course it was. No need to ask her about it, right? Right.
“We’ve got quite a few stops to go,” she said as the Metro train lurched forward after a brief stop. It then stopped again suddenly, throwing us together, her feet on mine.
“Monsieur, je vous demande pardon,” she said in perfect French. She was laughing. “Je ne l’ai pas fait exprès.”
“Huh?”
“Pardon me, monsieur. It was not on purpose,” she said. “Marie Antoinette’s last words. It’s what she supposedly said to her executioner when she stepped on his foot.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
Okay, WHY was I such a dumbass? Why didn’t I know anything? Why didn’t I try harder in school? Why did I take Spanish when it was obvious that girls liked French more?
The train was moving again. I could feel the night getting away from me.
“My shirt looks good on you,” I said, trying like hell to sound charming.
“What?” she said, smiling and putting a hand up to her ear.
“My shirt,” I repeated, louder. “It looks good on you.”
But the sound of the train moving through the tunnel had made conversation impossible.
“
What?
” she asked, louder. She now looked more annoyed than amused.
“Never mind,” I mouthed, shaking my head in defeat. I suddenly felt an odd kinship with Marie Antoinette.
I glanced at my watch. Eleven thirty. Seven hours and forty minutes left.
I
thought I was reading the signs right, but we took the Metro going the wrong direction—
ack!
It was almost one o’clock in the morning by the time we got back to the apartment.
“This is really cool,” Webb said, admiring the walls of Solange’s living room.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “My godmother’s an art freak, as you can tell from all these paintings.”
A stretch of awkward silence followed.
“Um,” I said, trying to fill the dead air, “do you want something to eat? I picked up some food today at the market.”
Actually, I’d spent the whole freakin’ day shopping, beginning with the condoms. I’d had to force myself
not
to resent Webb for making me perform this embarrassing task. After all, he really hadn’t
made
me do it. He’d probably brought a whole stash of condoms with him. And anyway, why should I be mad at him for wanting to have sex with me? I just hoped he didn’t want to start right away. That whole tantric thing was making me nervous.
“I’m starving,” he said.
“Perfect!” I said, dashing to the kitchen.
I’d spent hours shopping for the perfect date food. I decided on a baguette from the patisserie, several hunks of cheese from the market, a bunch of grapes (I had to go to a different market for those), and a bottle of wine.
“I hope you like stinky cheese,” I said, casually presenting him with the dazzling array of
fromage
I’d spent hours selecting and arranging on one of Solange’s prettiest plates.
“Stinky cheese?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
Oh, God. He was 100 percent adorable.
I was finally getting a chance to look at him while he looked at the cheese. Not only was he adorable, he was also handsome. Not like a kid in school, but like a
man
.
“The French love their stinky cheese,” I said. “My mom’s really into this stuff. She always buys stinky cheese in Chicago, but it’s nothing like the cheese you can get in France. Here, try this.”
I spread a slice of the baguette with Epoisses and passed it to him. He popped it in his mouth. Then I made one for myself.
“This was supposedly Napoleon’s favorite cheese,” I said between bites. “It’s made from raw cow’s milk. Do you like it?”
He chewed and smiled.
“Try this one,” I continued, loading up a thin slice of bread with a thick layer of Camembert. “My mom is nutso for this stuff. She thinks it’s the best cheese in the world. The French say Camembert tastes like God’s feet. Isn’t that hilarious?”
He put it in his mouth and smiled again.
“You probably recognize this one,” I said. “Roquefort. The blue, of course, is mold. Here you go.”
I smeared some on a piece of bread and passed it to him. He took a big bite.
“It comes from a small village in southern France,” I explained.
Why did I suddenly sound like my mother?
“The milk isn’t pasteurized, so there’s a risk of
Listeria
infection, which, get this, can be deadly in some people and cause pregnant women to lose their babies.”
Okay, WHY was I talking about pregnancy and babies? He was going to think I wanted to get pregnant. And why wasn’t he saying anything? Was it because I was talking like a madwoman who wouldn’t shut up? No. I was leaving plenty of airtime for him to jump in and say something. But he was just sitting there, eating and smiling weirdly at me. Was he thinking about sex? Was he a sex maniac? Was cheese like oysters—one of those hormone-charged delicacies that turns men on? Did he think I was trying to turn him on? Shit, shit, shit, shit.
“If you like those, you should try Stinking Bishop,” I pressed on, trying to make it clear that this was really about cheese, not sex. “I saw some Stinking Bishop in Solange’s fridge. She wouldn’t mind if you try some. Wait right there.”
I ran the four steps to the kitchen. Webb remained in the living room, plotting God knows what. “You know what’s really funny about these stinky cheeses?” I yammered on from the kitchen. “Some of them, like Epoisses, smell so foul you’re not even supposed to carry them with you on public transportation. Isn’t that funny? Ha ha. HA!”
I was rifling through Solange’s refrigerator, looking for the Stinking Bishop. I grabbed it, along with a big knife, just in case.
I don’t even know this guy! If he tries something weird, I’ll just wave the knife ninja-style and pretend I know what I’m doing.
“Coco?” Webb asked from the living room in a strange voice.
“Yeah,” I said, closing my eyes and wishing I was in a computer cubicle, talking to him online.
“Can I have something to drink?”
I
had to tell her. It was just too ludicrous. What were the mathematical odds?
I watched her from across the exhibit space. She was talking to Solange. They were laughing.
God, she’s beautiful.
The blue lights only accentuated her angles. Here she looked less like a Botticelli and more like a Modigliani painted in cobalt hues.
I should tell her about the note. I
had
to tell her. Maybe I’d write something clever on a napkin and put it on her tray.
Enough with the secret notes already.
But wouldn’t she find the whole thing amusing, even though she’d called me a first-class ass? Well, I
was
an ass. Who but an ass hides a note in a woman’s purse? But now that she knew me, she’d see how funny the whole thing was.
She was walking toward me with a tray of cookies. She was smiling. I smiled back.
“I think we’re the only two still working,” Daisy said over the techno music that had ceased to bother me.
“The few, the proud, the brave,” I said.
She laughed a deep, honest laugh.
God, what a great laugh.
“I hate for all this to go to waste,” she said, looking at the tray. “And I’ve got dozens more cookies in the back. At home I always make sure the leftovers go to a food pantry or a women’s shelter.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said.
She’s not only beautiful, but thoughtful and socially conscious. She’s perfect.
“Do you think I should box these up and take them back for the housekeeping staff at my hotel?” she asked. “I’m sure they all have families.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Where are you staying?”
“The Palace.”
“Same here.”
This was fate. This was meant to be.
“Let me help you.”
“Please, no,” she said, laughing. “You’ve gone beyond the call of duty. Solange tells me you’ve been working around the clock getting this show ready.”
“Solange exaggerates,” I said. “Besides, I’m running on fumes now. Give me just a minute or two. I’ll meet you in the back.”
“Okay, then,” she said. “Thanks.” She smiled again and turned on her heel.
I put the tray of cookies down on the nearest flat surface and checked my BlackBerry for messages from Webb. I hadn’t seen him all night, but he’d been terrific about e-mailing me. I had an unread message sent at 12:36 a.m.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: Lineman@com
Subject: g/night
Cool show! Congrats. You were busy talking to people, so I didn’t want to bother you. I just got back to the hotel. Going to bed now. Are u still planning on sleeping late tmw? Me too. Let’s not wake each other, OK?
Perfect. The planets were in alignment. Fate was on my side.
I found Daisy back in the prep room, boxing up cookies and gooey butter cake squares. In my mind I rehearsed how I’d tell her.
Did you by any chance find a note in your purse when you arrived in Paris?
Strike that.
Hey, what would you say if I told you I was the ass who slipped that pickup note in your purse?
No. What about:
How strange. I just got an e-mail from a woman who called me a first-class ass. What do you make of that?
Why was I trying to sabotage myself like this? Why tell her at all?
Because I had to.
Okay, but how about twenty-five years from now when we could have a good laugh about it?
I watched her slide rows of cookies neatly into boxes.
She looked up. “You’re staring. Do I have chocolate on my face or something? God, I’m a mess.”
“No,” I said. “Just the opposite.”
I
’m convinced Solange tried to push me into Andrew on the front steps of the Crystal Palace.
