Sleeping With Paris (25 page)

Rule # 3 – If you’re a mom, act like one. Period.

What I don’t mean by this is that if you’re a mom, you should chop all your hair off and wear boring mom clothes (no offense to all you moms out there with short hair – I’m sure you look gorgeous). What I do mean is that if you’ve had children, remember that they are always your children and you are always their mom. If you go through a mid-life crisis or get a divorce and are in the process of reinventing your life, that’s fine. But, don’t forget that you’re still a mom, and you still have children who need to hear your comforting mom voice over the phone when they are spending Christmas alone in Paris.

Rule # 4 – Consider disregarding Rules 1 and 2 above, and instead, take a chance on what your heart really wants so you won’t end up feeling sad and utterly alone on Christmas.

Seventeen

mercredi, le 19 janvier

True friends are like chocolate—they’re always there when you need them,

and they rarely disappoint you.

Since the entire country of France loves taking vacation almost more than they love drinking wine, I didn’t have any classes for the whole month of January. Luc had disappeared completely. Each night, I found myself walking back and forth to the bathroom several times, just so I could creep past his door and see if any light was peeking out. But, the only thing peeking out was darkness. I figured he was staying with his family for the month. Or maybe he had even met someone new. It wasn’t any of my business anyway.

Fiona was out of town, having flown back to England for winter break, and Lexi hadn't answered any of my calls. Instead, she sent me a text message saying she'd be staying with Brad in Italy for the next month, then visiting with her parents. I wrote back and asked if everything was okay, and she responded in typical Lexi fashion:

Hell yeah, girl. Couldn't be better. Have a fab month! See you in February.

No mention of the Christmas morning sobbing incident. As if it had never happened. I'd convinced myself that Lexi had just gotten too drunk and emotional, but every time I thought about the wary look in Brad's eyes that morning, as if he'd fielded Lexi’s cries many times before, I wondered if there wasn't more to the story. I was at least happy she was going to spend time with her parents. Maybe all she needed was a good dose of family time to help her feel better.

The lack of men, classes and a social life allowed me tons of time to fine-tune my article for
Bella Magazine
. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to inspire as many women as I could.

One night, while I was sitting alone in my room, trying to crank a few more words of wisdom onto the page, Fiona called me.

“Hey, Charlotte!”

“Hi, Fiona!”

“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I miss you so much,” Fiona said.

“I know, I miss you too. Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah, you know, the usual. Family, presents, snow, all that good stuff. It’s nice to be home, but it’s making me realize how much I love my life in Paris.”

“And how much you like Marc?”

Fiona laughed. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“Just okay? I thought you were really interested in him. Plus he’s been talking about you non-stop during our lessons.”

“It’s a little complicated.”

“Complicated? Have you been talking to Andrew since you’ve been back?”

Fiona hesitated. “Yeah, he came over on Christmas actually.”

“Whoa, really? What’s going on, did he break up with his girlfriend?”

“No, I guess they’re still together, but they’re having problems. Or so he says. And he keeps saying how much he misses me.”

“Fiona, don’t fall for it. He’s still with her.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry. I’m not going to sleep with him or anything. It’s just so hard seeing him again. We were together for so long, and he was a huge part of my family. Even my parents miss him. It felt so normal to have him here for the holidays. But then when I think about him with that cow he’s dating, it makes me sick.”

“I can identify with that. Thinking about Jeff with Brooke still makes me nauseous. But unless Andrew is going to break up with his girlfriend and really be with you, you’re just torturing yourself by letting him come around.” I was worried about Fiona. She was a huge push-over and was bound to get herself hurt.

“I know, you’re right. You are. But you know how it goes . . . it’s not that easy.”

“Well, promise me you won’t sleep with him . . . at least until he’s single again.”

“I promise,” Fiona said, sounding unsure of herself. “So, I read your latest blog post. What’s all this about Luc trying to be in a relationship and then you and some hot guy in a hotel suite?”

I filled Fiona in on all of the details, and on the latest with my mom. I almost told her about what had happened with Lexi, but I stopped myself. No need to spread embarrassing gossip about a friend.

“Jeez, that’s a lot. Are you doing okay?” Fiona asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ve just been working on the article to keep myself busy. I can’t wait until you come back. Hurry your butt up, okay?”

She giggled. “I will. Only two more weeks, and then we’ll have a girls’ night out. It sounds like you need it.”

“You can say that again. Well, have a great time at home, and call me if you need motivation to stay away from Andrew. I’m always here to help.”

After I hung up the phone, I checked my email and spotted Madame Rousseau’s name at the top of my inbox. I’d been waiting to hear from her since I’d turned in my final papers, hoping and praying that after reading my work, she’d change her mind about me and help me find a teaching job in Paris.

With my heart racing a little faster than normal, I double clicked on her email.

Mademoiselle Summers,

Please meet me at eight a.m. in my office tomorrow morning.

Madame Rousseau

That didn’t sound good. What was it going to take to get this woman to pull the stick out of her ass and just help me?

***

The next morning, at seven forty-five on the dot, I was waiting outside of Madame Rousseau’s office. I had stopped on the way and downed a double shot of espresso so that I wouldn’t doze off on her bench again. I was not about to give her yet one more reason to despise me.

A few minutes later, I heard her black heels pounding down the hallway and turned to find her stalking toward me in her typical black uniform with her bun pulling at the sides of her face, as usual.

“Mademoiselle Summers,” she nodded as she let me into her office.

“Bonjour Madame Rousseau,” I replied in my sweetest tone possible. I had no clue what she was going to say about my papers, but I didn’t think it wasn’t going to be pretty. And I figured a little politeness couldn’t hurt.

“Well, I have read your work,” she began.

I lowered my eyes to the floor to ready myself for the blow.

“And, it is quite good.”

What? Good? Did I hear her correctly? I lifted my eyes up off the floor to make sure I was getting all of this.

“You are a strong writer, and it is clear that you put a great amount of effort into your courses. You have a brilliant grasp of French teaching methodology. I can see that your past three years of teaching experience in Washington, DC have taught you well. Bravo, Mademoiselle Summers.”

I was dumfounded. Flabbergasted. I couldn’t have heard her correctly. But I did, and she liked my work. She liked my work!

Then, shock of all shocks, Madame Rousseau smiled at me. I hadn’t thought those dry, brittle lips were capable of such kindness.

“Thank you, Madame Rousseau. Thank you so much.”

“I have decided that I will put in a recommendation for you at a private Catholic school that I am very fond of. It is the school my niece attends, and I used to teach there myself. I trust that you will show the utmost respect and
timeliness
as you go through the application process.”

“Of course, Madame Rousseau, of course. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. The job openings for the schools usually come out in March, and interviews will take place in April. So, in the meantime, you must continue to perform well in all of your courses, and I will do my best to secure an interview for you.”

“I really appreciate your help, Madame.”

“
Pas de problème
. . . but do not forget Mademoiselle Summers, nothing is guaranteed. You must continue to prove yourself to me and to this program as a responsible, intelligent student and educator. I can revoke my recommendation at any point.”

“I understand.”

“Well, that is all.” She stood up and ushered me out of her office.

I skipped out of the building with a huge grin on my face. This was going to work out. I was going to get my dream teaching job in Paris! Madame Rousseau kind of liked me! And she hadn’t even mentioned anything about Marc or Fiona—what a relief. I trotted down to a café on the corner of boulevard St. Germain and treated myself to a big, fat
pain au chocolat
. Nothing better than a fluffy, buttery pastry crammed with rich dark chocolate to top off an already fantastic morning.

***

My meeting with Madame Rousseau had brightened an otherwise dreary January in Paris, but, as I bundled up in my frigid dorm room one snowy afternoon and munched on a warm baguette and some creamy camembert cheese, I thought about how nice it would be to have someone there to share this giant wheel of cheese with.

As I pulled up my blog to begin writing about how to stay sane during a man drought in winter (namely—eat as many fattening pastries and as much cheese and bread as you want), I glanced out my window and noticed a cute couple all bundled up in their thick coats and chunky scarves, their noses pressed together as they stopped to kiss underneath the miniature snowflakes that floated from the sky. Then, as they continued down the path hand in hand, the girl turned her head to the side, revealing long locks of strawberry red hair that spilled out from under her hat.

I snapped my face away from the window and focused on the computer screen. But no matter how hard I tried to ignore the unwelcome images that were now racing through my head, all I could think of was Brooke’s long red hair, Jeff’s arms wrapped around her, the two of them kissing against a lamppost in Georgetown, the snow gathering at their feet.

I wondered if they were as happy as the couple underneath my windowsill.

I shook my head, tore off another piece of the crispy bread and smothered it in cheese. So what if they were? I bit into the bread and washed it down with a sip of hot chocolate. I was just fine here on my own. Well, if I ignored the feelings of loneliness and boredom eating away at my insides, that is.

And just as my hands hit the keyboard to begin my next blog post, there was a knock on the door.

I opened it up to find Marc on the other side, his teeth chattering and his nose bright red from the cold.

“Hey, Charlotte. I was just walking past your building and thought I’d come to see if you were free for a last minute lesson?”

“I’ve never been more free.” I smiled as I ushered him into my room. “Here, have a seat.” I took Marc’s coat, then poured him a cup of hot chocolate.

“Mmm, thanks,” he said, taking a big gulp. “It’s freezing out there, is it not?”

“It is,” I agreed as I handed him the baguette and a slice of cheese. How nice that I had someone to share it with now.  

Marc had been my only human contact for the entire month of January. With my funds still diminishing, we’d been meeting three times a week since the holidays. His speaking was much more relaxed now, making him even more fun to hang out with. Plus, the fact that his mother and I had patched things up seemed to ease any remaining tension left over from all the mean things I’d said about her.

“So, let’s pick up where we left off last time,” I said as I settled into a cross-legged position on my bed. “You were telling me about how you and Delphine first met.”

I’d decided that the best way to teach Marc how to speak English like a native was to bypass the surface talk and get personal. So I’d filled him in on the Jeff fiasco (Marc learned a lot of colorful vocabulary that day), and during our last lesson, Marc had begun to tell me about his last girlfriend, Delphine, who’d broken his heart. He’d also worked on his question-forming abilities by asking a million and one questions about Fiona, not even trying to hide the fact that he was interested in her. I’d originally let on that she was interested in him too, but once I’d spoken with her on the phone and found out that Andrew was coming around again, I didn’t want to say too much for fear of leading Marc in the wrong direction.

As Marc shared my wheel of cheese with me and searched for the right words to tell his story of Delphine, I forgot all about Jeff and Brooke, all about the cute couple kissing outside my window, and all about my loneliness.