Page 10 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Get it, Delia, get it!” I goad her with the dangly mouse. Alain scoffed when I picked up the kitten from the side of the street, but my brother never understood the love one can have for anything other than humans and money. He’s always missed out because of it. He railed off the various diseases such street vermin could have, but the vet found she was in perfect health. Lost and alone, just like her owner, but hardy and strong. From the outside I might look hardy and strong, but on the inside I haven’t been more than melted chocolate since Laura marched into my world.
After a satisfying attempt at the stuffed mouse—does Delia realize she’ll never catch it as long as it’s attached to the stick in my hand?—she curls in my lap, her purrs vibrating against my leg.
Her cooing grows more intense and intermittent, which is worrying, until I realize it’s actually my phone buzzing on the cushion next to me. My heartbeat quickens as I grab it, because no one calls me at this hour except Guillaume.
Oh, never mind. Alain.
There’s no need to burst this mental bubble ofbal tradand Laura with her eyes closed and Delia asleep in my lap. If Alain is calling me, all semblance of peace will be out the window.
Alain only ever calls me for business.
I may be a shareholder of Father’s business, but Alain is the executive director, the executor of father’s will, and the all-around preferred descendent.
The last thing Father knew of me was when I invested with Guillaume. “A waste of potential, but perhaps you can contribute to the working classes,”he’d whispered during our final visit.
It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me, and the closest he could be to loving.
I’d like to think that he now watches me from above with a sense of pride. Not only has Guillaume made good on his promises, but he’s used my investmentnotfor pharmaceuticals as father suggested (obesity and hair loss was Father’s contributing idea) but to improve care for the world’s aging population so they can stay at home as long as possible.
It’s a win-win in a social system like in France, which was why the Ministry of Health was all over us likefoie grason toasted baguette.
The phone rings again. I click on it without thinking and instantly regret it.
“MARC!” Alain’s voice booms over the phone, which is why I always hold it at arm’s length. No speakerphone required.
“Hello, bro—”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“You phoned me once, five minutes ago.”
“I needed your signature today, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“You didn’t call me, Alain.” It’s an ongoing battle. As a shareholder of a third of the Lemaire Investment Firm, he needs my signature on any major deal. Alain wanted me to work for him, but unless Napoleon rises from the grave and holds my feet to the fire, I won’t work for that tyrant I call brother.
As a result of my refusal to be his minion, Alain regularly “forgets” that I’m not available at his beck and call, believing or pretending that he asked me for something when he absolutely did not.
But facts are of no use in situations like this.
He lets out a terse sigh. “Could you please make yourself more available during business hours?”
What would Laura say in a situation like this?
“By available, you mean standing outside your office in case you need my signature,” I retort. “Therefore, no. What’s the contract?”
A second tense sigh, this one louder. I know he hates that he has to justify his decisions to me. There was a time when I relished these moments, any opportunity to exercise just a little bit of power over him. But now that I’m an investor in Innov’ Biotech, my interest is purely legal. I don’t want anything with the investment firm getting in the way of our work transforming social systems across Europe. Not that Alain would do anything untoward, but I have obligations that are more than familial duty.
Well… my interest might not bepurelylegal. Someone has to keep Alain in his place.
He’s in the middle of describing a complex takeover of a rolled ham company—which I didn’t know existed but it seems they have made a surprising dent in the market—when I get a disarming beep on the call. I am surprisingly popular for a weeknight.
“Hold on, hold on,” I say to Alain. “I have another call coming through.”
“Ignore it!” he shouts and I regret that I’d brought the phone back to my ear. “If you insist on me justifying every detail then the least you can do is give me a chance to explain.”
“Hold, please,” I say and hit the answer button.
“MARC!” the new voice booms.
