Page 15 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Would you care to accompany me?”
Didn’t work either.
“I have this event coming up. I think you might enjoy it, or at least the food.”
Nada. Instead I stood there in front of the canteen, looking for any words in any language to ask her to be my date. I don’t know how long I was staring over her shoulder, but long enough that the moment became uncomfortable.
All the old doubts rose up. I could hear my father’s voice saying, “What are you thinking, trying to date an American of all people? You’re better than that.” And also in his voice, “A woman of such confidence and bright prospects wouldn’t dare take a chance on the likes of you.”
It seems unfair that the voice of my late father has an argument for both sides. And he’s not even around for me to argue back. It makes me miss him in a strange way.
“Get it!” Delia is having a ball, quite literally, with a roll of yarn that Guillaume passed to me. Strands come undone as I toss it across the apartment. She bounds more like a golden retriever than a street kitten, landing on the ball as though she’s the tiger who finally caught her prey.
“Bring it here, come on.”
She cocks her head, then bats the roll of yarn in the other direction. It’s my own fault for trying to teach a cat to fetch.
Out the floor to ceiling window, the city shines. The descending night reminds me that I have exactly zero plans for the evening. Again.
What happened to all my friends from school? The boys I used to play handball with, the lads from boy scouts, the gents I attendedSciencePo with? Like me, we’ve all become wrapped up in making something of ourselves. Or at least looking like we are.
That’s exactly why I need someone with me at this engagement party. It’s not just to have her see me as a successful businessman, though that’s always nice, but to have someone to talk to who isn’t trying to constantly get one step up.
Maybe I can use work as the excuse with Laura. Convince her that what Guillaume said about spending all our time together is literal, and that I can’t bear to have a few hours without brainstorming ideas. I’ll have to do better than that, but I bet I can. With her, that might be the only way in. She doesn’t strike me as the girl who just goes out for a laugh.
This is what rolls through my mind all night as I toss and turn, seeking some kind of inspiration. If I can appeal to the softer side of her, show her how we connect on a level others don’t see, disarm her… Yes, if I can catch her off-guard with a well-timed remark, I just might lower her walls enough to convince her this is a great idea. Play the bravado, the French confidence. Americans love that, it’s in all their movies about France.
That might just be the way.
* * *
I’m having doubts.I had the same old nightmare, where I’m alone in the sea, drowning, when there’s a raft just beyond the horizon. I fight the tides but don’t advance, knowing the raft is there but can’t make it.
I wake up feeling like I’ve been in the fight of my life. It’s not the right side of the bed when I’m going to take a risk on a woman like Laura.
When I get to the office, I find she is in fine form.
“I read through the reports from the Dutch regulator, including the call for proposals which have been rejected over the past eighteen months.” She writes in perfect block letters on the white board: LACK OF ALIGNMENT. “This is what we need to overcome.”
“Wait, wait,” Vincent shuffles through the messy piles of papers he brought to the conference room from his office. “I don’t have these.”
“Of course you don’t,” I add, sitting back against my chair. “They aren’t in the public domain.” Laura’s cheeks are turning pink. I’ve hit on something. “Where did you get these, Laura?”
“Sources.” Her eyes pierce me like medieval daggers.
“And are these sources going to get us in trouble with the very Dutch regular we’re so eager to impress.”
“They will not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know the legal framework behind them.”
“Are you familiar with the appropriate European legal frameworks?”
“Are you going to stop interrogating me?” We are like verbal jousters, each taking our turn to try to knock the other off the horse. But our skills are too equal for a single victor in this game.
I could kiss her right this second, cover every inch of her fiery face with French passion—
