Page 24 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Yes, I know that.”
Someone in the apartment giggles.
“I just need a moment, Nicolas Tremblay. Please hold.” I mute the phone. “Quit it, all of you!” They descend into silence, thank goodness, and I return to the call. “Hello again. Thank you for your patience.” I sound like a customer service agent at the phone company. “I mean, it’s nice to meet—uh—hear from you.”
“Chrissy advised you I’d be calling, correct?”
We’ve gone from the customer service to police interrogation.
“She did.”
“Fine, good, excellent.”
I’m glad we’re on an old-style voice phone call because my eyes are darting all over the place. Is he always this socially awkward? Could explain why he brings his nanny to formal events.
He sighs. “I’m sorry, this is the first time in a very long time that I’ve spoken with a woman for purposes other than professional ones. I feel rusty.”
Well, that’s cute. “No problem, Nicolas. May I call you Nicolas?”
“You’d better, or else I might confuse you for my secretary.” There’s no sign of humor in his voice so I wait for him to go on. “That was meant to be a joke.” He laughs tightly. “I am horrible at this.”
“You’re doing just fine. And I know what you mean. It’s a funny thing to be put in touch this way. Maybe I can make it easier. Would you like to get together sometime?”
Someone below me gasps as though I just broke an unspoken rule of dating. But I’ve never been much for those rules anyway. They get in the way of what really matters.
“Yes,” he laughs. “I do appreciate the American way of doing things. Simpler.”
“More direct, anyway. I don’t know about simpler.”
Someone mutters anmmm-hmmm, I think Annelise.
“Are you free tomorrow evening?” His voice is more relaxed now, and I get the sense that this doesn’t have to be a stilted formal date the way Chrissy said it would likely be.
It takes me a minute after sleeping through the day to figure out that tomorrow is Friday. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I can pick you up at seven.”
“Let’s meet somewhere.”
“I have a place in mind, but there’s a metro strike tomorrow.”
“That’s precisely why I bought Valerie.”
“Valerie?”
“She’s a Vespa.”
“A Vespa!” He laughs. “You are both direct and brave. I’ll text you the location. I’ll make reservations for eight.”
Eight people are coming on this date? What aspect of French dating rituals is this? “I see. I thought it was only going to be you and me.”
“That’s right, you and me. Did you expect me to bring the children?”
“No—” Then why reservations for… oh, I get it. “You meant eight o’clock. Sorry, seems I’ve forgotten how to speak my own language.”
Four faces pop up in front of me with grimaces, and I don’t blame them. My brain has turned into mashed potatoes.
“Eight o’clock. Just you and me and your Vespa. See you then, Laura.” When he says my name, it’s like poetry, unlike my colleagues who mispronounce the ‘r’ like air is stuck in the back of their throat.
