Amanda's Guide to Love (10 page)

“Who said it’s going to be white?”
Jeanne gave Amanda a wink and grew serious again. “You need money to pay your
bills. I need an extra pair of hands for the summer season. Our needs are
perfectly aligned.”

“Even if I accepted your offer, it
would be temporary. I’d be out as soon as I find a proper job.”

“Thirty hours a week over the next
two months—that’s all I’m asking for. Can you do it for me?”

Amanda hesitated. “I’ve never
waitressed before.”

“I don’t expect you to be a good
waitress, but I don’t think you’d be an awful one.”

“Hmm.”

“Besides, you have an MBA—you can
help me with the books.”

Amanda cocked her head as an idea
struck her. “Was Didier good at it?”

“Very.”

“Was he paid more than the other
waiters?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take the job if you pay me
what the previous owner paid Didier.”

Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “Didier
was a headwaiter. You have zero waitressing experience.”

“True. But I’m smart and good with
numbers.” Amanda grinned. “And you’re desperate.”

Jeanne placed her beer on the table
and did some mental math. “I won’t be able to pay you what I’m paying the new
headwaiter, Manon. But I can get close.”

“Text me the salary and the
estimated tips, and I’ll give you my answer.”

Jeanne smiled. “You drive a hard
bargain.”

“If I’m going to have to smile at
customers—some of whom might be my former colleagues—I need a decent pay.”

“Your former colleagues don’t come
here,” Jeanne said. “You were the only one from ENS.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know my customers.”

“Anyway,” Amanda said with a shrug.
“If I were to run into Julien Barre, I’d rather it were here.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I prefer to serve him
an overpriced cappuccino in a crowded café than a free Nespresso in a
minimalistic meeting room at some intercompany consultation.”

“You think you’d bump into him if
another outfit hired you?”

“The Parisian green energy sector
is a small world. If I become a PA to a director or CEO of another company, I’m
sure to bump into Julien sooner or later.”

“I see.”

Amanda pulled a face and mimicked
talking over the phone in a low-pitched voice. “Mademoiselle Roussel, could you
please bring six espressos into the meeting room? And some milk . . .
Oh, and do you mind printing out ten copies of my Strategic, Analytical,
Action-Oriented and Visionary Manifesto Memorandum Report?”

Jeanne snorted.

“Make it twenty,” Amanda said, her
voice still deep. “In color and laminated, please. Thank you—you’re a darling.”

Jeanne chuckled, then drained her
beer and stood up. “My point exactly. I’ll text you the figures tonight.”

“I’ll text you back tomorrow
morning.”

“Can you start immediately?”

Amanda placed a five-euro
bill on the table and smirked. “Of course. Provided I like your text.”

* * *

La Bohème

~ ~ ~

A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline # 5

The Perfect Woman lives in Paris.

Rationale
: There are many beautiful cities
in the world. Some of them are big and bustling, others are small and quiet.
Some are in France, others are elsewhere in Europe, and a few are oversees.
Some offer a great art scene, others are gastronomic delights, and yet others
are shopping havens. But all of them have one major flaw—they aren’t Paris.

A
word of caution
:
The only thing Paris doesn’t have is a beach (the fake riverfront ones don’t
count). If you’re a beach fan, there’s Deauville two hours away and Marseille,
three hours by train. But if you need your dose of sand, sails, and sunshine
every day, you’ll have to give up living in the center of the world. And being
a Perfect Woman.

Permissible
exception
: If
you’re rich and flexible enough, you may live in other places part of the year.
New York is lovely in spring and Saint Petersburg in summer. If you’re poor,
live in a remote suburb. Your zip code won’t start with 75, but you’ll have the
honor of commuting to Paris daily.

Damage
control
: If you
find Paris too crowded and polluted for your liking, spend a month in Shanghai
or Mexico City. When you return, you’ll see Paris in a new light.

~ ~ ~

It had been
over twelve hours since Amanda told Vivienne about her new job, but she could
still hear the mixture of shock and disappointment in her mother’s voice.

Vivienne had been
scandalized
.

She qualified Amanda’s decision as
rash and ill conceived. She argued that selling the apartment—even at a
loss—was an infinitely better option than working in a café. Waitressing was an
unsuitable occupation for someone of Amanda’s stature. “Demeaning” was the term
she had used.

“Have you thought about your
reputation?” she kept asking. She also kept predicting that Amanda wouldn’t
last a week as a server. And what if Amanda’s former colleagues saw her there?
What if Vivienne’s friends saw her there? And, oh my God, what if Aunt Margot
got wind of this? What would she think of Amanda?

“
Maman
, you hate Aunt
Margot. I hate Aunt Margot. We haven’t seen her in ages. Who cares what she
thinks?” Amanda said, driving Vivienne to tears.

If anything, the conversation only
strengthened Amanda’s resolve. She wouldn’t back down. She would not let Vivienne
blackmail her emotionally and manipulate her like so many times in the past.

Amanda rubbed her forehead as if to
clear her head and opened the door to La Bohème.

I can do this.

Learning to carry a loaded tray and
operate a coffee machine was nothing compared to what she’d learned on her
previous job.

When she was stationed in Bangkok,
her boss had asked her to fill in for their compliance officer during said
officer’s maternity leave. The month-long training she’d received had been the
steepest learning curve of her life. At the end of it, she was able to examine
most types of ENS facilities and spot the slightest nonconformity to safety
regulations. She didn’t understand the advanced mechanical and chemical
processes that made their equipment function, but she could tell when it wasn’t
operating correctly.

Amanda perked up. She was capable
of installing a solar panel with her bare hands, for Christ’s sake. Waiting
tables would be child’s play.

“Look who’s here!” someone called
from the back room. A moment later, Amar—the young waiter Jeanne had recruited
a few months ago—approached her and bowed theatrically.

Amanda gave him a nod. “Don’t you
dare be too smug about this whole thing.”

“Me, smug? Please.” He rolled his
eyes. “So I take it you’ve accepted the boss’s offer?”

“Your powers of deduction never
cease to baffle me.”

He grinned. “I’m assigned to train
you. This is going to be fun.”

“But you’re new yourself. Why can’t
Jeanne train me? Or Manon?”

“I’ve been here for a year now, and
they’re way too busy.” He spread his arms in fake apology. “You’re stuck with
me.”

Amanda let out an annoyed huff. “OK
then,
boy
. Let’s establish some ground rules. I’m new but I’m seven
years your senior, so you can’t boss me around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave
her shoulder a friendly pat. “Relax, Amanda. I’m not a vengeful person.”

“Why would you say that? What have
I done to you?”

“Nothing. Apart from mocking my
working-class
manners and my
immigrant
origins, nothing at all.”

Amanda opened her mouth to protest
when Jeanne emerged from the kitchen carrying a pile of folded clothes. She
placed it on the countertop and gave Amanda a hug before drawing back and
surveying her outfit.

“What do you think?” Amanda asked.
“I thought this dress was appropriate. And I dug out my ballet flats.”

“You look lovely, hon, but you’ll
have to wear the bistro uniform like everyone else.”

“I feared so.” Amanda sighed. “Let
me see it.”

Jeanne handed her the pile from the
countertop. It contained two white button-down shirts, two pairs of black pants,
and two black aprons.

“Should be the right size, but I
have a bigger and a smaller one, too, if this doesn’t fit.”

Amanda placed the pile back on the
bar, picked up the pants, unfolded them, and stared with a mixture of disgust
and horror.

“I’m aware this isn’t a fashionable
cut,” Jeanne said. “But they’re comfy and can be machine washed. They dry
superfast.”

“God, they’re ugly.”

Jeanne closed her eyes and sighed.

Amanda checked the label inside the
pants. “I knew it!” She cocked her head and looked at Jeanne as if she’d just
unearthed her friend’s criminal past. “They’re polyester.”

“Er . . . I guess.
So what?”

“Really?” Amanda pulled a face,
held the garment between her index finger and thumb, and handed it to Jeanne.
“I. Do. Not. Wear. Polyester.”

“Fine,” Jeanne said, taking the
pants from her. “The shirts and the aprons are pure cotton. I hope that’s
acceptable to mademoiselle?”

Amanda nodded.

“Good. Tomorrow you can bring your
own bottoms, provided they’re black. But today you’ll wear these.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amanda
stepped out of the staff room, clad in the bistro uniform that fit her like a
glove. Her hair was pulled back into a fashionably loose bun, and she held a
notepad and a pen in her hands. She was ready to begin her first lesson with
young Amar.

How long she’d manage to hold on to
this job remained to be seen. She seriously doubted her ability to refrain from
sneering at customers, in particular those who really ask for it. As she
followed Amar into the kitchen, she asked herself the same uncomfortable
questions: Had her decision been too rash and ill considered? Should she have
listened to Vivienne and sold her apartment instead? Had she set herself up for
failure and more humiliation than she’d already been through? Would she ever
manage to get her career back on track?

To say nothing of her
life . . .

* * *

“The review says that the ropes and
gags in this movie have no BDSM overtones.” Amanda paused to scan the rest of
the article. “Monsieur Almodóvar claims it’s a romantic comedy.”

Kes snatched the magazine from her.
“Let me see that.”

Sprawled in his velvet-upholstered
seat, he perused the review. His eyes moved fast as he tried to finish the
article before the lights went out and the movie began.

Her gaze lingered on his amazing
lashes—so thick and dense they appeared double-layered—and his high cheekbones.

After two weeks of seeing him
daily, she should’ve been used to his exotic splendor. She should’ve been
taking it for granted. That was how it worked. She’d gawk at a thing of rare
beauty, thinking she’d never tire of it. But it would only be a matter of days—sometimes
hours—before she’d have enough to stop marveling. And then she’d stop noticing
it altogether.

It was human nature. Parisians would
stare at their phones when their bus passed the Eiffel Tower. Tokyoites
wouldn’t look up from their manga books to admire Mount Fuji during their
bullet train commute. Liz Taylor’s lovers would grow indifferent to her
out-of-this-world violet eyes.

Why would Kes’s eyes be any
different?

“OK.” He handed her the magazine.
“Now I see why the film is called
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
He’s a real
visionary, Monsieur Almodóvar.”

“How so?”

“He made this movie in 1990, two
decades before bondage became fashionable.”

“Good point.” She smirked. “Bondage
is so trendy these days it’s slipping into mainstream.”

“Which is a sure way to make it
untrendy and ultimately kill it.”

She shrugged. “Good riddance, I
say.”

“Pity,
I
say.”

The lights went out before Amanda
had time to gauge if Kes was being serious. She spent the next two hours
watching the unlikely love story unfolding on the screen. And just as during
the previous two movies they’d seen together, she’d been unable to lose herself
in the fictional world as she normally would. A barely detectable brush of his
hand, arm, or knee was enough to quicken her pulse. Even when no parts of them
touched, she was still acutely aware of him. Just because he breathed.