Finding It (5 page)

French haughtiness used to piss me off. Now, I find it endearing and humorous.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Worthington.”

“
Bonjour
, Michel,” Poppy says, prattling on in flawless French. “
J'espère que cela ne vous dérange pas que j'ai amené un ami avec moi aujourd'hui...
”

I nod my head as if I understand what Poppy is saying even though I am only able to translate every third word. Despite Rosetta Stone’s emphatic promise
—“You’ll start communicating quickly and have fun doing it!”
—I butcher the French language like Michel with a side of beef. I want to learn to speak French fluently—I really do—but I think I have Language Alzheimer’s. Jean-Luc or Fanny will teach me a word. I will practice saying the word, repeating it several times a day, but as soon as they quiz me, my mind goes blank, and I stare wide-eyed, mouth agape.

Both Michel and Poppy are staring at me. I am too embarrassed to admit I zoned out and have no idea what they asked me, so I whip out one of the few French phrases I have managed to master.

“
Je voudrais commander un café au lait, s’il vous plâit
.”

Poppy blinks. Michel stares as if I were a fly in his béchamel. I have been on the receiving end of that expression—that patronizing, my-family-home-
ees
-older-than-your-country expression—more times than I care to admit.

“
Je voudrais commander un café au lait
,” I nervously repeat.

I would like to order a coffee with milk. I learned that handy phrase while listening to Earworms, a French language CD that uses catchy tunes and repetition. I don’t know how handy the phrase is, actually, since I don’t even drink coffee.

“Michel asked if you had any food allergies, Vivia,” Poppy explains. “Though I am certain we can get you a coffee with milk.”

Prickly heat spreads from my cheeks to my toes like a California wildfire. I want to go limp, slide off my chair, and pretend I am suffering from a fit of the vapors. Victorian women worked the vapor swoons, so why can’t I? Generally speaking, the Victorians creep me out, but I could get behind a swooning revival.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “My French is rusty.”

Michel rolls his eyes. “Pfft.”

What the…? Did he just pfft me? I might not speak fluent French, but I can translate pfft. He just dismissed me as a creature beneath him. Pfft means, “Naturally, you are just another sad, ignorant
Américaine
.”

I am tempted to tell the little chef to stick his ladle in his pompous French ass, but I don’t want to embarrass Poppy. Instead, I tell him I am allergic to mushrooms. Ha! That oughta throw a little cayenne into his crock-pot. What French chef cooks sans mushrooms?

Michel narrows his eyes.

I totally lied. I am not allergic to mushrooms—not in the strictly, grab-an-EpiPen-STAT, medical sense—but I do gag and retch like a cat yukking up a furball whenever I am forced to feast on fungi. It’s not a pretty site.

Michel pivots on one foot and stalks back to the kitchen.

Poppy rolls her eyes. “The French really take the biscuit, don’t they? They’re self-impressed and right temperamental. They completely disintegrate if we don’t wax poetic about their Camembert or rhapsodize over every bottle of Burgundy they uncork.”

I think of Jean-Luc. I always think of Jean-Luc when someone mentions France, or speaks in French. Thinking of Jean-Luc—his ripped, tanned body, his smoldering gaze—always makes my chest constrict. The thought of him literally takes my breath away.

“My boyfriend is French.”

“Cor!” Poppy’s cheeks flush apple red. “I forgot you have a French boyfriend! I am sorry if I offended you.”

“No worries,” I laugh, thinking about Luc’s obsession with Taco Bell and John Wayne movies. “Jean-Luc isn’t your typical Frenchman.”

“No, he certainly is not.”

I frown. How does Poppy Worthington know about my boyfriend?

Poppy reads my thoughts. “I follow your Twitter account. You’ve tweeted about him.”

I don’t know if I should feel flattered or slightly creeped out. A year ago, my friend G tweeted a photo of me hanging on the beach in Cannes with Jett Jericho. The photo went viral. I’m talking Ebola sized viral. My Twitter followers jumped from 362 to 193,000. Big Boss Woman checks my numbers each month and sends me gleeful texts.

Text from Louanne Collins-London:

1,178 more followers this month. You’re starting to give Jenna Marbles a run for her money. Tweet! Tweet! Followers = readers.

I’ve never taken the numbers seriously. My Twitter Followers have never seemed real to me. They are just nameless, faceless entities with disembodied voices who respond to or RT my ramblings. It’s not like
@BottleBlonde @AtomicDawg @112UserNotFound or @DuchessofBainbridge
are real friends—not drink-champagne-cocktails-until-you’re-drunk-enough-to-get-an-ass-tattoo friends. They’re my
faux
amies
.

It’s weird to think of Poppy as one of the disembodied voices. I can’t wrap my mind around someone as smart and chic as Poppy Worthington taking time out of her important
shed-yule
to read one of my tweets about seeing Rachel Zoe licking a cracker wrapper in the Milan airport, let alone committing details of my private life to memory.

“Hello! Vivia?” Poppy waves her hand in front of my face. “You’ve gone all polka dots and unicorns.”

“Polka dots and unicorns?” I frown. “Oh! You mean zoned out?”

Polka dots and unicorns. The British are hilarious. I am so working that into my next conversation with Fanny or Jean-Luc.

“I’m sorry, Poppy,” I say, smiling. “I feel a little guilty.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“I was supposed to meet Jean-Luc in Paris this weekend for…”

Poppy waggles her eyebrows. “A shag fest?”

“I was going to say for our first anniversary celebration, but shag fest works too.”

I dig Poppy. I know dig is a 1950s word, but deep down I’ve got an inner Beatnik that’s aching to bang a bongo while composing bombastic poems about my spiritual journey.

“You can still meet him in Paris,” Poppy says brightly. “British Airways have flights leaving every hour.”

“I’ll hop a flight this afternoon, but my heart’s not totally in it.”

Poppy tilts her head and her sleek angled bob spills over her shoulder. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I am going to spend the whole weekend stressing about blowing the Prince Harry story. I should probably scrub my shag fest, stay in London, and conjure up another story.”

“You’re a smashing writer, Vivia.” Poppy smiles. “I am certain you will get it sorted out.”

“I hope so!” I don’t share Poppy’s confidence. “I can’t afford to lose another writing gig. I have a chocolate addiction that needs regular fixes.”

“You aren’t going to lose your job over one lost story.”

“I might.” My voice is wobbling like a newborn colt. “Unemployment is high. The economy sucks. It’s only a matter of time before my boss realizes readers don’t want to hear about my frivolous wanderings.”

“Have you lost the plot?”

“What?”

“Are you crazy? You’re a bloody brilliant writer. Your boss knows you’re a valuable commodity. She wouldn’t sack you over one cocked-up story.”

“Really?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely!” Poppy slams her fist on the table. “Set your price tag high, Vivia, and others will appreciate your value.”

I feel like stomping my feet, raising my hands, and saying, “
Preach, Sister!”
Poppy’s little sermon is the same one I gave myself last year when I was picking up the pieces of my shattered life. I have a habit of setting my price tag too low.

“Thanks, Poppy.”

“Of course. Now stop frowning. No job—or man—is worth risking wrinkles.”

“Don’t risk the wrinkles. I like that mantra.”

“You may have it.”

I laugh. “Thanks!”

Michel arrives bearing two plates. “I formulated zee menu as a general formulates zee battle plan,” he says, nose thrust high in the air. “I have brazenly selected flavors to assault your senses. I wish to take you unaware.”

Now that’s a frightening thought. Ratatouille taking me unaware. Ugh.

With great pomp and pageantry, Michel presents us each with a plate of what appears to be pureed bologna floating in a sea of snot or cat food floating in bile.

“For the first course, I have prepared
canard pâté de foie avec de la mousse de pomme de terre.
”

Duck liver pâté with potato foam. Did I miss something? Is food supposed to be foamy? I don’t remember Guy Fieri saying anything about foamy potatoes. Potatoes can be sliced and deep fried in peanut oil or mashed and mixed with heavy cream and butter, but not foamed. How does one foam a potato?

I stare at my plate skeptically before taking the tiniest of bites. Then, I take another bite— just to confirm my first impression. The verdict? Duck innards floating in potato bile is actually good…like
crazy
good. The pâté is smooth, buttery, with just a hint of brie, and the potato foam is so delicious I am actually reconsidering a rendezvous with ratatouille. Jean-Luc is loyal, sweet, and insanely hot in bed, but I’m pretty sure he can’t make potato foam.

Michel returns with our next course: deconstructed
coq au vin
with a beaker of warm, fruity Rhône Valley grenache. It’s like grandma went into the kitchen and whipped up some comfort food—assuming the grandma was Coco Chanel. Michel’s
coq au vin i
s classic but modern, complicated yet straightforward.

“This is amazing, like a symphony in my mouth” I murmur, forking another piece of chicken and dipping it in the wine sauce. “Michel is a culinary virtuoso.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

Michel returns with our choice of desserts: Profiteroles filled with Bourbon vanilla custard and drizzled with spicy Mayan dark chocolate sauce or a spotted dick in crème anglaise.

I confess. I have a simple palate. Until I accepted the
GoGirl!
gig, my most adventurous foray into the world of exotic cuisine was Mr. Foo’s Spicy Chicken—eaten with disposable chopsticks from a white take-out carton. Michel has broadened my gastronomical horizons.

I am torn between two lovers. Profiteroles or spotted dick? Which one should I choose? I want them both. Why, oh why, can’t I have my cake and eat it, too?

Mistaking my hesitation for disinterest, Michel starts to step away from the table. Uh-uh Michel. Don’t even play.

“Wait!” I shout. “I want your spotted dick!”

Sweet Aunt Jemima! There’s a phrase I never thought I’d say. Poppy pretends to blot her lips with her napkin, but I know it’s only to hide her smile.

Michel serves the spotted dick and hurries back to the kitchen, presumably to puree a mushroom digestif as a chaser for my spotted dick.

“Vivia, I’ve just had a scathingly brilliant idea!”

“Scathingly brilliant idea?” I pause between bites of warm, spongy pudding soaked in crème anglaise to stare at my new friend. “Haley Mills.
The Trouble with Angels
, right?”

“Yes! I love that movie.”

“Me too!”

Poppy and I grin at each other like two love sick teenagers—the way new friends smile when they discover common interests or experiences.

“Okay.” I pop a golden raisin in my mouth. “Let’s hear it, Hayley. What’s your scathingly brilliant idea?”

Poppy forks a chocolate covered profiterole into her mouth. She’s nearly finished her dessert. Thank God she’s not one of those “I’ll just have a glass of water and watch you eat dessert” kinda girls. Score! Another thing we have in common.

“You need a bang-up story, right?”

“Yes.”

“I might have one for you.”

Oh man! I should have known something was up when a complete stranger offered me a comped lunch at a chi-chi restaurant. She probably wants me to write a promo piece about her restaurant.

“Look, Poppy.” I put my spoon down and push my spotted dick away. “
GoGirl!
strictly forbids employees from receiving anything of monetary value gratis, even meals. I would be happy to write an article about Délais, but then I must insist on paying for my lunch.”

“What?” Poppy frowns—though, maddeningly, not a single wrinkle appears on her face—and then chuckles. “You think I want you to write an article about the restaurant? Don’t be absurd.”

My face warms. I suddenly feel absurd. Why would someone as posh as Poppy Worthington care if I wrote a silly little article about her world class restaurant? I mean, it’s not like
I
hobnob with Tristan Kent and Sir Richard Branson.

“I would be absolutely delighted if you wrote an article about Délais, but that is not what I was suggesting. I would never impose upon our friendship in such a way,” Poppy’s brow knits together for a moment. “I was invited to a party by an American cable station tonight and thought perhaps you would like to be my plus one.”

“Really? Which station?”

“BravaTV”

“Brava? Ugh!” I literally have to stifle my groan. “I hate reality television. It’s totally ruined my viewing experience. Reality TV is like a hostile alien invasion, taking control of our airwaves and subjugating the masses with its hypnotically insipid message, and BravaTV is the mother ship. Real Housewhores of Brooklyn. Georgia Belles. Score a Bachelor.”

Filter, Vivia! Filter!
Damn me and my ever-moving mouth. From the look on Poppy’s face, I’ve looked her gift horse in the mouth. Shit. I kicked her gift horse in its damned mouth.

“I am concerned our budding intimacy might restrict you from speaking with candor.” Poppy grins. “Do tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not a’tall. I find your forthrightness refreshing. British women aren’t nearly so uncensored. We choose our words with great care, often to devastating effect, and we hide behind false smiles.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

A shadow moves over Poppy’s pretty features, like a dark amorphous cloud floating before the sun. I wonder if Poppy, with her jet-setting connections, feels as lonely as she looks.

“Why is Brava hosting a party in London?”

Poppy shifts in her seat.