Plan C (34 page)

“I don’t remember,” I say. “The tallish, shortish, fatish one.”

“Stop. Just stop!” Kitty tosses her head back with the kind of silly giggles that loosen up the mood. She even throws a decorative pillow at my face.

“Don’t mock me,” I say, catching it. “Sex with him was like a near death experience. I didn’t want to come back. Nothing will ever be as good.” Now she belly laughs, and I’m on a role to make her feel better. “Multiple orgasms,” I say. “He had me screaming!”

“Get out…”

“And recently, there was this guy – kind of a famous Australian….”

“Hugh Jackman?” says Kitty.

“No.”

“Oh my God! Was it Russell Crowe? Did you bang Russell Crowe? You’d have told me, right? I’m your best friend…”

“No, no, and yes, I’d have told you.”

“Not Geoffrey Rush? Gross.”

“No!” I say with disgust. “Will you just listen? I didn’t
bang
anybody, but I almost did.”

“Not the same.”

“I know, but he was hot and he was giving me attention and I felt like a woman in places I haven’t been feeling like a woman. Things have been so tough at home with Ben, and well, you know, there’s a real mind-sex connection.”

“Okay, but who was it already….”

“The guy was very tempting. He’s my kind of guy – an archaeologist. He discovered the shards that led to the Lost City of…”

“Whatever, just get to the point!”

“I met him at the museum and we shared a lunch table. Then we strolled in Central Park to look at foliage…”

“Wait. You’re saying the museum job I hooked you up with almost got you a hook-up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were too busy with Helmut,” I say.

“So go on…”

“It got to a point where I couldn’t even be near him in the same room. The entire staff could sense our heat.”

“But you didn’t do anything because you know you have a great guy at home,” she says deflated, and falling back against the cushions on the couch. “I mean, we all know Ben loves you. You can’t cheat on him. You
won’t
cheat on him. It’s the Catholic girl in you,” she says, imitating me.

“I guess, but…”

‘Can I see this Aussie on line?” says Kitty. “If he’s an archaeologist he must have a documentary or something I can see…”

“Wait! I have a photo of him in my phone.” I rise to grab my phone with an eager Kitty following.

I click it on, and scroll through the options landing on the photos. There he is, the Indiana Jones guy sitting with me in the employee lounge, one arm around my shoulders, and the other clutching a coffee cup. It’s pretty innocent.

Kitty snaps my phone from my grip and pulls it in before raising it overhead to get a better angle on his face. “Oh my God! He’s totally your type!” says Kitty. “I mean, I can feel
the heat
coming off this photo. And he’s got his arm around you!”

“I thought you said….”

“Forget what I said,” she says. “You know, Libby, I bet he’s the kind of guy who would take you and throw you on the bed and have his way with you. Drag you across the mattress like a hungry madman. He’s from ‘down under’ if you catch my drift. He’ll leave you screaming ‘Crikey’ like those Aussies. You’ll be begging for more!” She takes the phone and puts it up to the light. “He’s the kind of man - well, look at you two. It’s obvious you belong together. You have the same hair color, the same coloring. You’re a match made in heaven! He’s very buff, and I can feel what he feels for you…”

I grab my phone back and re-examine the picture. “All that from a photo of the two of us sharing coffee and an egg salad?”

“Look at the size of his hands.”

“So?”

“I bet he’s hung like a racehorse!”

“Did anybody ever tell you that you’re incorrigible?”

“Yes, you. All the time.”

“Kitty, what happened to ‘you have a nice guy at home? You can’t cheat on Ben…’”

She collapses back down on the couch, grabs the throw pillow she tossed earlier, places her chin on it and broods.

“My point is that we’re all tempted,” I say. “But we have to remember what we have at home. Getting back to Clive... He’s solid, you know? And decent.”

“Are you insinuating I’m not?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Clive will be there to carry the groceries from the taxi even if you can never afford another doorman. And he’s the kind of guy you want during an earthquake.”

“There aren’t earthquakes in Manhattan.”

“There were in your bedroom. The one you shared with Clive. I remember. You told me that night we were in the hotel at one of your art festivals and you were sure he was the one.”

“Yes, but Helmut…”

“You mean Marty, the valet? He won’t be there in your future. He’ll be at some art show, canoodling with buyers. Where will he be when you really need him for the baby? Where is he now?”’

“Off like a cheap prom dress.”

We’re cruising along the Peripherique on the outskirts of Paris. Our car is tiny by American standards. A smoke-film lingers from its previous renter, but we’ve cracked the windows to let the cold air in, and at the same time giving our cheeks a rosy glow.

“Close the window!” says Kitty in the passenger’s seat. “What if we pass a farm?”

“So?”

“What if we get that pig flu?”

“Kitty, the only thing you’re going to be getting is Foot in Mouth disease.” But she’s ignoring me, scrolling on her Blackberry, and searching for reception.

“You know, Kitty, it’s people like you who are the reason people like me can’t find a damn rolodex in an office supply store anymore.”

“Rolodex?” says Kitty, “Everybody these days just thumbs in addresses.”

“But what about for business cards? Why do we even bother printing them then?”

“Honey, you want a Rolodex? Go on eBay. Buy the super deluxe one that twirls for about $2.99.” Kitty begins pushing the dashboard buttons like a five-year-old.
“What I wouldn’t give for a little NPR.”

“Enough,” I say, grabbing her hand away. The radio lands on some old French music. It’s Charles Dumont singing “Une Femme.”

“There. That’s perfect,” I say. “Sets the mood.”

“Which mood is that? The one that says you broke off your engagement, I’m pregnant, and we’re both broke?”

“Yes, that mood,” I say.

“You could call Ben for some cash.”

“Are you out of your mind? I’d never go back to Ben for money. Never. It’s against everything I stand for. I’ll milk those cows on the hillside before I’ll call Ben for cash.”

“Well, maybe you won’t have to, if your restaurant blog works.”

“Exactly.”

“How many have you done so far?”

“I don’t know. Eight, maybe ten. I’ll make the best of it,” I say. “And what I need from you is to be nice to me. This assignment could make or break me. If it works, I can live in France as long as I want to.”

“I am being nice. I’m a real peach. Besides, I could totally see you as food writer. Really, I could.”

“Well, I could, too,” I say. “I mean, in my American articles I always told people what they should do. Now I can just tell them what they should eat. Much easier.”

Kitty gazes out at the view but my glance over at her tells me she’s not really seeing much of anything. “He keeps calling you know,” says Kitty.

“Who? Helmut? Ignore him.”

“No Clive. He keeps leaving messages. She imitates him. “Hello, love. Clive here. Just ringing to say, oh, I dunno what. Ring us back. Cheers!”

“You’re crazy not to respond. No British guy ever actually chases a woman. This is history in the making.”

Kitty ignores my comment. “Can’t you drive any faster?”

“Kat,” I say, again, pausing to emphasize that I finally got her new name right, “We’re going 90 on the speedometer.”

“That’s only 55 mph in America. Go 130. You can. It’s legal. It’s like 80 our speed.”

‘Really?” I say seriously.

“Vraiment.” Now Kitty’s staring at the hillside. “You know I have a relationship with a bathroom that I can’t seem to give up.”

“Is this your way of saying you have to pee?” I ask.

“Yes, and I’m not using that Port-a-Potty we just passed near that barn.”

“How do you say Port-a-Potty in French?”

“We should have taken a train,” says Kitty. “I could have walked to the bar car, used a bathroom – not to mention it would be faster.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to get to the French countryside anyway?”

“I’m not,” says Kitty. “But the truth is that the trait I most value in friends is a private plane.”

“Well, the village of Barbizon doesn’t have a landing strip. And besides, all your friends with planes lost them after Wall Street crashed. So you’re stuck with me and this shit-box rental.”

We pass some more brown cows in a field, though the odd-looking utility poles tell us we aren’t in Kansas anymore.

“Pretty countryside, isn’t it?” I say.

“If we don’t get moving we could end up like Henry IV,” says Kitty. “He died in a traffic jam in the 1600s, you know. Some fanatic stabbed him when his carriage got stuck in the mud.” She sticks her Blackberry in her purse.

“You’re just pissed because you don’t have reception way out here.” I decide to tune her negativity out. The Edith Piaf song on the radio is more in keeping with the mood of the drive. It’s a sad potpourri of the French countryside, the unknown, the forbidden winter, and the looming unknowable future. “Don’t you wish you could go back to high school and start all over?” I say with a hint of melancholy.

“Why the fuck would anybody want to go back to high school?” asks Kitty.

“If went back now, I’d have a good hair conditioner for my curls. And a flat iron. We didn’t have those in the seventies.”

“I’d like my flat tummy back, I suppose. My perfect body,” says Kitty.

“And the chance to go right up to that bitch Sue Farino and say, ‘Sue Farino, you suck!’

“Good for you, Libby” says Kitty, hitting the button on the car door and lowering the window down all the way. She puts her head out the window. “Sue Farino, you suck!” Her hair whips in her face as she screams.

“And then I’d tell her she only made cheerleading captain because she slept with her Phys Ed teacher!”

“She did? Well, good for Sue Farino.” Kitty stretches over the back seat and grabs a bag of chips, tearing them open. Then she starts combing through the newspaper. I’ m not sure what’s more annoying; the crinkling of the chip bag or the crinkling of the newspaper. Now she’s crunching and chomping.

“Hey Kitty Kat, since you’re so certain that Clive won’t take you back, why don’t you look at the rich old guy I picked out for you earlier today.” I try to sustain a giggle. “The personal ads. It’s circled in red.”

Kitty goes to the Classifieds and begins translating from French to English between potato chips, “Fun, very active gentleman,75, seeks female companion to share fine food, wine, films, museums, and more.” She ponders for a moment. “It doesn’t say he’s rich. Where do you get rich?”

“He could afford the ad.”

“Anybody can afford the ad!”

“At least he’s fun and active.”

“He’s 75. That means he can walk!” She tosses the paper aside. “Just forget about it. I’m
doomed
to be alone. I
vant
to be alone.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be. You have a wonderful husband at home.” Kitty pops up in her seat, focusing on the scenery. “Is this it? Are we here? What a charming little empty village.”

And there’s the sign: Barbizon. My heart strings leap as we round the corner to Grande Rue - Main Street - reminding me of the times Ben and I had rented a car and
stopped at the Crepe Lady’s house right on this very block. We called her the Crepe Lady because she delivered homemade crepes from her kitchen to the backyard picnic table where we always sat. The roosters would scurry and cackle around our feet, as we licked lemon and honey from our fingers.

Until you’ve been to Barbizon, you might as well just go to Nantucket since Barbizon is basically Nantucket without the water. Barbizon is to the weekend Parisian what Nantucket is to the weekend Bostonian, only you don’t have to get here by ferry or prop plane. A shit-box rental will do. In Nantucket the streets are cobblestone. In Barbizon, they’ve actually
heard
of the word “asphalt.”

Cruising slowly down Main Street, I nod to an old-timer sitting outside on a bench, resting his hands on his cane. Nantucket has old salty-dog sea captains but Barbizon has its farm-country dogs who’ve never left this bucolic village, most likely growing up on this very street. I watch the men gathered in front a café sipping their café au laits. Apparently the paper cup has not made its way to Barbizon.

We pass a few old houses with white stone facades covered with ivy. Then we pass the one drug store, the several galleries, the butcher, the grocer, a small hotel closed for the season, and two restaurants both with signs that read “Ferme le Dimanche Soir et Lundi.” Closed Sunday night and Monday.

“They still looked closed and it’s Tuesday,” says Kitty.

“Welcome to Barbizon,” I chuckle. “They live by their own rules.” And then, in my best furball French accent, I say, “
Fuck you
I’m French, I can do
what
I want
when
I want. It can be Monday on
Tuesday.
And we can still be
closed
!’”

Kitty laughs and crumples up the potato chip bag.

“Ben and I used to joke that if we ever got married here, we’d have to hope that the town hall would be open the day we need it to be. On top of that we’d hope the town clerk would be available because he also poses as the town butcher, postal worker, everything. But to be safe, basically it’s a good bet that nothing is ever open on Monday or Tuesday.”

An old lady appears with a wicker basket in her left hand and a bassett hound jogging by her side. She strolls gingerly into the butcher shop, and I bring my car to a stop.

“How can a town this empty have no parking spaces?” asks Kitty, craning up and down the street.

“Where’s Marty the valet when you
really
need him?”

“Be nice. I’m pregnant,” says Kitty.