Chapter 4
Paris! The city of love and wonder. Mebel feels the magic as soon as she steps off the plane and onto the tarmac—well, not on the actual tarmac.
Singapore Airlines would never allow their passengers to deplane onto the tarmac.
But as soon as she steps off the airplane and onto the gangway, there it is, that sensation of infinite possibilities fizzing from the soles of her feet all the way up her legs.
Few places have this effect on her. Los Angeles is one, New York is another.
Tokyo. Dubai. Shanghai. Okay, so actually, a lot of places have this effect on Mebel. And Paris, thankfully, is one of them.
It is before dawn on a warm August morning, and Mebel gazes out the window as she makes her way toward customs. She can already tell it’s going to be a bright, sunlit day, as though the city has ensured good weather for her arrival.
She looks around with a smile, and it seems to her that everyone is in equally high spirits.
When it’s her turn to go through customs, Mebel says, “Bonjour!” and the officer greets her warmly, welcoming her to France.
And by the time she gets to baggage claim, her bags are all out and waiting for her, as though by magic.
Sammy has arranged for a driver to pick her up right outside the baggage claim, and she watches gratefully as he lifts her backbreakingly heavy suitcases into the Benz, making a note to tip him generously.
Paris is just as gorgeous as Mebel remembers.
Everything about the city is dripping with art and opulence.
Even the balconies are beautiful, made out of wrought iron painstakingly curved into intricate designs.
Whenever the car passes by a man urinating on the side of the street, which has happened three times in the last fifteen minutes, Mebel averts her eyes and focuses on yet another beautiful sight.
That’s life, isn’t it? It’s all about ignoring the less than sightly bits, like a man shaking off the last drops of pee on a sidewalk, and choosing to focus on the good, like, oh, those bright red flowers hanging off that windowsill.
Life is what you make of it, Mebel thinks to herself. And she chooses to make it perfect.
The Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts is located on Rue de la Ville-l’évêque, just blocks away from the Hermès store.
Mebel practices saying, “Ville-l’évêque,” under her breath several times until she’s confident that she won’t embarrass herself when she says it out loud.
Against Sammy’s advice, Mebel insisted on staying at the school’s dorms.
“It won’t be like the Four Seasons, Mami,” Sammy said.
To which Mebel replied, “Well, of course not, but last holiday your father took me to that ghastly hotel in Zurich, do you remember?”
“You mean Sofitel?”
“Exactly.”
“I really wouldn’t call it ghast—”
“And I survived!” Mebel announced triumphantly. “I can survive a Parisian dorm.”
And when the car arrives at their destination and she alights, daintily stepping out onto the sidewalk in her new Ferragamo shoes, Mebel knows she’s going to do more than survive.
She’s going to thrive. In front of her is the most beautiful building she’s ever seen.
It’s grandiose, the walls adorned with elaborate details, flowers, and medallions, all built lovingly out of stone.
The enormous glass display at the front bears the words “The Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts, est. 1901,” and inside the display case is an array of perfectly baked breads and intricately designed pastries worthy of a museum.
Pastries that Mebel has no doubt she will be whipping up in no time.
Imagine the look on Henk’s face when she presents him a—whatever one of these thingies is called.
Mebel turns when the driver, panting hard, lugs the last of her LV bags onto the sidewalk. “Ah, merci beaucoup!” She gives him a hundred-euro note, and he does a double take, then says, “Madame, would you like me to assist you with taking these bags inside?”
My goodness, Mebel thinks. The French are so friendly!
“Yes, s’il vous pla?t!” She pronounces it “silver plate” and chooses not to notice the way the driver winces at the way she has butchered his beautiful language.
Though Mebel’s first language is Indonesian, her second and arguably most universal language is cash, and she speaks it fluently, without any accent.
And so it is with much confidence that Mebel pushes open the brass doors of the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts and strides inside.
The lobby is as impressive as the outside of the building, the reception table lined with dark green leather and people speaking in hushed voices and moving about with purpose.
Mebel approaches the receptionist, her Ferragamo heels clacking across the marble floor and turning heads toward her.
She reminds herself to do a little sashay.
She is a trophy wife, after all, and what are trophies for but to be looked at and admired?
“Bonjour!” Mebel trills.
All noise in the lobby ceases as conversations pause mid-sentence.
The receptionist glances up, gives Mebel a once-over, does a small approving sniff at Mebel’s white-and-black double-sided Check’n’Dior virgin wool fitted jacket, and says, “Bienvenue à L’école des arts culinaires Saint Honoré. Puis-je vous aider?”
Mebel blinks. Clearly, the way she said “Bonjour” must have been so flawless that this young woman has falsely assumed that Mebel does, in fact, speak French. Something she needs to rectify immediately. “En Anglais, s’il vous pla?t?” she says.
“Of course, Madame,” the receptionist says without skipping a beat. “How may I help you?”
“Yes, thank you.” It takes a beat for Mebel to switch from thinking in Indonesian and speaking in broken French to thinking in Indonesian and speaking in somewhat less-broken English. “I would like to check in. I have reservation here—”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, this is not a hotel.”
“Right, of course. No, that’s not what I mean. I am checking in as student.” When the receptionist doesn’t respond, Mebel adds, “To the cooking school.”
The receptionist visibly winces at the words “cooking school.” “The culinary school,” she corrects Mebel.
Mebel resists the urge to say, “Aiya, isn’t it the same thing?” Instead, she nods and says, “Oui. The culinary school.”
“Of course, madame. Can I please have your name?”
“Mebel Fransin Tanadi.” Then she adds, “Mebel with an ‘e’ and Fransin with a—you know what? I write it down for you.” She takes out her phone, types out her name onto her Notes app, and shows it to the receptionist. To her credit, the receptionist does not laugh out loud at the atrocious spelling.
After clacking away at her keyboard, the receptionist purses her lips. “Apologies, Madame, I am not seeing your name on the list.”
“Did you spell correctly?” Mebel says, pushing the phone closer to the receptionist’s face.
“Well, I spelled it incorrectly, the way you did.”
Heat blooms in Mebel’s cheeks. All her life, she’s had to deal with customs officials and hospital receptionists and god knows what else who’ve had plenty to say about the spelling of her name.
She is not about to take such abuse from this self-important young woman, especially not when she’s busted out her Dior ensemble, for heaven’s sake.
“I think maybe you try again, with correct spelling this time.”
The receptionist’s face hardens. “Madame, I have followed the spelling you gave me exactly, and there is no registration for anyone under the name of Mebel.” She pronounces Mebel the way it’s spelled, not “May-buhl,” but “Meh-buhl,” as though to highlight the misspelling to anyone who might be listening to their conversation, which at this point is everyone in the lobby.
Mebel’s chest balloons, but before she can launch into a tirade (though a tirade based on what, Mebel herself hasn’t quite decided), a smooth, rich voice says, “Excusez-moi, may I please interject?” Mebel looks up and finds herself staring into a pair of the most luxurious brown eyes she’s ever seen.
No, it would not be fair to call these eyes brown.
They’re more warm honey, golden, with flecks of earth.
And the face that surrounds the eyes is devastatingly handsome.
A straight nose, a strong jawline brushed with gray stubble, and salt-and-pepper hair that curls up at the ends.
Quite possibly the most gorgeous man Mebel has ever laid eyes on in real life, and she’s met George Clooney.
Well, a George Clooney impersonator in Vegas, which is close enough.
The man nods at the receptionist and says, “I’ll handle this, Simone.” Simone flushes, and Mebel rolls her eyes.
How embarrassing, to be so easily charmed just because he’s a good-looking older man.
He turns his attention to Mebel, and Mebel flushes.
Goodness, is that a hot flash rushing through her body?
Is this menopause all over again? Before she can stop herself, her eyelids flutter open and close.
My lord, she thinks. I am literally batting my eyes at this man. Get a hold of yourself, woman!
She catches Simone rolling her eyes, as though thinking: How embarrassing, to be so easily charmed just because he’s a good-looking older man.
Touché, Simone, Mebel thinks. She musters up whatever shred of dignity she has left and lifts her chin, meeting the man’s eye.
“Thank you,” she says in her most regal voice.
“Yes, if you can help find my registration, I appreciate it.”
“Come, let’s have a seat.” With that, he—eek!—places his hand on the small of Mebel’s back and leads her to one side of the lobby, where he gestures at the sofa for her to sit on.