Chapter 4 #2
Mebel can’t quite remember the last time a stranger touched the small of her back.
It’s not something done in Asia, and it’s doing very funny things to her loins, which she does not appreciate.
Chinese-Indonesian grandmothers are not supposed to be aware of their loins.
They’re supposed to be above such things.
Does she even still have loins, or have they shriveled up into a desiccated husk?
Now get your head straight, you harlot, she scolds herself as she lowers herself onto the sofa primly.
“I am Alain Moreau. I am the director of the school,” the man says in his velvety voice. “And you are Madame Mebel? It’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” Mebel is sure that the tips of her ears are steaming by now.
Somehow, in Alain’s mouth, her name turns from a mere name into a love poem.
Roses are red, violets are blue, and so are Mebel’s balls right now.
My word, she thinks, where did that come from?
Vaguely, she recalls Sammy explaining the term “blue balls” to her decades ago, when he was a teen.
She has never once thought of the concept of blue balls since, but apparently her perverted mind has tucked it safely away in the deepest folds of her brain to spit out at her at this moment. Thank you for that, brain.
Alain holds out his hand. It is massive, and Mebel stares at it, entranced, before putting her own hand in it.
There is a momentary pause, then he lifts it to his lips and brushes her knuckles with the softest kiss, sending an electric spark straight through her—as she is now finding out—very much still present and active loins.
He lowers her hand with a bashful smile and says, “Sorry, I was holding out my hand to ask if I could take a look at the confirmation email you received from the school, but I couldn’t help myself. ”
Somehow, Mebel manages to stop herself from bursting into flames with a furious mixture of embarrassment and delight.
Somehow, when she does speak, her voice comes out even.
“Of course,” she says simply. She locates the email quickly and plops her phone on his palm before snatching her hand away so he won’t notice how shaky it is.
The spot where he’s just kissed her is tingling.
Alain reads the acceptance email with a slight frown. “You are right, this is an official acceptance…”
Vindication, the favorite emotion of all Chinese mothers, flushes through Mebel, eradicating all traces of embarrassment. “Hah!” she says with a triumphant smile. “So it must be mistake on your system.”
Alain is half nodding when he suddenly pauses and says, “Ah. I see the problem. Unfortunately, Madame Mebel, you seem to have been registered at our sister school.”
“Sister school?”
“This is the flagship school. We have other branches all over the world. New York, Madrid, Geneva, Rome, and—”
Mebel scrambles to try to keep up. So far, none of these other options sound bad. She could see herself dressed in head-to-toe Balenciaga in Spain, or wearing five Chopards on each arm in Geneva, or dressed in Dolce & Gabbana in Rome, why not? “Which one did I get accepted into?”
Alain grimaces, as though he’s sorry to deliver bad news. “England, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, that’s okay!” Mebel says with genuine happiness. “I love London. The West End theater, the afternoon teas, the—”
“It’s not in London, I’m afraid.”
“It’s not? Where is it?”
“I believe the place is called Cowley.”
“Cowley?” Mebel has never heard of such a name. “Where is that?”
“It’s as good as in Oxford.”
Mebel narrows her eyes. “As good as? Is it in Oxford?”
Alain makes a seesawing motion with his head and goes, “Eh. Thereabouts.”
“I don’t understand. Why your other branches are in big cities, but why the English one is in this cow place?”
“Cowley.”
“Cowley, right. Why Cowley?”
“London is very expensive,” Alain says simply.
Mebel takes a deep breath. As the wife of a real estate tycoon, she knows all about location.
“And we weren’t sure if the English would be interested in signing up to a French culinary school in England when they can just hop on the Eurostar and take the course in Paris. The decision to open a branch in England was, as the English might call it, ‘a bit of a lark.’ ”
“I see.” And now she has fallen for the lark.
“But you’ll like our Cowley campus, I’m sure. And Oxford itself is a gorgeous city. I’m opening a restaurant there next month because I love the place. I have no doubt you’ll have a grand time there.”
Mebel takes a deep breath. As much as she would like to believe this handsome man, she also knows that she does not belong in a place called Cowley.
“Okay. I’m sure you can fix this and enroll me here?
In Paris? Since I am already here.” She gives him her most winning smile and gestures at the mountain of Louis Vuitton suitcases blocking the hallway.
“I can most certainly do that.”
“Oh, thank you—”
“But our current term is fully booked, with a very long waiting list. The earliest you can start here is in a year and half’s time.”
Mebel’s face goes slack. Well, since she did have a forehead lift in South Korea a year ago, her face remains perky as ever, but on the inside, things are plummeting.
“Would you like me to put you on the waitlist?”
A light bulb goes on in her head. She is, after all, Indonesian.
She knows how these things work. She dips into her black Cannage lambskin Dior bag and slips out a few hundred euros, which she hands to Alain subtly.
“Maybe you can find place for me for this term? I am not going to be doing four-year degree, I just need to be here for one semester, just to learn enough to impress my husband.”
Alain looks at her downturned hand, under which the bills are hidden, and clasps her hand with both of his. “Madame, please, I cannot do this.” He pushes her hand gently before leaning back in his seat.
Aiya. Is there anything more infuriating than people who refuse to let a little bribery grease the wheels of life? When Mebel finally finds her voice, it comes out in a heartbroken whisper. “I must get culinary degree soon.”
“May I ask why?” Alain says, and his voice is so kind and his face so earnest that Mebel finds herself wanting to be honest with him, this stranger she has just met.
“I need to win my husband back,” she says simply.
Alain’s eyes soften. “I see. And going to culinary school will do that?”
Mebel gives a firm nod, her lips pressed together into a thin line. “Yes.”
“All right. Well, then let’s do that—”
Mebel brightens.
“—in Cowley.”
Mebel slumps in her seat. “Ah.”
“I’m afraid it is our only option. Shall I book you a Eurostar ticket for London?”
“You say it’s not in London.”
“It isn’t. You’ll go from Paris to St. Pancras International in London, and from there, you will take the bus to Ox—”
“A bus?” Mebel gasps.
Alain pauses, his eyes lighting up with what she could’ve sworn is silent laughter. “Yes, Mebel, a bus. Have you ever been on one?”
Mebel thinks hard. “When I was six, my parents take me on double-decker bus to tour London.”
“There you go. These are not so different. You’ll take a bus to Oxford. I believe the bus from London to Oxford stops at Cowley. From there, you may take a local bus—”
“A local bus?” She can’t keep the scandalized tone out of her voice.
“Or a cab. It will be a ten-minute ride from the bus station to where the school is.” Alain glances over at Mebel’s mountain of suitcases and says, “Or perhaps you might want to take a cab from St. Pancras International all the way to the school.”
“Oh! Is that possible? Then, yes, that one. I choose that option.”
“Wonderful. I will help you order a Eurostar ticket. In the meantime, let’s get you a car to Gare du Nord station.”
The next few minutes are a flurry as Alain makes several calls, and before Mebel knows it, a cab pulls up outside the school, and a beleaguered Frenchman steps out and flings her Louis Vuitton suitcases into the trunk and the remaining pieces into the back seat with savage abandon.
Alain assures her that the school in Cowley has been notified to expect her arrival and that she now has a first-class Eurostar ticket to London, and soon, Mebel is bundled into the cab.
She waves dazedly at Alain, and she is off, trundling down the beautiful Parisian streets once more, only this time, as she looks out the window, she is no longer filled with the excitement and fizz of being in Paris.
Instead, she gazes out with a sense of loss and bewilderment and the words What the hell is happening? echoing through her mind.