Chapter Three
I was the first one out the door when the meeting ended. As I headed for the stairs, someone called my name. It was Benoit Levin. Of course it was. Who else would interrupt my swift getaway from the worst meeting ever.
“Wait. You forgot to give me your notes.” There was sincerity in his tone, which only offended me more.
“Did I?” I didn’t stop walking away, but I did slow down when I reached the grand staircase.
Regretfully, he fell into step with me. “You did.”
“I have them here.” I held up my black leather bag, still walking. “I’m not just going to give you my notebooks. I’ll have to go through them. I can give you the notes tomorrow.”
Crossing the lobby now, I headed toward the staff entrance. When I pushed open the heavy door, the dim, narrow service yard was busy with a paper delivery. Men were unloading giant rolls of newsprint from the back of a wagon. My bicycle stood against the wall behind them, waiting to carry me home.
But before I could reach it, Levin touched my arm. “You don’t have to do all that work. Let me buy you a drink next door. I’ll copy what you have in my own notebook.”
The warmth from the touch penetrated my linen sleeve, making my blood rush.
Not because I was thinking about that hand touching me in other places, but because it was the hottest part of the summer day.
Regardless, it nearly caused me to spontaneously combust. I would rather burn than go anywhere with him.
At the same time, I could get this transfer of the damn notes over with.
The restaurant he suggested next door was a popular place where many of my coworkers went for lunch or meetings or drinks because it was so close.
The food was consistently delicious. It catered to a professional clientele.
And it had ceiling fans. Electric ones that spun so fast you couldn’t see the blades. I shrugged, relenting.
He removed his hand, finally, and clapped. “Good. It will be my pleasure.”
“I’m sure it will.”
He gestured with his arm toward the exit, and I started walking that way. The gate was open because trucks had been coming and going, so we passed through it and onto the sidewalk.
“So was that your blue bicycle back there?”
“It was.” We crossed the street and headed toward the front of the restaurant.
“Do you ride to work every day?”
“I do.”
“That seems like a fun way to get around.”
“It’s nice not to have to rely on cabs. And I don’t live far. Not that it’s any of your business where I live.”
“I would never presume that it was.” He held the door open for me, and I passed reluctantly through.
Inside, though, the fans didn’t disappoint.
The breeze licked at my face so pleasingly.
The dining room was nearly empty at this hour.
It was too early for dinner but after lunch.
The host sat us at a small table near the bar.
As soon as I settled into my seat across from him, that wink in the meeting flashed in my mind and stoked my fury.
This was a mistake. No matter how good the fans felt, I was too mad to be civil to him, even just for a drink.
I unfolded the flap of my bag and took out the little notebook where I’d written everything Madame Leclaire said about her charitable efforts.
Not once had she mentioned being approached by another reporter, but that was no longer important.
I didn’t want to give him my whole notebook, but now perhaps I was willing to sacrifice it to not have to sit with him.
I’d only written on two pages before the notes he needed.
And so I tore out those and slid the notebook across the table.
“Just take the notes, so you don’t have to buy me that drink after all.” I started to stand.
“Oh, come on. Stay.” He put a hand across the table. Perhaps in that moment he realized just how upset I was with him, because something humble passed across his face. “I didn’t mean to swoop in like that.”
“And yet you did it.” I was poised on the end of my chair, ready like a runner at a starting line.
“I’m sorry.”
The server arrived then, greeted us and told us about the soup du jour.
“I think we’re just here for drinks,” Benoit said.
The server turned to me. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m not staying.”
“Get her a glass of wine, s’il vous plait. A white. If she doesn’t drink it, I will.”
“Two then?”
He nodded. When the server left, to show him just how serious I was about not keeping him company, I stood to leave too.
“You really won’t stay?” He put his hand on his chest like I’d wounded him. “I’ll have questions about the notes. Talking to me now almost assures you won’t have to talk to me at all tomorrow.”
He was kind of right about that. I did want to get this little collaboration over with.
“S’il vous plait.”
“Fine.” I fell back into the bar-height chair and hung my bag on the arm. “Look at the notes and ask me whatever you like.”
He smiled victoriously, which sent up a flare of rage within me.
“But if you ever wink at me again, I’ll slap you as hard as I can.”
He laughed. “Is that why you’re so upset?”
“I’m not a child.”
He surveyed me like I was a full patisserie case and said, “I never doubted you were anything but a woman.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay. I’ll never wink at you again.” Benoit’s face had flushed a rosy pink. It could have been from the heat, but it gave me some satisfaction knowing that I’d perhaps riled something in him.
The server returned then with two glasses of pale golden wine on a tray.
I sipped at the cool, refreshing wine as he dutifully opened my notebook and started reading.
I’d written in pencil, and I always went back over my interview notes right away to clarify and correct and fill in everything while it was still fresh in my mind.
He spread the pages with one hand and held his wine glass in the other.
His thick fingers on the delicate stem. My pulse throbbed, particularly between my legs.
As he raised the glass to his lips, his eyes caught mine watching.
“Are you hungry?” His eyebrow arched with interest.
“Not for anything here.” My words were cold, but another rush of warmth swept through me. Damn it. I dropped my gaze to my own glass of wine, of which I took a big drink.
“Ha. Mademoiselle, you are too much fun.”
“Stop it. You… flirt.”
He set his glass on the table and leveled his eyes on mine. “What if I told you I can’t help myself because I like you.”
“Oh, please. You’re doing it intentionally to fluster me. You want my job and nothing else.”
“Actually, I want my job.”
“But I thought your job was high seas adventures and filing stories from abroad. Don’t you have somewhere exotic you can go and write?”
“That was my job. But I have obligations in the city. This is my job now.”
“How did you get the job in the first place? An uncle in the boardroom or something?”
“No. I worked for it, just like you. I spent two years in the Far East, working for the public relations office during my military service. I’m trained and experienced.”
“I’m sure you are.” I swallowed the last of my wine.
Military service was admirable, of course.
I would never not be grateful on some level to a man who’d served France.
But getting those cushy jobs in the press office meant knowing someone, whether he acknowledged his privilege or not.
It existed, like a bubble that allowed men like him to float along a little above everyone else.
He had every advantage against me—more experience and connections within the new leadership.
He didn’t lack talent. He was a man. Everyone would always pick him over me.
And here I was, helping him write the story that I should have been writing to secure my career.
“Do you have any questions about my notes, or not?”
He closed the notebook. “I guess not. Thank you. And I’m sorry again.”
“Enjoy the rest of your day, monsieur.”
“You as well.” He rose when I did, but sat when I walked away. As I made my way through the dining room, his gaze, or at least the potential of it, burned in my back. I didn’t dare turn to see. Then, as I reached the door, he called out to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Marnet.”
I pushed open the door and walked outside without acknowledging his parting words, friendly as they sounded.
The next few days, competition with Benoit consumed far too many of my thoughts.
The inconvenient fact that all of my story ideas seemed to be falling apart didn’t help.
I checked in with sources, followed up leads, read other papers for scraps.
Nothing was coming together. I wrote a small item about the new entertainment director at one of the big cabarets.
And another about an exhibit at a gallery.
But I needed a feature story or fresh gossip for “Potins Culturels,” something that would impress Vartre and Paquin. Something juicy that no one else had.
One morning, after tossing and turning through much of the night, I came downstairs early to see if Cook had coffee ready yet. It was before seven, but Cook would be up. She always was.
Cook was pouring a kettle of water into the top of the percolator when I came downstairs.
“You’re up early, mademoiselle.”
“I am.”
“It won’t take long for coffee.”