11 #2
“Absolutely. You two have a wonderful night.” She smiles as she waves us off, onto her next group, blissfully unaware that she’s left a spiraling woman in her wake.
I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the back of her head—my perfect plan, the entire point of this hollow charade, my only lead in my grand career pivot on the road to financial stability—slipping further away with each black kitten-heeled step.
Owen breaks into my trance, wrapping a boyfriend-ly arm around my waist and hissing, “Darling, shall we go to the bar and debrief?”
“Yes please, dearest,” I bite back and let him pull me towards the edge of the room.
We shuffle sideways through clusters of reluctant minglers, their hands occupied by stemmed wine glasses and tiny hors d'oeuvre plates.
The chatter is loud and the music is louder, and by the time we reach the corner of the room it feels safe to speak candidly—although we are still visible to the crowd.
I spin to face Owen, taking his hands in mine. “Look at me like you’re happy while we have this conversation.” I’m sure the smile on my face is uncanny, but it’s the best I can do.
“That would be easier if you weren’t breaking every bone in my fingers,” he says through clenched teeth.
I loosen my hold, but only slightly. “I thought Suzanna was going to be here.” My tone is strained pleasantry, barely passable.
“How was I supposed to know?” His tone is much more natural than mine—asking the question with the cadence of someone wondering whether you need anything from the grocery store.
“Himari and I aren’t exactly peers. I couldn’t send her a text and say hey for absolutely no reason at all, is your wife coming on Friday? ”
I take a long, deep breath, trying to undo the knot of tension in my chest. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I’m still pissed. I really needed this.”
“What about this,” he offers, placing one hand on my waist, then the other, drawing me closer.
“There are plenty of other attorneys here with more money than they know what to do with. Even if it’s not Suzanna, you could still meet some prospective clients.
Do you call them clients? Buyers? Whatever. ”
I glance past him into the crowded room. The alcohol is flowing, and a few of them are farther along than they should be. With inhibitions slightly lowered, there is a chance his idea could work.
“Okay,” I say finally. “But don’t force it. It has to come up in conversation naturally. I don’t want to seem like I’m doing a sales pitch or something.”
“Fine, here.” He turns to the side, coaxing me towards the center of the room with a hand on my lower back. “I know exactly who we should start with.”
“Wait, what are their names? I just need a minute step out to the ladies room and do a quick search—”
“No, Commander Mercado, you don’t have to be in control of everything about this situation.
Guy is one of the new transfers and he’ll be glad to have someone to talk to.
Guy!” Owen calls over to the man at a high top a few feet away.
He’s around our age, with dark brown skin and dark brown eyes and a well-fitted navy blue suit. “Good to see you.”
“Owen,” he replies, putting a slight emphasis on the second syllable that gives away his French accent. “Thank God. I just spent fifteen minutes talking to Maureen about her sister’s back pain. I was about to lose my mind.”
“Good to see you too.” Owen claps him on the back, then gestures to me. “This is—” He buffers for a split second, clearly debating whether to keep up our facade with someone he considers a friend. “—my girlfriend, Amelia. Amelia, this is Guy, one of the only sane people at the office.”
Then Guy does something that he can absolutely only get away with by being so obviously French, and so handsome. He takes my hand, not to shake it but to cradle it, and pulls me towards him for a kiss on each cheek.
“So nice to meet you, Amelia. What are you doing here with this guy?” he jokes, and I immediately love him.
“I’ve been asking myself that all night,” I say. “Between the style and the kisses and the name, you must be from France.”
“You are correct. Fortunately, I can talk to myself about how much I hate this job and no one understands. T’es francaise aussi?”
“Non,” I reply. “Mais je parle un peu. D'où venez-vous?”
Guy titters a laugh. “Pas besoin d'être si formel avec moi, chérie. Je suis de Marseille—tu y es déjà allée? Tu parles très bien.”
I try not to preen at the compliment, when really my French is not that good. “Ah merci, mais c’est pas vrai en fait. Et non, je n’y suis jamais allée, mais peut-être un jour. Tu as déménagé aux Etats-Unis pour ce boulot? ?a va bien?”
“Bah pfft,” he says, very Frenchly, “ces couillons ne comprennent rien au droit.”
I laugh at the audacious comment about his coworkers who are in this very room with us. Beside me Owen looks like he’s in the Twilight Zone.
“J’ne dirai rien.”
Guy shoots a quick glance at my companion. “Mais ton mec… il n’est pas le pire.”
I mimic him, eyes flicking to Owen’s for a moment before I agree. “Oui, tu as raison.”
At least five full minutes pass like this, the two of us chattering away merrily in French—me making occasional, embarrassing grammar mistakes, Guy pretending not to notice—and Owen standing next to us like set dressing.
I’ve just decided I would genuinely like to be friends with this man when some other lawyer joins the circle, saying, “Sorry to cut in, but Guillaume I was wondering if I could pick your brain on something for the Ford case. Do you have a sec?”
“Sure,” Guy replies in English, then turns back to me, rounding out our conversation with a bright white smile that sparkles next to his dark umber skin. “You will get my phone number from Owen, yes? We will be in touch?”
“Absolutely.” I lean in for more cheek kisses before sending him on his way.
Owen looks like he just woke up from a trance. I try to communicate with him through my eyes—we’ve seen Sophie and Andy do it enough times that you would think we’d have the technique down by now—but no luck. The results are four raised eyebrows and zero comprehension.
“Amelia,” he says through what’s quickly becoming his signature gritted-smile, “we still don’t have drinks. Let’s go get something.”
His hand finds my lower back again, warm and solid against the smooth fabric. The line for the bar snakes around several high tops.
We step into it and Owen’s hand winds farther around my waist, pulling my ear towards his lips to ask, “Is this okay? Because I have several questions for you, girlfriend.”
To a passer-by it would look innocent enough, an intimate but work-appropriate moment between a couple.
“Mhm.” I nod, generic closed-mouth smile back on my face.
“First of all, why didn’t I know you speak French?”
“You never asked.”
The huff of air from his nose skitters down my neck. “Do I have to name every world language individually and ask you about your fluency? Do you have any more up your sleeves?”
“Nope. Just English obviously, Italian kind of, and French a bit.”
“What do you mean Italian kind of and French a bit? You speak Italian too?”
“Certo che parlo Italiano. Mia nonna è nata lì.”
He shakes his head, the roughness of his beard just barely grazing my cheek. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”
“Yes,” I clarify. “My dad’s family is part Italian, and his mom lived with us when we were little so she taught us.”
“And how do you speak French so well? Are you part French, too?”
“What are you, auditing my ethnicity?” I look around the room to assess whether any eyes are on us, whether we need to keep up this ruse of intimacy.
We do. I shift slightly closer as I say, “My dad is Italian and Spanish, my mom is French and Greek. It’s a real American melting pot over here.
But culturally we’re really just Italian. ”
“So your mom speaks French?”
I shake my head. “No, I just took it in college and then kept studying on my own.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I figured if I was going into fashion I should learn French for Paris, since I already knew Italian for Milan.”
Owen’s voice is disbelieving. “So you started learning French in college because you wanted to work in fashion, and you just kept taking classes until you were fluent?”
“I’m not fluent.”
“When have you ever been humble, and this is where you start?”
I wrap my arms around his waist just so I have a chance to pinch his side on the way there. “I’m humble when it’s warranted. I know my limits.”
His arms mirror mine, wrapping around my waist and pressing the front of my body to his as he asks, “Have you been to Paris?”
“Nope. And anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. The fashion part of my work is a footnote at best. And the way things are shaping up, a Eurotrip isn’t exactly in the budget. But maybe someday.”
He laughs. “Oh, you’ll get there someday. If there’s one thing I already know about you, it’s that when you decide you’re gonna do something, you do it.”
That pulls the first real smile of the night from me. “Guilty as charged.”
“Thanks for putting it in the language of my people.”
“Anytime.”
“By the way, did Guy just ask out my girlfriend right in front of me? Why do you need his number?”
“Oh!” I slap my palms onto his chest, grabbing the lapels of his charcoal gray suit jacket.
“I forgot you wouldn’t have understood that part.
His cousin is expanding her French boutique to a Newbury Street location, and she’s looking for new designers based in Boston to work with.
He said he would get me a meeting with her! ”
“What? Really?” His palms cup my waist, pushing my body back an inch to more easily meet my eyes. “But he didn’t even see your work.”
“I know, it’s insane. I guess he just really likes me.” I grin, all teeth and mockery. “Unlike some people.”
“Who said I don’t like you?” he asks with a teasing glint in his eye.
“You. Repeatedly.” I’m smiling as I say it, because not even Owen’s flirtation can bring down my mood right now.