Chapter Three #3
Manon and Amandine were whispering about something—likely Camille. She knew they weren’t talking behind her back, just probably discussing what to do because Camille was acting like a crazed heron. And it was causing a scene.
Camille appeared next to her now.
“Is he looking?”
Flora glanced slyly toward the counter. “Uh… he’s making a drink, so no. Have you asked him out?”
“No! No! I can’t get up the courage. What do you do with your crush back at home?”
“Stare from a distance, mostly.”
Camille snorted. “Guess we’re in the same boat. Who is he?”
“I grew up with him. He doesn’t notice me. Hopeless case.” Flora sighed. “I need to get over him.”
“Well, he’s an idiot.”
“I thought we were the idiots!”
Camille laughed. “Maybe we are all idiots, no? That’s life’s big joke.”
The night went well.
Flora tried to be quiet and not interrupt, but they kept pulling her in, wanting to know all about California.
She didn’t mention the Woodhouses just yet. Sometimes people got weird about it.
When they dropped her off at her apartment, they waved, wished her good night, and waited to leave until she got inside.
Flora climbed the stairs feeling giddy but not letting herself get too excited.
After a quick shower, she hopped into bed, muttering to herself that even if it didn’t work out, it was still a good experience.
“You have to experience social things, Flora,” she encouraged herself. “Oh, just shut up and turn the light off.”
She rolled over and turned off her lamp, sighing to herself.
Just as she shut her eyes, feeling the edge of exhaustion beginning to cloud her vision, her phone buzzed.
Her dad, she assumed.
Manon: We’re going to take photos again tomorrow and go to Camille’s flat. Want to come?
Maybe, just maybe, she had made new friends.
***
November
Over the course of the next few weeks, Flora found herself with the trio more often than not. Even at work when they weren’t supposed to be fraternizing (mostly because Clemence was watching them like a hawk), Manon or Amandine would eye her and make faces while she edited photos.
She’d shake her head at them every time—she didn’t want to get into trouble. Clemence was out for blood.
They spent most of their time in cafés, museums, and in cramped apartments trying on clothes, laughing over nothing.
The best part?
She wasn’t immediately thinking about Roman when she had down time. The infatuation with Roman was beginning to feel like old news.
It was, all in all, a relief.
“Who do you live with back home, Flora?” Amandine asked one day while walking across Pont Neuf to a café.
“My dad,” she said. “My mom left us when I was one.”
“Some mom!” Manon replied, aghast. “Mon Dieu! What happened?!”
“Manon!” Amandine scolded.
“Désolée!” Manon chorused. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine. My dad said she was… struggling with being a mom and refused to get help. Some people just have kids because they think that’s what they’re supposed to do and aren’t really ready for them. I haven’t talked to her in… well, since I was five or something.”
“Where does she live now? In California?”
“No, I was born in England. She still lives in Bath, I think. I don’t really check much anymore. I used to care, but it’s irrelevant now. When we moved, my dad made sure she couldn’t follow. Plus, the security at the estate is crazy.”
“Security?” Manon asked. “Estate?”
“Oh—I live with the Woodhouse family. You know, Woodhouse Corporation? Finn and Roman?”
Camille, Amandine, and Manon halted.
“What?!” Camille exploded. “Are you joking?!”
“No? I’ve lived there all my life.”
“So… so… you know Finn and Roman Woodhouse?” Manon asked, jaw nearly on the bridge.
“Yes. Roman’s who I’ve had a crush on forever.”
“Roman—Roman Woodhouse?!” Amandine exclaimed, hands on her head. “I can’t… I can’t believe this!”
Flora laughed and sighed at the same time. “I guess it is weird.”
“I am in shock,” Camille said, clinging to Amandine. “I’m in shock!”
“Finn Woodhouse is the most beautiful man to ever walk the earth and he just… lives down the hall from you?!” Amandine asked, clearly not processing this development.
“Well, he lives across the lawn…” Flora corrected.
“Oh my gosh,” Manon said, hands on her knees. “And she doesn’t tell us this for weeks!”
“Sorry!” Flora sang. “Sort of. It’s not a big deal.”
“A true Californian,” Manon added. “Lives with celebrities and doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”
Flora frowned, now thinking back on all the times she’d been in the grocery store and seen their faces on tabloids. At the time, she dismissed it as normal or not even worth noticing. Some daily tabloid was always writing trumped up nonsense on the boys, none of it true—
Roman-tic Woodhouse secretly ties the knot with heiress in Scottish Highland wedding.
Finn Woodhouse dating model, caught in Ibiza. Not so much of the businessman after all!
“I guess they are celebrities. But they’re just the boys to me.”
“The boys,” Camille remarked, waving her hand. “Do you know them well?”
“I mean, we’re friendly. Roman is… Roman.
And Finn’s too busy with business to ever care about anything but his laptop.
But, they’re nice. They know me. Not like we’re ever going to be close or anything.
They think I’m weird.” Flora pointed to her hair and her outfit. “It used to be worse than this.”
“No, no. This won’t do,” Amandine said flatly. “You live with the Woodhouse Boys. One of them must notice you.”
“Amandine, I’m me!”
“You always say that!” Manon added, looking angry now. “But you are so pretty, Flora! You underestimate yourself because people were jerks to you at some point.”
“Oui, forget them,” Camille added, her nose wrinkled. “And not for the sake of any dumb boy, but for you.”
Flora kicked a rock and shrugged. “I am… just me though.”
Amandine rolled her eyes. “Ugh, Flora. Please.”
They kept walking.
The girls were derailed by the news, wanting to know more. Strangely, they cared more about Finn than Roman.
“He’s so mysterious!” Manon said. “And he looks sad. I’d like to cheer him up. He needs a girlfriend.”
“I’ll let him know that a bunch of French girls are in love with him,” Flora said dryly. “Though I’m not sure he’d care. And I’m not sure he’ll ever have a girlfriend either. He’s too… Finn.”
“Il est trop beau,” Amandine groaned.
“You prefer Roman?” Camille asked, baffled.
“I did, yes. But I think I don’t care anymore,” Flora said, with assuredness she’d never had before. “I don’t think about him at all.”
“Good. Because I heard Alexandre has a crush on you!”
Flora’s face flushed. “No way.”
“Oui,” Camille insisted. “He told Jean in editing that he thinks you’re ‘tres jolie’ and Jean told me because Alexandre hasn’t dated anyone since his ex-girlfriend broke his heart four years ago.”
Flora felt her heart twist. This was a first.
Alexandre was in his late twenties. She’d always thought he was really cute but never said a word.
She’d passed him in the hall the other day and hadn’t even had the courage to smile.
Just stared straight ahead and then tripped over the carpet.
Luckily, Alexandre was out of sight when she fell into the vase in the corner, barely catching it before it crashed to the floor.
“Oh,” Flora said quietly, “must be some mistake.”
“Mistake? Non!” Manon looked at Flora like she was crazy. “What do you think you are? Some sort of rat?”
“Well… I was thinking bat, actually.”
“Jeesh, Flora!” Amandine growled. “You must be blind as a bat to not see how beautiful you are.”
“I dress so bad too,” Flora replied quietly.
“You are getting better,” Manon winked.
“Work in progress,” Amandine added. “We all are. I used to wear… what is the English word? Tongs?”
“Barbecue tongs?”
“No! Aide-moi, Manon! Tongs.”
“Flip flops!” Camille said, snapping her fingers.
“Oui, flip flops and a fedora.”
Flora laughed so hard she almost choked. The way Camille and Amandine said “flip flops” sounded like “fleep flops.”
They carried on toward the café, but Flora was still thinking about if this Alexandre business was real or a case of mistaken identity. Either way, it didn’t really matter much. She was having too much fun with “Les Fauchées,” as they called themselves. The Broke Girls.
They spent hours wandering Paris—down alleys, through museums, into concerts and cafés—dancing, drinking coffee, taking day trips, and eating their way through the city. Flora never got sick of them. They encouraged her to be herself, never judging her for being clumsy or butchering French daily.
Her studio was filled with beautiful photos of Paris. Her pinboard was now layered with posters, flyers, and polaroids. Roman’s face had slowly been overtaken by the mementos—Vogue ads she’d snapped, photos of Les Fauchées sneaking into museums and clubs without paying.
They really were broke.
“Now,” Flora said, one afternoon, stepping out of the dressing room, “what do we think of this?”
“No more big clothes, Flora! You look like a bag!” Amandine sighed, handing her a different dress. “Most women would kill for your figure. Tiny waist! You always dress like you’re hiding something. You don’t have to be risqué, but you should at least not give garbage bags free press.”
Flora rolled her eyes, snatched it, and emerged five minutes later feeling unsettled. It was a silky emerald halter dress, completely out of her comfort zone.
“I look weird.”
“Non! You look amazing!”
Manon emerged from where she’d been hassling the cashier for a discount. “Stopppp t’es trop belle! The green is incredible. You could wow Roman Woodhouse when you get back home. Save this for when you want to wow someone.”
Camille popped her head out from where she was changing. “Flora! Oh my gosh! You are stunning!”
Flora tilted her head and wrinkled her brow. She liked it. She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“I guess I’ll get it then, if you all think so highly of it.”
“You act like everything else we’ve picked hasn’t worked,” Manon muttered. “I don’t know how we put up with you.”
Flora laughed and disappeared back into the dressing room.