“Oh shit. Sorry. I don’t actually speak French. That’s all I remember from the one class I took in high school a hundred years ago. I thought I was saying, ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’”
“I give you points for the effort.” He pauses. “What would you have done if I’d answered back in French?”
I casually lift a shoulder. “Probably tried out some Italian on you. But hopefully you don’t speak it because all I know are the curses my grandmother used to shout at my brothers when they came home drunk.”
His smile deepens. “Ah yes. The Italians. Très passionnant. I once had an Italian mistress named Sophia who stabbed me six times in the neck with a fountain pen when she caught me looking at another woman.”
I arch my brows. “Seems like a bit of an overreaction.”
“The other woman was her sister.”
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “With whom I was also having an affair.”
I make a face at him. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way since we only just met, but now I’m thinking you deserved it.”
“Oh, indeed I did,” he says with zero remorse. “I also deserved it when my wife set my car on fire when she found out about Sophia and her sister.” He exhales a wistful sigh. “I really loved that car.”
Men.
Normally, I’d judge his character as sadly flawed based on this anecdote, but he’s just given me a wonderful idea for a plot for a novel, so instead I cut him some slack and smile. “It sounds like you’ve lived an interesting life, monsieur…”
“Edmond Chevalier. The building manager, at your service.” Sweeping off his beret, he bows. When he straightens, he’s smiling. The beret he claps back onto his bald head. “And oui, I have lived a very interesting life. Ah, the stories I could tell you, mademoiselle, they would curl your hair!”
I’m totally getting this talkative old geezer drunk and pilfering every plot idea I can.
Estelle’s been patient, but I’m afraid if I don’t come up with a new story by the end of the summer, she’ll give up on me altogether. Edmond here could be just the inspiration I need.
Trying not to wring my hands and cackle like some crazed comic book villain, I say, “I’d love to hear your stories. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you for the kind invitation, but I’m on my way to lunch. I only stopped by to introduce myself and invite you to the cocktail party this evening in the grand salon. Estelle was most insistent that I make you feel welcome and introduce you to the other neighbors so you’d feel right at home. And I know they’re all very eager to meet you. A writer in our midst! How exciting!”
As my stomach sinks, he claps, hopping a little in glee.
It would be adorable except I’m too busy planning my imminent bout of infectious colitis to notice.
I don’t do parties. Especially parties where I’m trotted around like the prize hog. People tend to think authors are magical unicorn creatures who lead interesting and glamorous lives, when really we’re a bunch of awkward nail-biting introverts who’d rather have our eyes put out with hot pokers than be forced into conversations with total strangers, which for an introvert is about as fun as bathing a cat.
Then there’s the inevitable, “Have I read anything of yours?” to which I always pray God, let’s hope not.
I live in terror of the person who’s read my work and would like to offer a helpful critique.
“I’m so sorry, Edmond, but I don’t think I’ll be able to—”
“Seven o’clock sharp, my dear!” He waves a hand briskly back and forth, as if erasing my refusal from existence. “Don’t be late. You won’t want to miss the introduction from our artist-in-residence to his new collection, a few pieces of which will be on display. He’s incredibly talented, just incredibly talented. The party is in honor of him, in case I didn’t mention it.”
I can already tell Edmond will be banging on my door at 7:05 if I don’t show up.
I suppose I could hide in a closet and pretend to be out, but I don’t want it getting back to Estelle that I’m being rude and antisocial. Especially since she so generously offered me her apartment for free for months and is sincerely trying to help me get my shit together.
So I resign myself to enduring a hideous evening filled with painful silences as I struggle to make polite conversation with people who don’t have the kind of anxiety that compels them want to take a dive off the nearest tall building at the prospect of socializing.
But if anyone asks me if I’m married or have children, blood will be shed.
With the enthusiasm of a convict facing a firing squad, I say, “All right, Edmond. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent! And I’ll introduce you to James as soon as you arrive. I’m sure the two of you will have much to talk about, being creative types as you are.”
“James?”
“Yes. The artist.” Edmond chuckles. “Handsome devil. Popular with the ladies. He’s the most eligible bachelor in Paris. Reminds me of myself at his age.”
Edmond doffs his beret and bids me adieu, then goes on his way down the corridor, whistling. I stare after him with a strange feeling of foreboding forming in my gut.
It can’t be. It’s a coincidence. There must be a million handsome artists in Paris named James. It’s not the blue-eyed stallion from the café.
But when I walk into the grand salon that evening, I’m reminded again exactly how much fate loves to prove me wrong.