“Especially her,” I replied, and she smiled.
“How do you say, lead on,” she declared, and we continued marching like two young women who had had far too much rosé to drink. Our laughter trailed behind us like cans tied to the bumper of a car for newlyweds.
Nearly two hours later, we worked our way back to her apartment. She wanted me to come up and have dinner with her, but I was intrigued with Vincent now.
“My mother wants me to clean the apartment,” she said. “But we can still have dinner.”
“I think I’d better get back to have dinner with my uncle.” Instinctively, I knew she would be very upset if she knew I was meeting Vincent. “I haven’t had dinner with him for more than a week because I’ve been at the restaurant. But we’ll start the new regime for you tomorrow. Once a week is weigh-in.”
“Weigh-in?”
“To see how many pounds you’ve lost.”
“Oh. Oui.”
“Thanks for a wonderful day, Denise. I enjoyed being with you,” I said, then kissed her good-bye and started away.
“Emmie!” she called.
I turned. “Yes?”
“Welcome to Paris!”
“Ah, oui. Merci. À bientôt.”
I walked off feeling very good about it all and not thinking about my little white lie. Maybe I could help someone else and not wallow in my own self-pity after all.
Uncle Alain wasn’t at home when I arrived. I showered and redid my hair. Then I played with a little makeup and chose something new to wear, an outfit Roxy had bought me before she left Paris, a pair of skinny-fit rust-colored trousers and a white lace top. She had also bought me a light black leather jacket, and I had a pair of black cutout lace-up wedges. Just before I left, Uncle Alain appeared. He nearly gasped when he saw me.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “And a little sexy. What’s up, Emmie?”
“A sort of date with Denise’s cousin,” I said.
“Oh. Who is he? How did you meet him?”
“His name is Vincent. We met him for lunch. He works in his father’s pastry shop, but he wants to do more with his life. He’s well read, and he writes poetry, and—”
“Things going a little fast?” he asked. “You sound quite taken. How old is he?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
“But older than you by what? Two years, three?”
“Maybe three,” I said. “It’s not unusual for a girl my age in America to go out with a boy three years older than she is, Uncle Alain.”
“Where are you going?”
I showed him the card.
“I know this place. Good pizza. Not very formal,” he said. “Will you promise to be home by twelve?”
“You’ll make me Cinder
ella.”
“Never mind. Twelve,” he said firmly.
“I promise,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek and started out.