The Excerpt:
"French women," Jack said, "have a certain je-ne-sais-quoi."
I hate it when Jack speaks French to me, but I nodded and pretended I understood.
"A certain something," Jack now beamed at me, his blue eyes shining.
I couldn't help myself, I beamed back, even though I wanted to tell him to forget about French women and to concentrate on me. That was the least he could do, after all, I had invited him for lunch again at our favorite diner on the corner of 42nd and 3rd, but no.
"They have such chic, an undefinable air . . . " He made a move with his hands as if he held a treasure, then dropped them. "I can't describe it."
Then don't, I thought.
His long lashes lowered, and he gazed into my eyes.
I swallowed and tried to look just as sophisticated as all these French women, but I had the odd impression that he didn't see me.
It's not as if Jack had spent a year or so in France. Not at all. He spent six days, not even a whole week, at the Côte d'Azur last month, and ever since his return, I've been forced to listen to him, describing a million luscious French women. We work together at the smallest and most chaotic advertising agency in the whole of New York City, and I thought our lunches kept me sane . . . until he started to rave about the French. It sounds as if every single one of them is a beauty, while we, in the States, have never yet managed to churn out anything half as delectable.
"Don't forget Grace Kelly." I lifted my fork as if I was upholding the US flag. "She managed to enchant the whole French nation, and she was American." Having made my point, I leaned against the plastic covered back of my seat and speared a piece of salad with my fork.
Jack waved Grace Kelly away. "She was an ice-queen," he said. "Besides, that was Monaco, not France."
Great. Now I felt stupid.
Jack's eyes returned to the dreamy look I hated. Unless it had to do with me, of course. "French women move with such sexy elegance . . ."
Now why did that make me feel like an elephant?
". . . they have fire, a certain je-ne-sais-quoi."
I didn't point out that he was repeating himself. Instead, I munched my salad in silence. What on earth could I do to make Jack forget these fascinating French women and concentrate, for a change, on me? True, my hair is neither Grace-blond nor Latin black but something nondescript in between, and I'm not sexy. Never was. My mother says I was the boniest baby she'd ever seen. Nothing cuddly about me. Not then. Not now.
That evening, I went home in a state of dejection. Just as I maneuvered my huge sports bag and myself through the door, I hit my toe against the frame. Hot pain darted through my foot. I groaned. "How can you be so clumsy, Claire?" I dragged my bag through the door. "A French woman would never be so . . . " I stopped in mid-sentence.
Good God. If I started to rave about French women myself, it was time to do something.
Something radical.
It felt like a revelation and came without warning.
I had an idea. An idea that made me gasp because it was so unreal. An idea that could change my life. Maybe. Hopefully. A hot shiver ran down my spine.
Then a cold one.
Then hot again.
I dropped the offending bag, hobbled to my computer and looked up cheap flights to France. The shivers left. Instead, I got a hollow feeling. None of the flights were cheap.
I printed out a list of the flights that wouldn't make me sell every single bit of furniture and pressed it to my heart while hobbling around my tiny apartment. I couldn't sit still.
"I'm about to change my life," I told the mirror in passing.
"Yeah, and you'll ruin yourself in the process," it replied.
I made a face at it. "If I block myself with mundane thoughts, I'll never get anywhere."
". . . and if you go ahead with your plans, you'll end up under a bridge. Homeless."
I swallowed. But I still had the nest-egg Dad had given me on my twenty-first birthday. "For a rainy day," he had said with a smile as he handed me the envelope containing the precious dollars.
Was it rainy? I looked outside. No. The air was steamy, as usual in August. Now did that count as a rainy day? I sighed.
Of course Dad had thought about sudden operations or equal disasters when he'd said that. I wriggled my small toe. It wasn't broken. No operation necessary. That was a sign, surely? Besides, I had never done anything foolish in my life.
"If you don't count falling in love with Jack a year ago," my mirror said.
I stretched out my tongue to it and walked past, pressing the list to my chest as if it was a treasure.
A full week of vacation waited for me in the beginning of September, and I had booked nothing yet because I couldn't make up my mind where to go. That was another sign. Wasn't it?
I kept on walking and muttering for another hour, but I knew I would lose all self-respect if I didn't act on it. It felt like a basic need, something I had to do if I wanted to exist any longer. Like eating. I had to stop being pushed around, had to stop being the one to stare at Jack with adoring eyes without getting anywhere.
So I sat down and booked that flight. My stomach did a funny flop, and my hand trembled as I hit "confirm" for the last time.
I had done it.
I would go to France.
How easy it had been.
How scary.
How exhilarating!
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You might also enjoy her latest series: A Culinary Catastrophe.
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