Hidden in Paris

Chapter 10


A week later, reality had sunk in and Annie was ready to move out to the suburbs if that’s what it took to get away from the nightmare of having renters.

The weather hadn’t helped; glacial rains alternating with sleet and the occasional hail had kept them cooped up in terrible ways. Battles were being fought on all fronts. She was at war with the housework, a fight she was rapidly losing. Oh, there was cleaning, so much more cleaning, and cooking, so much more cooking. This combined with nights spent dwelling on cold feet and self-doubt. Exhaustion showed on her face. Also she was angry, and that was showing on her face as well. Sure, her finances had perked up nicely. Sure, she was making money to cook and clean, things she had previously done for free. But now she felt like an employee in her own house and therefore resented what she had previously done happily. She was also at war with her boys, who, sensing her weakness, worked her to get maximum benefit out of the situation. The boys were acting out, mirroring Lia’s obnoxious behavior and tone. They were fighting with each other, and together against Lia who in turn provoked them and her mother every way she could. There was yelling, physical fights, and plenty of self-righteous tears.

Althea was all right in the end. Yes, Althea was good. In her absent way, she was nearly the perfect tenant. Not a sound came out of her room, no music, no shuffling of chairs. So silent, in fact, that there had been times when Annie wondered if she should make sure Althea wasn’t dangling from a rafter. But at dinnertime, Althea appeared normal, if not hyper. She dutifully came down to the dining room, sat in the spot she had chosen for herself at the end of the table, and alternated moments of stunned speechlessness with bursts of animated yapping. Althea could talk a lot, but not, per se, converse. She answered questions tartly and never asked questions or showed interest in the people around her. Her way of being at dinner was to monologue while playing with the food on her plate. From the cost of airline travel, to the weather, to the toll of high heels on the back, no mundane subject was left untouched. What Althea didn’t do, apparently, was get personal. Was she suicidal? No, Annie didn’t think so. What did suicidal look like anyway? Wasn’t everyone suicidal to some extent?

But if Althea left her alone by hardly leaving her room during the day, Lola, alas, seldom remained in hers. If she had pictured tenants paying rent and occasionally passing her in the staircase and saying a cheerful, helloooo, she had been naive. It wasn’t like that at all. Lola, her children, their scents, their things, their needs, and their presence was everywhere. It was an invasion in the most obvious and pernicious way. Not an inch of the house was off limits except for Annie’s bedroom, which she now kept locked and where she ran to for refuge to pull her hair out in peace several times a day. Annie could not take a step in the house without coming face to face with the six feet tall übermodel. Even the kitchen was no longer safe, with Lola insisting on helping her despite her two left hands, and her annoying insistence on making conversation. Lola, contrary to Althea, made every effort to get personal and did not seem to read Annie’s clues that she wanted to be left alone.

The piece de resistance in this dismal week had been Simon’s night screams that woke up the entire household. By now, everyone in the house was ready to bite someone’s head off, except, of course, Lola, who appeared to have the most infuriatingly sunny disposition. At first, she had wondered how long Lola would sustain that behavior of unending sweetness before the varnish cracked. But the varnish was not cracking. Could it be that this was no varnish? Who was Lola? She was not the prima donna Annie had imagined when she first laid eyes on her at the airport. Neither was she a brat, not in the least. She did not seem to want to be the center of attention. She was not a rich bitch. A week into putting up with Annie’s cold shoulder, everyone’s angry moods and all kinds of abusive behavior from her children, Annie decided Lola had to be some sort of saint. A saint who, for incomprehensible reasons, seemed to want to become her friend.

Just as Annie was arriving at the conclusion of sainthood, something happened that forced her to reassess. It took place on the first day of clear sky in weeks. Lola had suggested they all go for a walk. A good idea; the kids were going berserk. Everyone was. Before she could stop her, Lola was running up the stairs to tap at Althea’s door and invite her to join them.

They walked down the stone steps, all seven of them, she and her three boys, Lola, Lia, Simon, and Althea. The weather was crisp and cold. The neighborhood’s mostly 1850s and later Haussmann style façades shone, as though brand new. Annie took a breath. Only a step away from the house and already she felt lighter. She and Lola carried the stroller down, careful not to slip on the icy steps. Althea didn’t budge to help with the stroller, just like she didn’t budge with the cooking and hardly budged with the cleaning, though she kept her room meticulously clean and the bathroom was always cleaner after she had been in it than before.

“We haven’t seen Lucas,” Lola said, pushing the stroller.

“He is skiing in Courchevel.”

“So he lives his own life?” Lola asked.

Annie thought it was a strange question. “I know, the nerve of him.”

“It’s the French way,” Lola quipped. “I’m sure it’s healthier.”

Healthier than what? Annie wondered. “Let’s go to Parc du Ranelagh. It’s very close.”

They walked on the crowded sidewalk of rue de Passy. Well-dressed mothers held the hands of their children bundled up in elaborate tiny coats, scarves, and hats. Annie had never managed that, well-dressed children. Or a well-dressed self. Johnny had picked up that Parisian flair like he’d been born to it. His wardrobe was meant to dazzle. Italian suits, tailor-made shirts, thousand dollar shoes. He had walked proudly in this neighborhood where bejeweled old ladies walked their prized dogs and where perfumed men in trench coats walked quickly, looking straight out of Vogue Homme.

“How do the French learn to be elegant?” Lola asked, maybe reading her thoughts.

“It’s that stuff they put in red wine.”

“Even the French dogs are more elegant than American dogs, no?” Lola mused.

“There’s even a je ne sais quoi to the way they sniff each other’s butt.”

They walked on Chaussée de la Muette and soon entered the Jardins du Ranelagh. The three of them must have been an odd sight, each one an extreme of the female body spectrum—Lola the Amazon, Althea the waif, and she, feeling as tall as she was wide in her unflattering but oh-so-comfy red poncho, trotting between them like a miniature pony. She found herself in control of the stroller and it felt good, even with someone else’s child in it. The wheels made a comforting swish sound against the wet sand of the path. She had carried three babies inside her, then in carriers. She had pushed their strollers, always carrying, holding, pulling, lifting, pushing, and now she missed the constant physical contact she had taken for granted. She used to be a physical kind of girl. These days, she had to respect the boys’ desire and need for more separateness, but the result was that she didn’t get to touch or be touched too often. She felt increasingly physically separated from other humans, and emotional separation did not feel so far behind.

The giant beech and ash trees were bare and majestic, the air crisp and clean. Street noises became muffled and then disappeared. She felt the tension in her jaw ease as they walked and the children ran ahead. They passed neat rows of boxwood and life-size antique sculptures of goddesses, and through the bare branches of the trees, she admired the ornate details of the neighborhood’s architecture. With the cars out of sight, they could well have stepped back in time a hundred years. Annie pointed to the Musée Marmottan, the impressionist museum and vast collection of Monet’s work, and the green wooden barrack where the traditional puppet Guignol had been an attraction for generations of Parisian children. She felt strangely proud. This was her city.

Could it be that Althea was paying no attention to her city? Her park? Althea was walking with her head down, looking at nothing but her own feet and keeping her hands close to her chin to hold the collar of her flimsy coat. Meanwhile, she spoke in poor Lola’s ear, explaining that she used to bite her nails but had read it is bad for the enamel of her teeth. What? Annie wanted to say “you’re in Pa-ris! Forget your frigging enamel for a minute.” How could Lola bear this? In the last few days, Annie had attempted to exchange meaningful looks with Lola every time Althea went into one of her soliloquies. She did so in obvious ways by rolling her eyes and tilting her head back in expressions of utter boredom. To all of these, Lola appeared entirely impervious. At the moment, she showed no sign of annoyance, and nodded in concentration at Althea as she walked. Lola looked so rested, so much more serene and relaxed than she had a week ago. It was interesting how, in the space of a week, Lola had stopped wearing makeup and had taken to moving about the house in leggings and socks. Now she wore jeans and a down jacket that had belonged to Johnny. A wool hat was screwed on her short hair and she walked like a boy, hands in her pockets, looking up and around and smiling to no one in particular. The absence of a husband was doing her good. Annie wished she could be so lucky.

They arrived at the playground, which was filled with children, mothers, nannies, and French conversations, and then walked around to a quieter area with an empty stone bench facing the winter sun. On the bench next to theirs sat a carefully made up elderly woman. Her hands were covered with large rings and twenty or so pigeons surrounded her as she fed them remnants of a pastry. The kids ran to the jungle gym and Simon watched the pigeons, mesmerized. He seemed to put a great deal of thought into it, then toddled towards the birds and faked a small kick in their direction. The pigeons flew away noisily, then landed a few yards away and walked right back to be fed.

“Méchant garçon!” the old woman barked at Simon. Simon’s face turned pale. He pivoted on his feet and threw himself into Lola’s arms.

“La ferme, vieille peau!” Annie yelled at the woman. She was telling her to shut up and calling her an “old skin,” a sure bet of an insult to French women of any age. The old woman showed a fist in their direction, got up, and hurried away screaming. “Retournez dans votre pays.”

Go back to their country? Annie was disgusted. It was one thing to be mean to defenseless children, but open xenophobia? “Tes pigeons ont chié sur ta tête!” she screamed back. She then turned to Lola and Althea and explained, “I just told her that her pigeons crapped on her head!” She burst out laughing and was genuinely surprised when the two didn’t laugh. In fact all she read on Lola and Althea’s faces was shamed bewilderment. “What?” she asked. The two only looked at their shoes. “Oh, I know just what you’re thinking. I used to feel the same way. Why such gratuitous antagonism, heh? It’s just France, that’s all. The French are all about opinions and arguments. In fact, it’s better to have a hideous opinion than no opinion at all.” Because at least that’s interesting! Annie thought, unlike Althea’s dissertation on teeth and enamel.

Simon began to play sweetly in the sand while Lia, Maxence, Paul, and Laurent dangled from the jungle gym like a family of monkeys. Lola looked perfectly at peace with the moment, despite Althea’s talking her head off. Annie observed how fine Lola’s skin was even in full daylight and without makeup. She decided to interrupt Althea’s rambling.

“I’m considering renting one last room to someone. It’s an artist actually, a relative of Lucas who’s going through a financial and artistic crisis.” She paused. “But I’m kind of hesitating.”

“About what?” Lola asked.

“Well, it’s a man.”

“Is that a problem? Not enough bathrooms?”

“I’ve known Jared for years. You’d want him in your bathroom. That’s the problem,” she said. “He’s gorgeous, thirty years old, as French as they get, and did I mention gorgeous? He’s broken many hearts, I’m sure. Do we need this?”

“My heart’s long been broken. I’m safe,” Lola laughed.

Annie looked at Althea who sat stiffly on the bench. “What about you Althea? Whadayathink?”

“Well, I... don’t... ” Althea seemed to choke on her words and she blushed. “I mean I don’t feel... anything.”

Annie braced herself for another one of Althea’s stories. But instead, Althea’s shoulders began shaking and her face went from beet-red to turnip-white. Her expression was one of terror. She looked up at them, and then said, out of nowhere. “I’m...sick...I need help.” She then gasped, bent forward and buried her face in her hands. Huge sobs came like a wave from deep inside her.

Annie looked at Lola for help, only to find her reaction even stranger. Lola was stiff as a statue, and then she began to recoil and slide on the bench away from Althea. Althea’s cries became louder, and to Annie’s amazement, Lola walked away from the bench and went to play with Simon in the sand box. Lola had ditched her! Some Saint she was! What to do? What was this? Annie scooted close to Althea and did the only thing she could think of, which was to wrap one arm around Althea’s frail shoulders, noticing just how frail the girl really was, hardly thicker than a twelve year old, and rub her back as she whispered, “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” Althea murmured.

“That’s exactly why you’re here,” Annie said softly. “That’s why we’re all here. That’s why you came all this way to Paris, to get better!”

“I can’t get better,” Althea said, weeping.

“Are you, like...really sick? What is the problem?” Annie said, still holding her tight with one arm and waving impatiently for Lola to come closer. Lola approached the bench with great reluctance.

Althea lifted her face toward them. “Can’t you see me? Just look at me! I am the problem!” she bellowed.

It seemed as though everyone, Lola, the children on the playground, passersby and their dogs, even the pigeons had turned to statues, all eyes and ears in their direction.

“At last!” Annie said.

“I don’t see a problem,” Lola said hastily.

“I’m without...hope,” Althea sobbed.

“Well, you’re in Paris now. A new life. A new you!” Annie suggested.

“I don’t... think so.”

“Bah, you’re depressed, that’s all.” Annie suggested. “What about Prozac? Xanax? It doesn’t make a dent for me, I’d be more of a horse tranquilizer type of girl, but you could try it.”

“I have no desire to live,” Althea said flatly.

Yikes. No desire to live? What did that mean? “It will probably pass,” she said for lack of a better idea. “I’ve buried a husband, and look at me, I’m totally fine now.” She looked up at Lola and gave her a look that said, “Say something!” But Lola had buried her nose in her turtleneck and was looking away.

Althea lifted her head. “I’m not going to be fine,” she said with such absence of passion that Annie’s arms covered with goosebumps.

On the way back home, Simon refused to climb in his stroller and instead took hold of Annie’s hand. She liked the small warm hand in hers, needed it, as Althea spoke about things Simon was luckily too young to understand. There were no more talks about teeth, only about depression and hopelessness. Maybe this was better. At least it felt real. And Althea was no longer talking to Lola. She was talking to her. Lola, she guessed was the perfect person to go to when you wanted to say nothing at all. Oh, she would not have minded being off the hook. She dug furiously in her brain for comforting notions to offer Althea, who countered each and every one. Words were futile in the face of Althea’s nihilism.

Far behind them in the street, having let the kids go ahead of her, Lola pushed the empty stroller, not even pretending to want to help. Annie could have maimed her. At last her house was in sight, her beautiful home. The carved stones, the massive front door, and the sculpted silhouettes of sycamores fed her strength and she started breathing again. Could it be that the beauty of the house, the street, of Paris was lost on Althea? How mistaken she had been. Paris was no bloody cure for anything, and she herself was the living proof of it.

The children climbed up the stone stairs excitedly. It was as though while all this was happening, the children had had a watershed moment and were now playing together. What had she missed? Simon looked happiest, still hanging on to her hand and taking large steps up the stairs. Inside the house, coats, gloves, and scarves were removed and the children ran upstairs to the bedrooms. That is when Lola finally turned to Althea and said brightly, “I know exactly what you need.”

“Do you now?” Annie said, as sarcastically as she could.

Lola chirped, “A makeover!”

Annie closed her eyes in disbelief and ran up the stairs to take refuge in her bedroom.



Annie had learned at the school of insomnia that the later she stayed up, the less hours of loneliness she would endure in the wee hours of the morning. It was past midnight. She was physically drained but her brain had never been more alert. There was no peace in sight. She was running on panic mode. In her pajamas and bathrobe, she sat at the kitchen table with only the light of a small table lamp over her and a pile of cookbooks at her side as she took notes for the next day, ingredients, quantities, recipes, nonsense. Planning a meal was how she muscled through the crisis of self-doubt, how she mapped out her day, her year, the rest of her life.

She had to send these people back. She had to send them all back from where they came. Perfect Lola back to perfect Lola land, doing cheerleading or whatever it was she did there, and Althea back to her cave. They would leave and take with them their children, their death wish, their messy lives, and their huggable toddlers. Maybe she’d go back home to the States too, sell the house, give up on Paris, renounce huile de truffe and paté de lapin. She could resume the life she had interrupted ten years ago. She’d live at her parent’s house, work at Starbucks, and go back to law school. Pass the bar exam. She wasn’t too old to crawl back into the womb.

She came to the conclusion that if there was to be any sleep at all, she would have to get a glass of something first. She closed her book, turned off the light, and left the kitchen in the direction of the living room and the liquor cabinet. How pathetic she was to resort to drinking alone in the middle of the night. The house felt so symbiotic that even in pitch black, she could easily move about it without bumping into things. Maybe it was the house that was the womb? She advanced in the dark, hearing only the shuffle of her socks on the wood floor. She was surprised to find the door to the living room open because she remembered clearly closing that very door an hour before. She stood, on hold. Something was not right. She heard the wood floor creak somewhere in the room. Someone was in there. Her heart thumping, she felt for the heavy vase on the table and waited on alert, prepared to take hold of the vase and crack it on someone’s skull. But then came the distinct sound of a bottle being uncapped. She moved her shaking hand to the light switch, adrenalin pumping, and turned on the light.

It was Lola in the act of nursing a bottle of rum. Lola’s eyes widened in shock when she saw her, but she continued taking a long swig from the bottle, like a child determined to stuff as much candy into his mouth before his mother takes it away. Annie put her hands over her pounding heart. “You scared the living crap out of me!”

Lola moved the bottle away from her lips and began laughing, laughing and coughing so hard that tears sprang from her eyes. “I’m not an alcoholic, I swear!” she said between snorts of laughter. Annie gravely reached for the bottle and took it authoritatively out of Lola’s hand, which made Lola laugh ever harder. “I must look sooo guilty,” she wept.

Annie looked at her in silence, frowning, as Lola doubled over with laughter. She pointed to the bottle in Annie’s hand. “I wasn’t quite finished getting plastered,” she said. Annie contemplated the bottle in her hand, wiped the top with her pajama sleeve, took a long swig, and coughed before handing the bottle back to Lola.

“Let’s do this properly, shall we.”

Annie turned on the fireplace and placed a fresh log in. She went to the kitchen and came back with a plate which held small French cookies, ladyfingers and langues de chat, and then sank to the couch. Lola curled on pillows at the coffee table and poured rum in small glasses. They dipped cookies in rum, letting the alcohol and the fire transform the room around them. The walls, the framed art, the photographs of the children, and the antique furniture took on an orange glow.

“When’s Lucas coming back?” Lola asked.

Annie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“See, that’s so French, so modern. I love it,” She said, looking impressed.

Annie raised an eyebrow. “What is French?”

“You know, it’s totally not codependent. You don’t own each other.” She gave Annie a playful look. “Is it true that French men are better lovers?”

“Johnny was American.”

Lola looked dismayed. “Lucas? Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

“Of course not!”

“But he came to the airport.”

Annie laughed despite herself. “The airport, yes, that would be a telltale sign.”

“I figured...”

“Am I supposed to deny in advance everything people might imagine?” She realized she had no reason to be defensive and softened her tone. “He’s just a great friend of the family. There is nothing between us, of course.”

“I could have sworn.”

“Look, Lucas is a womanizer, and me, I’m one man’s woman.” She marked a pause, “One dead man’s woman. Besides, Lucas is rather out of my league, wouldn’t you say?” Lola seemed to consider that for a moment and didn’t contradict her. That alone pissed Annie off. You can never let your guard down around popular girls. Popular girls get that way by being cutthroat and eliminating the competition. And what better way to eliminate the competition than to make them feel two inches tall. “Lola,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you a personal question. How can you be so cold and collected in the middle of this marriage crisis of yours?” Cold and collected. She was mostly referring to Lola’s behavior at the park. If Lola noticed her choice of words, she did not let on.

“I don’t feel calm or collected. I’m neither of those things,” she responded, her voice trailing a bit, the valley accent suddenly apparent. Annie didn’t know if it was due to sadness, or due to the rum.

“This morning with Althea, you seemed very... composed,” Annie said, tight-lipped.

“No way. I was totally, like, freaking out! I’m, like, the least qualified to help anyone. I can barely help myself,” she said, her valley girl accent taking over. “I have no control over my life, no control over anything, really. I’m put together and all but it’s all totally fake. Lying is, like...totally my life!” she added, biting her lip like she might cry. Annie tried to read Lola’s face. “How much booze did you have?” Lola widened her arms “A lot!” She continued in earnest. “Guess what?” she laid her upper body flat on the coffee table with complete abandon and whispered, “I’m not even a real brunette!” Come to think of it, Lola’s coal-black hair was surprisingly dark for her complexion. “That’s your big lie? I’m pretty confident you won’t burn in hell for that one.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Lola squealed. “I’m a tow head. I’m a real dumb blonde! Look at my roots!” She leaned over the table again and parted her short hair to reveal the odd sight of a pink scalp and very blonde roots. “It was dyed black for a photo shoot ten years ago, when I modeled, before I met Mark. It gave me instant character.” She snapped her fingers. “Poof, just like that! It’s been my hair color ever since.”

That would explain the green eyes, the pale skin, and the blonde children. “I’ll bet you look stunning regardless of your hair color,” Annie said, feeling magnanimous.

“Stunning, yeah, whatever good it does me. I’m thinking of letting it grow out. I really, really, really want to start over, you know. I want a new life. Completely brand spanking new. I don’t want to be Mark’s thing anymore. I don’t even want to be his type.” She sat straight, suddenly very serious, and whispered intently, “Some of the damage is irreparable, though.”

“Like?”

“Like this,” she said, jubilant. She unbuttoned her pajama top, flashed Annie her bare breasts, a pretty humongous set of fake breasts, closed her pajamas, and laughed like a hyena. Annie was speechless. “Not too organic, huh? Can you picture these enormities in Down Dog? They almost rub against my cheeks!”

“Doggy style?” Annie wondered.

Lola hollered with laughter. “Not doggy style!” She rushed to the floor, put hands and feet flat on the ground, her back and legs straight, butt elevated. “Down Dog! You know, in yoga?”

This was so interesting. Lola had fake breasts! Wait till she told Lucas. “I know why they invented yoga,” Annie declared. “It’s a hypocrite’s excuse to go into obscene positions with impunity.” And Lola’s breasts did get in the way, but she kept that to herself. “I’ve done yoga,” she continued. “It’s boring, and in my case, embarrassing.”

“Boring? Yoga?” Lola yelped. “Yoga is my life. You’ve got to do yoga.” Then she looked about to cry again. “I hate these fake boobs. I hate them,” she said, her voice trailing pathetically. “And what for? I mean sex has become so, like, bla bla bla all the time. What’s the word?”

“Perfunctory?”

“The boobs were all his idea. He used to pay some attention to my... hmmm...”

“Vagina?”

“But now... it’s like it never existed. He’s too into the boobs. But really, the boobs, they’re not me at all. Mark’s into the one part of me that has nothing to do with me. These days our sex is so perfunctory, you know, that I’d rather not have it at all.”

These days? The words did not sink in immediately, the alcohol having blurred the edges of her reasoning. Weren’t Lola and Mark separated? She thought of pointing it out but instead said. “Maybe you should have let him know.”

“Let him know what? That he’s a lousy lay?”

“You could have taught him what you like.”

“It’s not like that... it wasn’t like that I mean. I think it’s more that all that good testosterone is used up with some twenty-five-year-old in his office.”

“You’ve caught him cheating?” she asked.

“Do I need to catch him in the act to know what he’s up to? He’s got looks, power, and money. Of course, he cheats on me.” Lola didn’t seem angry or resentful. Was she past those feelings or incapable of them?

“My husband had looks, power, and money too,” Annie said.

“They think with their dicks, it’s scientifically proven.”

Annie shook her head. “Oh no, not Johnny.” She felt worn out by the alcohol and the late hour. She could have easily curled into a ball on the couch and fallen asleep there.

“I hear adultery is de rigueur in France,” Lola said.

“Johnny was American.”

“Famous last words,” Lola giggled.

This jolted Annie like a slap in the face and suddenly she was wide awake. How insensitive. Johnny was dead, killed for heaven’s sake. She needed to shut the bitch up. “So, tell me Lola, what else about you is fake?”

“My name.” Lola looked at her with naked vulnerability, her eyes almost imploring acceptance. “My real name is Laura. But there already was a Laura at the modeling agency that was booking me. I was only sixteen when I started modeling full time. I didn’t even object to being given whatever name. I lost my name and my education. The money was too good to pass up. I didn’t finish high school.” Now Annie felt like a schmuck. Hopefully Lola didn’t notice she had intended to hurt her.

“So you’ve been Lola for...”

“I’m going to be forty.”

“You don’t even look thirty!” Annie exclaimed.

Lola pointed to her face. “Here and here, collagen. Here, here, and here, Botox. It wears off, you know.” She had a small laugh. “If I don’t keep it up, you’ll see me age ten years over the next six months!”

“No shit!”

“Well, I hope not, but I’m pretty scared.”

Annie, for the first time, saw Lola not for who she appeared to be, but for the person Lola must feel she was. Deep inside, the glamorous Beverly Hills model was still flat-chested Laura, the domestically abused mother of two screwed-up kids. Lola was a woman in transition, a woman who had too often bet on the wrong horse, a woman ambivalent about growing older. A woman not unlike herself.



The next day, Annie was hurrying through the downpour and entering the overheated sixteenth arrondissement bistro where Lucas ate lunch almost every day. She spotted Lucas at a table near the window and made her way between tables. She dropped onto the bistro chair and wrestled with her coat. “What’s the Plat du jour?”

“Confit de Canard and scalloped potatoes.” I took the liberty of ordering for you.

Annie noted Lucas’s ski tan. “How was Courchevel?”

“Une bouteille de Perrier.” Lucas told the approaching waiter. He folded his menu neatly. “Courchevel was superb. The powder was divine. What did I miss?”

“Everything!” Annie proceeded to describe the week, wondering all the way, but never asking, with whom Lucas had traveled. “My heart goes out to Lola,” she said finally. “She really is a nice person, and genuine, no matter what she says about lying being second nature to her. And,” she added smugly, “she looks great for being almost forty.”

The plates arrived, steaming. Lucas put his napkin on his lap. “Sounds like you like her better.”

“She’s not such a bad girl.”

“Blonde or not, breasts or not, she’ll have no problem finding a man to worship her.”

“Did I tell you she’s almost forty?”

“You made that abundantly clear.”

“That’s because society doesn’t give women a chance. For us, thirty-five is the beginning of the end.”

“Her end has not come yet.”

“Hmm,” Annie said, looking at him quizzically. “Would I be wrong to assume that you wouldn’t mind paying homage to her plastic bosom?”

“Only as a public service, to help her regain much needed self-confidence.”

Annie shook her napkin angrily and put it on her lap. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry? I just think the last thing Lola needs is to be treated like a sex object, particularly by a French macho man who can’t hold onto a woman for more than a week.“

Lucas put a hand over his heart. “I pledge to make it last more than a week!”

“You’ve got some nerve! What makes you think she’d want you?”

Lucas tried to appear humble as he said, “My reputation, as you know, precedes me.”

Annie studied his face. Was he joking? The thought of pouring her water glass down his pants occurred to her, but she was thirsty so she brought the glass to her mouth. “Oooh I see, we must be talking about Monsieur Le Penis. I’ll break the news to you, since you’ve been caught in a time warp. Size is nothing to women! Besides, I’m pretty sure you are not her type.”

“I’m ze French man. We have an international reputation.”

“Ze French male ego is at work, I see.”

“Ze ego and Ze penis are always at work.”

Annie smiled despite herself. “So? Who was there?” she asked.

“Who was where?”

“In bloody Courchevel, where else?”

“No one of importance,” Lucas answered. Annie chewed and looked at Lucas intently, but Lucas only stared back.