“Hiiii!” Lala trilled.
“Are you dating Clive?” Eliza asked.
“Are you sleeping with Clive?” Zoe demanded.
“Is he amazing in bed? I bet he’s amazing in bed!”
“Ladies!” Lala wagged her scolding index finger at the screen. “Of course not! You know I’m engaged-to-be-engaged!”
Zoe and Eliza looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They looked back at the screen and shrugged their shoulders at Lala.
“I really have tried to not think that sounds stupid,” Zoe said.
“I reread Pride and Prejudice,” Eliza said, “and I still think ‘engaged-to-be-engaged’ just sounds ridiculous.”
“Okay, Ladies?” Lala said. “This is, as I’m sure you can imagine, not the topic I had in mind for this meeting.”
“Sorry,” Zoe said.
“Sorry,” Eliza echoed.
“I see you both trying not to giggle. Don’t think I don’t, because I do. Okay, here’s the thing. I think I need to buy the building where I’m staying in Paris. And I would really like your help in figuring out how to do that. Eliza, I’m feeling very confident that your exceptional accounting abilities . . . hang on a sec . . .”
Lala switched her attention to her cell phone, which had just beeped to indicate that a text message had come in. It was from David.
“Are you on Skype? Let’s talk! Love you!”
Merde, Lala thought. I love him. Merde. And I am so freakin’ horny.
“Ladies, I’m so sorry, give me just a minute. Talk amongst yourselves. Not about my engagement status.”
Lala started typing on her phone.
Though I do have to give myself credit for maintaining my sassy libido while I’m terrified of death and dying and loss. I am one sexually sassy woman of a certain age.
She hit “Send” and her message to David was on its way. The message she had typed told him that she was on Skype with her office, and she was working on a way to help the feral cats, and she loved him and she missed him, and she would Skype with him as soon as she possibly could, and she was covering him with hugs and kisses, every day, every moment.
“Okay, my dear ones,” Lala said. She put her phone back down and refocused on her laptop. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We send ideas to each other and we figure out how to do this, yes? Eliza, I can put my New York City condo up as collateral.
“On it,” Eliza said.
“And I’ll start brainstorming,” Zoe said.
“I just adore you both,” Lala said. “I’m thinking I need a face-to-face with the owner of the building. I’ve only met his daughter so far. She’s a nightmare. I plan to tell him I will do whatever needs to be done to make the sale work. Short of offering to let him take it out in trade, of course.”
“Of course,” Zoe said.
“Talk to you soon,” Eliza said.
The screen went blank. Lala sat for a few moments staring at the screen and drinking her sparkling water. Then she reread her text to David while she sipped.
Well, Lala thought, everything I wrote is true. The only problem is that I’m misleading him when I say that I’ll call him as soon as I possibly can. “Soon” sounds . . . like I mean soon. And I’m not sure how soon I can handle seeing David’s sweet and kind and sexy and not-immortal face again . . . My epic lust for him notwithstanding. Damn you, mortality. Damn you for raining on my passion parade.
If It’s Not One Thing . . .
Lala had stopped by the restaurant to check in with Kenny and his grandfather before she went to charm Clément Barrault. Their meeting had been arranged by Eliza after countless e-mails and phone calls between Lala and her wonderful production staff, her new veterinarian friends, and Lala’s bank in Los Angeles.
“Is there a French equivalent for ‘getting my ducks in a row’?” Lala asked Kenny. “Veronique and Camille are in enthusiastic agreement. They can move their clinic to that large apartment on the ground floor and they can live in the apartment just behind it. My condo will be collateral for the loan. First order of business after the sale, build a structure in the garden for the feral cats to find shelter.”
Maurice poured the three of them large shots of tequila. They clinked glasses and downed the contents.
“Ohh, yeeeah,” Lala said. “That is some kinda smooth stuff. I’m feelin’ good. ‘Feelin’,’ No ‘g.’ So you know I’ve got my game on. And ‘kinda.’ Not ‘kind of.’ Mama ain’t comin’ to play, Monsieur Barrault. ‘Ain’t.’ Not ‘isn’t.’ ‘Comin’.’ No—”
“Right. We get the idea, Lala. Bonne chance, chère amie. Knock him dead.”
“Right. Of course, I would have said, ‘Knock ’im dead,’ you know, just to use the folksy quality to indicate my level of grassroots commitment to—”
“Absolutely,” Kenny said. He and his grandfather linked their arms on either side with Lala’s and marched her to the restaurant door. “On your way, chère amie. You don’t want to be late.”
Lala crossed the Seine to the First Arrondissement. Monsieur Barrault’s office was on a small street near the Louvre. When she rang the bell, the imposing, ornate wood door was quickly opened by a tall, grey-haired man, possibly in his late sixties or so, in a perfectly-tailored navy blue suit. Lala’s first thought at seeing him was that, in a lovely pan-European fusion, he looked like a Gallic version of Marcello Mastroianni. Her second thought was that, if she were not engaged-to-be-engaged, she might at that moment be hoping for a rather different conclusion to the day’s negotiations.
“Madame Pettibone,” he said. He took her hand and shook it. “Bienvenue.”
His pronunciation of Lala’s last name was as lyrical and appreciative as his daughter’s pronunciation had been hard-edged and aggressive.
Clément Barrault led Lala down a small hallway to the inner door to his office. The room was tidy and well-organized, and almost overwhelmed with books. Every wall had shelves and every shelf was filled.
Monsieur Barrault motioned for Lala to sit in the chair across from his desk. He brought over a tray with a large coffee pot, cups, and a platter of assorted small pastries.
“Puis-je vous offrir un café?”
“Oui, merci,” Lala said. “Noir, s’il vous plait.”
“Shall we continue our chat in English?” Monsieur Barrault asked.
“Oh, I guess that’s probably a good idea, isn’t it?” Lala said.
Monsieur Barrault sat behind his desk and picked up the platter of treats to offer them to Lala.
“You must try these. They are from my favorite patisserie.”
“If I must,” Lala said. She scanned the platter and chose a small strawberry tart.
“Ah, you picked my favorite of my favorites,” he said. “How charming of you to have such excellent taste.”
Are we flirting? Lala thought. Because this is fun, so I think we’re flirting.
“Yum,” Lala said.
“My daughter tells me she greatly enjoyed meeting you. It seems you had a lovely evening getting to know each other. I’m so glad.”
“Mmm,” Lala said. She looked out the window and managed to smile. Weakly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Monsieur Barrault nod.
“My daughter has been overindulged by her doting mother and grandmother and aunts. I have had a very difficult time combating her . . . how shall I say . . . rather brittle attitude. Perhaps you can help me with that today?” He opened a file on his desk. “The numbers your very capable Mademoiselle Eliza sent me are a very tempting beginning to our discussion.”
“Oh, I’m very glad,” Lala said.
“Eliza tells me you are here in Paris working on a movie?”
“Well, ‘working’ might be giving too generous a description.”
“You know, I was thinking . . . As I looked at these numbers . . . I was thinking of something t
hat might make this transaction rather more appealing for me. Perhaps you and I could discuss the possibility of—”
Whoa, Lala thought. He’s gonna hit on me! Cool! Bien sur, I’ll say, “Désolé, mais non, but I have to confess—”
The door flew open, and Celestine ran in.
“Pa-PA!” she barked.
Oh, merde, Celestine! Sucky timing!
“Celestine!” her father scolded. “Do you not understand the concept of knocking?”
Celestine ignored him. She ran over to Lala and leaned over Lala’s chair to embrace her.
“Ohhh, Madame Pettt-eeeettttt-BOWWWNNN!”
Lala saw Celestine’s father wince at his daughter’s attack on her family name.
“How lovely to see you again!” Celestine said. “We must make a plan for another fun evening together bientôt, oui?”
Celestine didn’t wait for an answer from Lala. She stood and squared off against her father, standing at the side of his desk with her hands on her hips.
“Je suis très en colère contre nos employés au bâtiment de Madame Pettt-eeeettttt-BOWWWNNN! Ce n’est pas acceptable et j’insiste—”
“Celestine!” her father said, his voice rising. “It is extremely rude to speak French in front of our guest when she can’t—”
“I did catch a few of the words,” Lala said. “I think I may have gotten the gist—”
“Fine, fine, pardon, Madame,” Celestine whined. “Pa-PA, I am simply not willing to tolerate—”
While she had been listening to Celestine gas on and on in her princess voice, Lala had been debating making the comments she was forming from a seated position, but she quickly decided that standing and imitating would provide a much more deliciously mocking presentation. She stood, turned a bit to face the snarling young woman, and put her hands on her hips.
“Celestine, could you excuse us? We’re havin’ a kinda important conversation here. Kinda. Not ‘kind of.’ And ‘havin’.’ No ‘g.’ So you know I’m not screwin’ around here, Celestine. ’Kay?”
Lala had stayed up all night working. Before she got started on completing her urgent task, she had called Clive and Matthew and Atticus and asked if she could take them out for breakfast. She got to the restaurant that Kenny and his grandfather managed just under the wire, not having showered and still in her sweatpants and her “WESCREW” tee shirt, the cute cotton top that the crew team issued at Wesleyan that could be read as a running together of “we screw” and that she had found endlessly hilarious in her undergraduate years and every year since.
Lala walked into the restaurant. The three men were already seated. When she saw all of their eyes widen at the sight of her upper garment, she remembered what she was wearing. It had slipped her mind that she had put the tee shirt on the night before when she started writing.
Oh, dear, Lala thought. I think I’m sending the wrong message to my colleagues.
Kenny came over to take their drink orders. When she saw him, Lala remembered that Clive had, just the other day, confirmed that Atticus was in fact not seeing anyone at the moment. This would have been foremost on her matchmaker’s mind, but it had been bumped off first place by the more immediate urgency of helping the cats.
“Hi,” Kenny said. “Okay, you’re all here. Great tee shirt, Lala!”
“Hi, Kenny!” Lala said. “I’ve been wanting you to meet my friends-slash-colleagues, Clive and Matthew and . . .”
And here she stopped for a nearly unnoticeable, but nonetheless reasonably portentous, moment or two to add an air of passionate gravitas as a boost to what she hoped would be a love match to rival Abelard and Héloïse’s, but without all the taboos.
“. . . Atticus.”
And just as she said the name, she saw Kenny and Atticus smile at each other.
Ohh, look at that, Lala thought. I didn’t need to add the dramatic pause at all. Some things might just be meant to be.
“Kenny, I’m kind of chilly. Do you by any chance have a jacket I could borrow?”
“Sure thing,” Kenny said. “And what can I get everyone to drink?”
They ordered coffees and teas and Kenny recommended his grandfather’s Omelet du Jour, which he explained was a new creation of Maurice’s, inspired by just having seen A Passage to India again and one that involved a lot of curry and chickpeas.
Kenny brought Lala a comfortable sweater that Lala buttoned up to cover the collegiate advertisement regarding sex. The food was delicious, and everyone chatted easily about this and that. Kenny’s and Atticus’s mutual interest was palpable, and Lala was starting to lose her mind from nervousness about how important this all was for the future of those poor cats, so she did what she always did when she got agitated.
“Okay, enough cordial banter!”
Merde! Lala thought. Now I’m fully committed to blurting.
“Here’s the thing. Clive knows about this colony of feral cats in the garden of the place where I’m living. Now I need to buy the whole building because the daughter of the owner is not a nice person and . . . Kenny! Get over here and help me with this, please?”
Kenny came over brandishing a fresh pot of coffee. He started pouring and gave Lala a quick hug with his free arm.
“Okay, yeah, I heard you dive in. Because everyone in the restaurant heard you dive in. I’m here, backing you up. Go on. You were saying?”
“So the daughter’s not nice, and she would probably have the cats killed if she found out about them, and that is not me being melodramatic because I’m hyperventilating and I feel pretty dizzy right now. So I met with her dad, and I don’t think he much likes his daughter. He didn’t actually say that, but I really get the feeling that he’s looking forward to rubbing her spoiled nose in it by selling the building to me so I can banish her from having any influence over the building and its inhabitants and this restaurant, which is also part of the deal, and, last but certainly not least, those poor cats. He’s giving me a really good price. There’s just one thing he wants, and I’m a little insulted to say that it wasn’t sexual favors from me. I’m kidding, of course. Kinda. What he wants is to be in the film.”
She paused to catch her halting breath, and Matthew jumped in. As she listened to him, Lala suspected that he was being cooperative to a great extent as a means of getting her to shut her jabbering pie-hole for a few precious moments.
“Okay, well, Lala, I would have to say that that shouldn’t be a problem. He can be an extra when we film at the—”
“He wants lines,” Lala said. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing a short scene for him.”
Lala grabbed her large bag and pulled out three copies of four-printed pages that were stapled together. She handed one to Clive, one to Matthew, and one to Atticus. Kenny turned away from the table and called over his shoulder as he walked off to the kitchen.
“Let me get you all a special assortment of breakfast desserts! Back in a jiff!”
“Take your time, gentlemen. I don’t need an answer until this afternoon. Matthew, I kept thinking back to what you had said about the character of Terry needing more of an edge. It was such an inspiring insight. Clive, I can only hope this draft showcases your fabulous acting in a way that it so richly deserves.”
God, I am cascading this over these poor guys with a bucket . . .
“Atticus, I know that the scene absolutely needs your talent to elevate it. I would be so grateful if you would help me with the next draft?”
Lala noticed that Matthew had been nodding during the last words of her monologue. She turned to him with a hopeful, desperate smile. Matthew stopped nodding. He didn’t say anything.
Come on, Matty, my man! Don’t leave me hanging! You’ve got to realize I don’t do well under pressure.
“Are you playing on our epically fragile male egos?” Matthew finally asked. “Egos that are clichéd to an extent t
hat they can be easily manipulated in just about every case?”
I am if it’s working, Lala thought.
“Is it working?” she asked.
“Yup,” Matthew said.
“Definitely,” Clive agreed.
“And count me in as a big, fat ‘Yes’ on that,” Atticus said. “Especially if Kenny is single.”
“Great! Because I’ve also been promising some of the lovely people I’ve met around the city, like the driver who picked me up at the airport and this very adorable little old lady I met on the line at Berthillon, that they could visit the set, so I’ve taken the liberty of writing them into the scene since they’ll be there anyway . . .”
The number of participants in the midnight vigil had grown by fifty percent. The vigil had also changed in tone thanks to the threat of Celestine’s interference being delightfully eliminated by the verbal agreement, soon to be finalized on paper via appropriate documentation and whatever Lala imagined was the French equivalent of a notary public, that Lala was the new owner of the building. As a result, Lala and Kenny and Atticus were hidden in a corner huddled together with their eyes focused on the humane traps that had once again been set up in the garden. They were silently passing between them and drinking directly from a bottle of very good port that Kenny’s grandfather had supplied. Atticus, as it was discovered after breakfast when he stayed in the restaurant to flirt with Kenny under the guise of working on the new scene with Lala, was, in addition to being smart and cute and talented, a person who had always done whatever he could to help animals.
“There she is,” Lala whispered. “I think.”
“I think so,” Kenny whispered. “Shoot, she’s not going near the opening.”
Please, please, please, Lala silently begged. I know it’s scary, but I promise you’ll be okay.
The cat sniffed at the side of the trap. Lala watched her as she turned and scampered away, and she got a better view of the cat as she ran beneath a brightly-lit window on the second floor.
“Damn it,” Lala whispered. “That’s definitely our girl. Come on back, sweetheart, please. We want to help you. Quit hogging the booze, Atticus.”
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