by Ariel Lawhon
“Mr. Fiocca,” I say, voice lowered so my friends cannot hear me. I am suddenly self-conscious about sharing this conversation.
“I thought we established that I would like you to call me Henri?”
“You requesting a thing does not mean it’s established. You should already know me better than that.”
“I have been trying to know you better, but you keep resisting.”
I laugh. “And for good reason too.”
“I—”
“Hold on a moment,” I say, placing a hand over the receiver. I look at Stephanie and Frank. “This is important.” Not that I want Fiocca to know that, of course. I look at them, pointedly, until they take the hint and begin collecting their things. I move my hand and say, quietly, “Would you mind calling back in fifteen minutes? I’m in the middle of something.”
“I—yes, of course.”
“Excellent.” I hang up.
* * *
—
Frank isn’t quite stumbling drunk when I kick them out of my flat—more of a gentle sway, like a palm tree. Stephanie, as usual, is stone-cold sober. She winks at me, mouths the word Fiocca, then wiggles her fingers in farewell, flashing a triumphant grin as I close the door in her face. She had twice as much to drink as either of us and she isn’t the slightest bit pickled. I am determined to learn her methods if for no other reason than an innate desire to be the last man standing. Because I am tottering quite badly.
I lean my forehead against the door, listening to the sound of their retreating footsteps, then I exhale when all is silent once more. So much for running from Henri Fiocca—he’s caught up to me rather quickly. What on earth am I going to do about that man?
“Absolutely nothing,” I say out loud as I make my way to the kitchen for a big glass of water. “He’s not some problem to be solved. He’s…he’s…” I look at Picon for an answer, but he’s curled up on the rug, fast asleep in a patch of sunlight.
Hell if I know what Henri Fiocca is exactly.
Dead sexy.
Intriguing.
Wildly impressed with himself.
Tall. Strong. Yet gentle in the way that only big men can be. And his voice. It is an aphrodisiac. Which is a strange realization, to be honest, because I always thought I was susceptible to a Scottish accent. And yet here I am, falling for a Frenchman.
“Aaargh. I will not. It’s ridiculous. I don’t have time for this.”
Which does nothing to explain why I’m brushing my hair until it crackles and applying another coat of lipstick as though he’s about to walk through the door at any moment.
Fifteen minutes later on the dot my phone rings again.
“Hello. This is Nancy,” I say again, knowing full well who is on the other end.
“Noncee.”
I take a slow breath through my nose and press my shoulder to the wall. I curl the phone cord around one finger. “I suppose you got my number from Stephanie?”
He chuckles. “Of course.”
“Hmm. Remind me to thank her.”
There is an odd pause on the other end and for a moment I think that he’s nervous, that he doesn’t know what to say next. Fiocca clears his throat and asks, “Why did you leave Marseille? I came to Le Bar de la Marine the next night, ready to dance, but you were not there.”
“That’s when I was scheduled to leave. I have a job, you know. And a life.”
“You didn’t mention leaving that night. Why?”
I could lie. That’s what I typically do when put in these situations. But something about Henri Fiocca makes me want to discard the typical and run headlong at the truth. “You seem to think I’m a sure thing,” I say, “like some blonde who tags along after you.”
“I was quite clear about my preference for brunettes.”
“Yes, well, it’s their preference for you that I find alarming. I’m not interested in competing for your attention.”
“Let me assure you,” he says, voice dropping lower, “you have my full attention. There is no competition.”
I’m sure he says that to all his girls. But the fact that we are on the phone and not face-to-face has me feeling bold. “Prove it,” I say.
“Have dinner with me tonight and I will.”
“No.”
“But…” He clears his throat. “You said if I called you would dine with me. A promise is a promise.”
Something occurs to me, a few beats too late. “You’re in Paris?”
“Oui. On business.” He does not fall for the change of subject. “Dinner?”
The news of his proximity has thrown me. “I will not dine with you tonight.” A pause to gather my thoughts and then, “I’m meeting a few colleagues at Luigi’s. We have a lot to catch up on.”
“Dinner tomorrow, then?”
There’s no way out of it now. “Yes.”
“When may I collect you?”
There is an art to setting a time for such a date. Early in the evening tells a man that you have no intention of going to bed with him. Late in the evening declares yourself open to other intentions. There is only one reasonable option in a situation like this.
“Eight o’clock,” I say. Neither early nor late.
I can hear the smile in his voice as he recognizes what I’ve done. This is a game. Winner take all. “And your address?”
I give it to him.
“Tomorrow, then, Noncee.”
He hangs up first this time and I stand there for a moment, the receiver pressed against my ear, lips pursed, unable to determine whether I am excited or terrified.
PARIS
Ristorante Luigi, 8 Rue de Buci
I wear my favorite armor to Luigi’s: red lipstick. The fact that I’m also wearing a swishy dress and shiny black pumps doesn’t hurt. Nor does the carefully curled hair or the heavy swipe of mascara. It’s something I’ve already come to think of as the Fiocca Effect, this desire to be noticed. The dress itself isn’t anything special, just a light blue cotton with a scoop neck, neatly belted, but it’s enough to get Frank Gilmore’s attention. He notices me leaning across the bar, giving instructions to Enzo, the barman. Frank waves me over to the raucous, crowded table in the corner but I hold up one finger. Wait.
“Don’t forget,” I tell Enzo.
He responds with a nod and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as if he’d like to say, About damn time, but he’s a smart man and he keeps his mouth shut.
Contingency plan in place, I make my way to the back of the room. A collective roar of “Nancy!” goes up and I survey the table crowded with my fellow freelancers. Journalists and photographers, every one of them male.
“I was just telling them about your job interview, Nance,” Frank says, pulling out a chair for me. He’s sobered up nicely since this afternoon. Probably went home and passed out for several hours. “Those damn hieroglyphics of yours.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you.” I pull Picon out of my purse and listen as Frank continues. I scratch Picon’s fuzzy chin and he licks my pinkie finger.
A few minutes later Frank gives me a questioning glance. “What kind of shorthand was it?”
“Pitman.”
“Pitman shorthand,” he finishes. “She’d written the entire thing backward, in shorthand.”
My colleagues laugh and cheer, and I watch as Frank positions himself for his grand finale. “And it’s just that kind of ingenuity—no, brilliance—that earned our girl the lead article on the front page of the New York Evening Journal!”
And with that he pulls the newspaper from inside his suit coat and brandishes it with a flourish. It does not escape my attention that his thumb is covering the place where my name should be. I’d been in such a rush to evict him earlier that I hadn’t even noticed the paper was gone, hadn’t given it a second thought sinc
e speaking with Fiocca. Frank Gilmore, kind man that he is, is trying to give me the credit Hearst would not.
I’m not sure how it is elsewhere in the world, or even elsewhere in Paris, but our little group of freelancers is unusually supportive. Sure, we’re all out there scrambling for our stories, following our leads, and keeping them to ourselves when necessary, but once the story is printed, we celebrate one another. And, as is customary, the winner buys the first round of drinks. I’m the only girl in this motley group of seven, and the only one who prefers brandy to beer. I wait until Frank summons the waiter, and we put in our orders before I tell a story of my own.
“Did anyone bother to ask Frank why the article was printed without a photograph?”
They all look at him and the color seeps across Frank’s great big potato head. It’s a wonder the strain doesn’t turn him ginger on the spot.
“It’s because his camera was smashed to bits in Vienna by one of those bastard Brownshirts. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Our friends look at him closer now, nodding. Respectful. That is a battle scar to be proud of. And this is how it goes among the journos. We tell stories, mostly about politics and politicians, and all the surrounding wars. Skirmishes. Assassinations. Elections. But sometimes we tell stories on and about ourselves as well. We regale one another with tales of our humiliations and humanity. Frank did me the honor of showing the others that I am clever, so I return the favor by making sure they know he is brave.
I pause as our waiter deposits our drinks on the table and only when he’s gone do I finish my story. “Frank didn’t even flinch when that arschloch yanked the camera from his hands, smashed it onto the cobblestones, and kicked the pieces into the fire. He should have been right there with me on the front page.” I raise my glass, wink at him, then repeat his words from earlier that day. “It’s a damned pity he wasn’t. To Frank!”
“To Frank!” they respond, tipping their glasses toward him in salute.
It’s only after all the glasses have been clinked and he’s been slapped hard enough on the back to rattle his teeth that a second, and now very familiar, drink is set on the table beside my brandy. A French 75.
I knew it! I absolutely knew it.
Then comes the whisper, low and filled with humor in my ear. “I take this to mean that you were expecting me?”
My breath catches in my throat and I hold it for three long seconds. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
“Is that so?”
My smile is victorious. “You are nothing if not predictable, Fiocca.”
“You did ask me to prove it, ma chère.”
I knew, as soon as I mentioned my meeting at Luigi’s to Henri on the phone earlier, that he would send the drink. If pressed, I might even admit that I’d done it on purpose. Maybe I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to see him. Maybe. And, since I’m being honest—especially given how little time I’ve actually spent with the man—I rather suspected he’d show up in person to place the order. So I told Enzo not to let him off the hook when he arrived. As a matter of fact, I ordered Enzo to send Henri over with the drink himself. It’s why I wore this blue dress.
Frank has noticed Henri’s presence and his eyes narrow. It’s amazing how quickly my attention has shifted from my colleagues to my…I’m not entirely sure what to call him, but, as he sets his hand casually on my shoulder, I am aware that Henri is something more to me than any other man at this table.
“Who’s your friend, Nancy?” Frank asks.
“This is Henri Fiocca.”
Frank glances at Henri and then at the hand that rests on my shoulder, thumb lightly brushing the side of my neck. Intimate. Possessive. “And what are your intentions with our dear Nancy?” he asks Henri. It’s a bold, defiant question and I love Frank all the more for it. He won’t be brushed off quite that easily.
I turn my head to look up at Henri. I’d like to know the answer to that as well.
His voice and his face are perfectly calm when he says, “I have traveled all the way from Marseille—over six hours by train—to deflower her.”
But then he dips his chin and winks at me.
“Well, if that’s your goal you’ll need to go in search of a different garden,” I say. “That bloom has long since been plucked.”
My poor friends are scandalized to hear such talk, Frank more than any of them. But Henri throws his head back and roars with laughter. His shoulders shake, and he presses his free hand to his chest, as though he can’t quite find enough oxygen to replenish his empty lungs. And that, right there, is what turns the tide in his favor. I won’t go as far as to say that he’s proven anything to me, but I am willing to let him try.
I pull a handful of francs from my billfold and hand them to Frank. “That should be enough to cover drinks,” I say. Then I stand, sling my purse over one shoulder, tuck Picon under my arm, and swallow the last of my brandy in a long pull that leaves my throat burning.
Fiocca’s eyes widen but he says nothing as I lift the French 75 from the table. “Good night, boys,” I tell my friends.
They all stare at me but no one protests. I’ve done stranger things and, honestly, their chances of picking up female companions are greater if I’m not present. I can see that Frank understands, though, and he surrenders. He gives me a single nod, I blow him a kiss, and then I’m out the door with Henri Fiocca.
We’re already halfway down the street before it occurs to me that I’ve just stolen a cocktail glass from Luigi’s. Oh well, I’ll bring it back tomorrow, along with a tip for Enzo. Fiocca is nearly a head taller than everyone around us and I am very glad that I’ve worn my tallest heels. Still, I have to peer up at him and I’m unsure what to say, so I take a sip of my French 75 instead. This makes him smile.
“Easy, there. You’re crossing streams.”
“What?”
“First the brandy, now gin and champagne. You’ll be asleep on a park bench by seven o’clock, at this rate.”
“So that’s the trick? I did wonder how you Frenchies hold your liquor so well.”
“It’s just one of the tricks. I’ll teach you the others one day.”
Fiocca lifts his hand and I think he might touch me, perhaps brush my cheek or tuck a bit of hair behind my ear. But he scratches Picon behind the ears instead.
“And who is this?”
I say with all seriousness, “The great love of my life.”
“Ah, a rival. What is his name?”
“Picon.”
“And how do you do, sir?” Henri says, offering his knuckles for a sniff.
Picon obliges and then licks them twice. Henri bows his head slightly in gratitude. “A pleasure to meet you as well.”
And what am I supposed to do with that? I mean, really. How could anyone not fall for such a man?
Henri returns his fingers to the soft dip between Picon’s ears and continues his ministrations. My poor little dog nearly goes limp from pleasure. His tongue lolls, his hind legs twitch. After a moment, Henri says, “Perhaps the gentleman won’t mind a bit of friendly competition?”
“He could be persuaded to share, under the right circumstances.”
“Care to detail what those might be?”
“I’m afraid you’ll just have to discover them for yourself.”
“Well, you have made it quite clear that you are not interested in having dinner this evening, but perhaps you will walk with me instead? The Seine at dusk is, I believe, the eighth wonder of the world.”
“Is that so?”
“Perhaps the ninth.” He winks.
“A walk sounds lovely. But I am wearing uncomfortable shoes.”
“Then we will walk slowly.”
Without waiting for an answer, Henri plucks Picon out of my arms and sets him gently on his shoulder, splayed out like a bear rug, one set
of legs down his back and other down his chest. He holds my little dog there with one hand, giving him a reassuring scratch, and then offers me his other arm. I am delighted by this unexpected, gentle act, so I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow and Henri steers us toward the river while I sip my drink.
“I do not think it is legal to walk and drink at the same time. Surely there is some law about this,” he says.
“Then you will have to bail me out of jail, Mr. Fiocca, because I have every intention of finishing this delightful cocktail.”
“I don’t plan to surrender you to the Sûreté. They will have to pry you from my arms.”
“Is that where you expect me to be?”
“A man can hope.”
Luigi’s is only a few blocks from the Seine and once we are through the early crowds headed toward dinner, the river walk opens up before us like a golden cobblestone ribbon. Henri hears my quick intake of breath and pulls my hand tight against his side.
“I have lived in this city for three years. How have I never walked the river at sunset?”
“There is much to see in Paris, ma chère. It takes a lifetime to fully appreciate everything it has to offer.”
The sky is a deep, cloudless blue, broken only by the startling gold and pink of a sinking sun, but I am equally stunned by the term of endearment he’s just used. It’s the second time tonight. “It’s a bit early to be calling me dear, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “I am French. And you are beautiful. It makes sense to me.”
I was not at Luigi’s long enough to order dinner, so I begin to feel quite warm and happy as I take another sip of my French 75. Henri glances at me sideways as I hold the near-empty glass up to the last light of the sun and watch the colors refract across my fingers.
“I am glad you like it,” he says.
I am hungry and happy and slightly buzzed, so I tell him the truth. “No one has ever called me dear before—not even my parents. I do like it.”
Henri lowers his head until his lips brush across my cheekbone and he whispers in my ear, “I meant the drink, but I am glad to see that you appreciate my efforts to prove my affection as well.”