The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  "Hi," I returned in an equal tone, even though my heartbeat was racing. "I'm glad you called. I've been wanting to talk to you for so long and—"

  "I know," she interrupted, clearly not wanting me to keep going. "I need to tell you something, and I need you not to speak until I'm done."

  There was a certain firmness to her voice that caught me off guard. It didn't sound like Zoë. She was too calm, too reserved, and I had a feeling I was in for a harangue. But I also had no doubt that I deserved it. And if listening patiently while she got a month's worth of frustration off her chest was what it was going to take to get my friend back, I was more than happy to do so.

  "Okay," I obliged softly.

  Zoë took a deep breath that I could hear from across the entire Atlantic Ocean. "Dustin and I broke up," she stated. I imagined this was the part where I was supposed to stay quiet. So I did.

  "After you told his wife," she continued, the emotional struggle apparent in her voice, "things were pretty good for a while. We didn't have to sneak around anymore, and I felt like I finally had the relationship that he'd been promising me since we started dating.

  "But then Alice filed for divorce. And he panicked and tried to leave me. He mumbled something about losing his kids and his house and the only family he'd ever known. I tried to remind him of his promise to me, that he was already planning to leave her. And he did promise me that. And I really think that he meant it . . . at the time. . . ." Her voice trailed off for a moment, as if she were trying to muster the strength to continue. "But as soon as the reality of it all set in, as soon as it was her who was doing the leaving, then suddenly it wasn't so appealing anymore."

  She exhaled loudly and painfully. "Apparently, Alice told him that she'd take him back if he left me and started seeing a shrink. And that was that. I was dumped. Like a hooker he had picked up on Hollywood Boulevard. I was no longer useful."

  There was a time not too long ago when I'd willed this day to come. When I'd fantasized about how good I would feel when it did. Satisfied, triumphant, pleased with myself. But I felt none of that now. My heart did not rejoice. It only broke for her.

  "Oh, Zoë," I cried, wishing I could reach through the phone and comfort her. "I'm so sorry. I can't belie— Oh wait, can I talk now?"

  She laughed weakly. "Yes. Go ahead."

  "I can't believe he would do that to you," I continued.

  "Yes, you can," she stated matter-of-factly. "It's exactly what you said would happen."

  I bowed my head in shame. "I'm so sorry about what I said and what I did. I shouldn't have sold you out like that. I should have supported you. The way you always supported me, through all my horrible, not to mention unethical, mistakes."

  "I know," Zoë stopped me before the apologies started flooding out with no foreseeable end. "I got your e-mails."

  I could hear the faint smile on her lips, and I smiled back. "Right."

  "But you were right," she pointed out. "About all of it. And if you hadn't told her, I would still be with him. And this horrible breakup would have been prolonged even longer. Possibly years. And I can't even imagine how much that would have hurt."

  Even though Zoë was letting me off the hook, I couldn't seem to do the same for myself. I still felt the need to earn her forgiveness. "I still should have chosen you," I whispered.

  "Yes," she agreed. "And I should have told you about him from the beginning. I was afraid of what you might say. Because I knew I would have to deny it, and yet deep down, I also knew that you would be right."

  "Trust me when I say that this brings me no joy."

  She laughed. "I trust you." Then after a brief pause, "Now, can we forget this sappy bullshit and start talking about real stuff?"

  I laid my head down on the pillow and smiled into the phone as I began to fill her in on everything that had happened to me in the past month.

  Zoë was back.

  When I arrived at Cafe Bosquet the next night for my shift, Carlos informed me that someone was waiting for me at the bar.

  A knowing smirk stretched across my lips as I tied my apron around my waist and crossed the restaurant. I had been feeling anxious about seeing Pierre all day, wondering how he would react to our conversation last night. Wondering if he would even continue to come in and see me.

  But when I reached the bar, I saw that it wasn't, in fact, Pierre who had been waiting for me, but a man I didn't recognize.

  "Bonsoir," he said politely, rising from his bar stool.

  "Bonsoir," I replied warily, trying to figure out who he was and why had supposedly told the owner that he was here to see me.

  "I don't know if you remember me," he transitioned smoothly into perfect English with just the trace of an accent. "I was in here last night with an American man. We were discussing his company's plans to open a European headquarters in Paris—"

  "Of course!" I interrupted, recognition instantly flashing across my face. "The guy with the big opportunity in Brussels." There was clear mocking in my tone as I remembered the bogus ultimatum the American had given him. Well, at least it had been bogus to me. If I remembered correctly, this guy didn't doubt its authenticity for a second.

  The man in front of me smiled. "Yes. That one. I wanted to talk to you about it."

  I made my way to the side of the bar and ducked under the lift-up countertop. "Sure. Would you like something to drink?"

  He nodded gratefully. "Yes. A glass of Bordeaux would be great."

  I smiled and turned to grab a glass from the rack.

  The man reclaimed his seat as he watched me pour the drink. "If I may, I'd like to ask how you knew he was lying. About being able to set up the deal in Brussels."

  I slid the wineglass across the bar to him. "I'm just perceptive, I guess . . . about men."

  "Yes, very," he agreed, sipping his wine.

  I chuckled and leaned back against the counter behind me. "It seems to work better on Americans than anyone else, I've recently discovered."

  He leaned forward, intrigued. "So you just have this sense when men are lying?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way." I didn't feel like telling a perfect stranger that it was a bit more than just a sense. That I actually had the ability to read men's minds.

  Unfortunately, my answer didn't seem to satisfy him. "But how did you know that the French distributor would only work with him if he was located in Paris?"

  I scrunched up my mouth in confusion. That part I certainly didn't remember. "I didn't. I don't know even know what you're talking about."

  Frustration flashed briefly over his face. "But when he was in the bathroom, you told me that he had to put the headquarters in Paris. I remember."

  "Oh, right," I replied, suddenly recollecting that part of the conversation. "Well I didn't know exactly what all the details were, but I could just sense"—I chose his word—"that he had to put the offices here."

  The man gazed at me, awestruck. "But how?" he insisted.

  I shrugged again, starting to feel uncomfortable under all this scrutiny. "I don't know," I said. "I just did. I could hear it in his voice and see it on his face."

  "Well, how is it that you were able to see and hear those things and I wasn't?" The man's frustration was back. Clearly I had him doubting his keen negotiation skills.

  "Maybe because I'm a woman," I stated simply.

  He found humor in this and laughed. "You're probably right." He took a long gulp of his wine, not bothering to swish it around in his mouth to absorb the flavor. "Well, I just wanted to come by and tell you that you were spot-on. He was lying. And when I told him this morning that my client wasn't going to accept his terms and that he should probably just take the deal in Brussels, he caved."

  Unable to hide my contentment, I felt a sly, satisfactory smirk stretch across my lips. Not that I needed him to come here to tell me that I was right. My instincts were rarely ever wrong.

  "Then I found out the French distributor that he had agree
d to partner with wasn't going to work with him unless he was located in Paris."

  "Well, there you go," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Congrats on winning the deal."

  He shook his head, his expression troubled. "But that's just the thing. I wouldn't have won if it weren't for you. My client probably would have been the one to give in."

  I smiled, thinking about how I had saved Jamie's firm $50,000 in pretty much the same way. But then the thought of Jamie started to make my stomach wrench, so I struggled to push it from my mind.

  The man finished off his wine and I offered to pour him another, but he declined politely. "I have to get home for dinner. My wife's cooking." He stood up and removed a ten-euro bill from his wallet and a cream-colored business card from his pocket, then placed them both on top of the bar. "But I wanted to leave you my card."

  I took a step forward and slid the card over to me. "Alain Dumont," I read the name on the front.

  He grinned. "Enchanté."

  "A corporate real estate broker?"

  "Yes. My firm does a lot of work with American corporations coming to Europe."

  Jean-Luc, one of the cafe waiters on duty tonight, approached the bar just then and ordered two drinks for one of his tables. "A vodka soda and a Heineken, s'il te plaît."

  I smiled graciously and placed the man's business card in my pocket before turning to prepare the drinks. "Well, I'll be sure to pass along your name to any American business owners who come into the bar."

  He seemed to find amusement in that. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "Actually, I was hoping I could hire you."

  I nearly dropped the bottle of vodka I was pouring from. "Hire me? To do what?"

  He looked at me as if the answer were obvious. "To help me negotiate. To use that sixth sense of yours or whatever it is."

  Jean-Luc glanced uneasily between the two of us, knowing that he had missed some important piece of this conversation. I hastily finished off his drink order and splashed them down onto his tray. He hoisted it up and disappeared around the corner.

  I turned back to the man now identified as Alain Dumont. He was staring at me expectantly. "Well?"

  I threw up my hands. "Well what?"

  "I have another deal with an American company coming up in a few days, and I could really use your help. I'll pay you well. A percentage of my fee." He glanced around the bar. "I assure you it'll be more than you're making here."

  I slinked back against the counter, disbelief on my face. "You really want to pay me just to tell you if a man is lying?"

  Now it was his turn to shrug. "Pretty much."

  I nodded slowly, taking it all in.

  He picked up on my hesitation. "Look, you have my card. Take your time. Think it over and get back to me."

  And with the flash of a smile, he was out the door, leaving me wondering what the hell had just happened.

  I continued to lean against the back of the bar, staring out into space and trying to process the conversation that had passed between us. A stranger had just offered me a job. Just like that. And I had to admit, it was a highly intriguing offer. A chance to use my men-reading superpower without ending up in a hotel room at the end of the night? I didn't even know a job like that existed.

  But then again, I didn't know that fidelity inspectors existed until I actually became one.

  So I suppose it was fitting.

  And although the magnitude of what would eventually transpire from Alain Dumont's offer would not become completely apparent until much later on, I had a feeling something was about to change.

  Looking back, though, I suppose it was fairly obvious.

  I had found my next calling.

  Or rather, it had found me.

  Epilogue

  new beginnings

  Three Months Later . . .

  I Step out onto the balcony of my new two-bedroom apartment in the Latin Quarter of Paris. The morning March sky is gray and somewhat gloomy, but by now I've come to appreciate the characteristic weather of Paris. It wouldn't be the same city without the rainy mornings and dreary afternoons. And I've been told the months of May and June make the long-drawn-out winter worth every drop.

  I pour myself a cup of tea in the kitchen and sip it slowly as I sit down in front of my laptop and begin scrolling through my morning e-mails. Five total. Three personal and two business related.

  More requests for my services, no doubt.

  Ever since I started working for Alain Dumont three months ago, my new career has taken off at a steady pace. At first I simply sat in on the meetings and quietly informed him when the other party was not being entirely truthful. But then eventually I started to get the hang of the negotiation process and was able to run a few meetings on my own.

  When it became pretty obvious to Alain that my "sixth sense" (as he liked to call it) about lying men was not just a fluke, he started recommending my services to his friends. Not only other real estate brokers, but sales reps, ad men, consultants, small corporations, basically anyone who did business with Americans and were looking for the competitive edge that I was apparently able to provide.

  Who knew freelance negotiators who could read American men were in such high demand in Europe? Almost as much as fidelity inspectors in the States.

  Within two months, my income was enough to support me full-time, and I quit my job at the bar and signed a lease on my own apartment in the fourth arrondissement. Not that I didn't enjoy living with my dad, but it was nice to have a place of my own again. And with my condo in Brentwood currently being rented to a lovely young newlywed couple expecting their first child, there was something to be said about the feeling of permanence that came when I signed the lease on my new Parisian home.

  I read and respond to the personal e-mails in my in-box first, because they're more important. I've learned a thing or two about priorities over the past few months. Friends and family come first. Everything else can wait.

  The first e-mail is from Sophie. I tap on it and skim the text, although I already know exactly what the e-mail is pertaining to. For the past few months, she's been planning a trip with Zoë and John to visit me in Paris, and with the departure date rapidly approaching in less than two weeks, my in-box has been flooded with questions about what to pack, where to exchange money, and what my thoughts are on the latest Paris-related articles in Condé Nast Traveler. The usual international travel provisions. But of course, with Sophie in the equation, it's always a much more urgent affair.

  Today her e-mail is contesting the appalling weakness of the American dollar against the euro. As if I am personally responsible for setting the exchange rates on the international currency market and she is lodging a formal complaint.

  I shake my head with amusement and quickly tap out a reply before continuing to the next message. This one is from Zoë, a much more concise e-mail (albeit half of the text consisting of profanities) updating me on the new hot guy she met at the gym, who, she was happy to report, has never been married and has not fathered any children . . . that she knows of.

  I tap out an enthusiastic reply and keep going.

  The last e-mail is from John. And the subject line reads, "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS???" in all capital letters with about twenty question marks following it. He appears to have maxed out the number of allowable characters in the subject line field. As I scroll down further into the message, I have a feeling I know exactly what all of this exaggerated punctuation is referring to.

  And when I see a blue link leading to an online article from the L.A. Times, I realize that I was correct in my assumptions.

  I don't need to click on the link to know what is written on the other end of it. I came across the article myself just a few days ago, and although the shock of its contents has still not worn off completely, I have spent the past forty-eight hours making peace with it.

  It's a story in the L.A. Times about an unknown little company called the Hawthorne Agency, which specializes in exposing infidelity. An
d apparently, it's taken the nation by storm.

  I remember the way I felt the morning I first laid eyes on the full-size color photograph on my screen. It was a picture of none other than Lauren Ireland (whom the article refers to as "Bella Grace"), and the caption read, "President Bella Grace, who inherited the agency from an anonymous previous owner, calls her business the next frontier in private investigations."

  Apparently, as I was attempting to piece my life back together, Lauren—or rather Bella—was working hard to build public awareness around the agency I left behind. And this article is the direct result of those efforts.

  My eyes skimmed wildly over the text as I caught sight of key phrases like "intention to cheat test," "fidelity inspector," and "hopes to open offices in New York and Chicago later this year."

  I sigh as I type out a response to John, explaining that yes, I've seen it and I'm fine.

  Which is true. Of course, it was disconcerting at first. All that time and energy I spent trying to keep the agency a secret. Clearly, it was necessary only to protect my own identity. Because Lauren quickly made a decision to put it all right out there in the open, and what do you know? It worked.

  Just goes to show she was a better woman for the job after all.

  I skim through the rest of my e-mails and then wander into my bedroom to shower and dress for my appointment this afternoon with a new client.

  Although I suppose it's hard to describe him as "new" when I've known him my entire life. But to be perfectly honest, I never really got to know him until recently.

  My dad called me a few days ago and asked if I would come in and help him with a last-minute negotiation he had just set up. Apparently, an American man he had once done business with was looking to renew their partnership.

  I am scheduled to arrive at his offices in the La Defense district of Paris in two hours, which leaves me just enough time to drop by my favorite cafe and enjoy a brioche and a quick chat with my favorite French waiter.

  Pierre and I continue to hang out occasionally, although obviously not as often as we used to since I no longer work at the bar. And once I began booking early client meetings, my leisurely mornings of brioche and long conversation were limited to once or twice a week.