by Anita Hughes
I was left alone with Glenn. He sat down on the sofa and offered me a bowl of pretzels.
“No, thanks.” I shook my head, thinking if I put anything in my mouth I would choke.
“So you and Stephanie went to prep school together?” Glenn asked pleasantly.
“Yes. It was a small school so all the kids knew one another pretty well.” I smiled weakly. I wanted to tell him that I knew Stephanie too well: She was a cheating hussy after his money and he should get out now, before they had kids.
“Stephanie has very fond memories of school. When I took the position in San Francisco she convinced me to look at houses in Ross. We fell in love with this one.”
“It’s a beautiful home. But didn’t Stephanie want to stay in the city?” I asked.
“She thinks Ross is a perfect place to raise a family. We’re hoping to have kids soon.”
“Are you talking about me?” Stephanie emerged from the kitchen. Andre came up behind her. His shirt was smooth, his expression bland. They had only been gone a few minutes. Maybe I was making something out of nothing.
I looked at Glenn closely. He seemed so innocent. He must be one of those “numbers” guys who was a fox with figures but a lamb in the real world.
“You’re lucky, Amanda.” Stephanie refilled Andre’s champagne glass. “I want babies so badly.” Her face crinkled into a sexy pout. “But it hasn’t happened yet.”
“We’ve only been trying for three months,” Glenn reminded her.
“I guess we’ll have to try harder,” Stephanie said. She seemed to be talking directly to Andre.
Before I could get up and strangle her, the doorbell rang. Stephanie dashed to answer the door.
I looked at Andre leaning against the bar. He wore navy wool pants and leather loafers. It was time I stopped being a jealous wife and became Andre’s supportive partner. As much as I abhorred Stephanie, I trusted Andre. Stephanie and Glenn could obviously afford to invest in a restaurant, and we had no other prospects. I put down my champagne glass, rubbed my stomach, and went and slipped my hand in Andre’s.
Andre turned and gave me his radiant smile. I squeezed his hand tighter. When Stephanie returned with two other couples, Andre and I stood side by side, shoulders touching.
* * *
Stephanie seated Andre on her right at the long cherry dining room table. Glenn was on my left, and a man in his mid-forties named Harvey was on my right. Harvey’s wife, Jane, sat across from me. Harvey and Jane oohed and aahed over each course Stephanie served. It was as if she invited them to be her own personal cheering section, just in case Andre didn’t notice how wonderful she was.
“This bread is too good to be store bought. Did you make it yourself?” Jane dipped a chunk of bread in her soup and made appreciative smacking noises.
“Stephanie has been taking some Cordon Bleu courses,” Glenn said proudly.
The other couple were named Tom and Dell. Tom had a face full of acne that made him look like a teenager. Dell had small brown eyes framed by brown hair. Stephanie was like a movie star at her own premiere. She flitted around the table flashing her breasts every time she bent down to serve a dish.
“Stephanie told me Andre has a restaurant called Crepe Suzette on Sacramento Street,” Glenn said, sipping his expensive French wine.
“Had a restaurant, unfortunately,” Andre replied. “My partner wanted to serve peanut butter crepes. I could not bastardize my beloved French cuisine, so I resigned.” He bowed his head as if he should be awarded the Medal of Honor for his sacrifice for France.
“That’s terrible.” Stephanie’s mouth formed its sexy pout. “How could he suggest peanut butter crepes?”
“I don’t know.” Andre let out a long sigh.
“Andre wants to open a new restaurant,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll do well,” Glenn said. I glanced at Andre. That wasn’t the response we were hoping for.
“I thought of opening my own catering company,” Stephanie said, licking her soup spoon. “I’d cater dinner parties in town. Just to keep busy, till we have babies.”
“You don’t want to cook in other people’s houses,” Andre said and shook his head. “But if you had your own restaurant people would come to you.”
“My own restaurant,” Stephanie mused.
“I don’t think you have time to run a restaurant, darling,” Glenn said nervously.
“Andre could be my partner. We could have a French restaurant right here in Ross. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!” she exclaimed.
Probably because there wasn’t a hot French chef sitting at her table before, I thought miserably.
“Stephanie, you would make a wonderful maître d’.” Andre gave her a movie star–caliber smile.
“There’s a space on the commons that used to be a dress shop. It would be perfect. We could have ten tables, very intimate, and just serve dinner.” Stephanie almost bounced out of her chair.
I tried to open my mouth and protest. I didn’t want Andre commuting to Marin. I certainly didn’t want him to be partners with this overripe viper.
“That would be a long drive for you,” I said, touching Andre’s hand.
“We could move to Marin,” he replied, putting his hand over mine.
“You should buy in Ross,” Stephanie piped in. “It’s the best place to raise children.”
“We can’t afford Ross,” I said quietly.
“Oh, Amanda, stop. We used to call Amanda’s house ‘the palace’ and Amanda ‘the princess.’ Her parents were so rich,” Stephanie said to the whole table.
“My parents, not me,” I mumbled.
“Honey, I’d never be bored if we had a restaurant.” Stephanie got up and stood behind Glenn. She nuzzled his neck so her guests had a full view of her breasts. Even I was impressed. Mine were big, but hers were big and perfect: two pale pink peaches pushed up by a Wonderbra.
“Sweetie, we’ll have kids soon and then where will that leave Andre?” Glenn looked at Andre for support, but Andre’s attention was directed at his soup.
“Oh please. I want to do something. You don’t want me to get antsy,” Stephanie begged.
“I’ll clear the table,” Jane said brightly.
“I’ll help you,” Dell offered. Both women obviously wanted to escape to the kitchen. Stephanie was like a girl intent on a new toy.
“If you don’t mind I’m going to step out and have a cigarette.” Harvey pushed back his chair.
“I’ll join you. I always like a breath of fresh air between courses.” Tom followed him outside.
“Opening a new restaurant is a huge undertaking.” Andre turned toward Glenn. “But it might do very well. You have a wealthy client base over here, and not a lot of dining options.”
I realized while Andre was studying his soup he was figuring out the best way to approach the situation. Glenn was a numbers man, so Andre was talking numbers.
“I never thought of it like that,” Glenn replied.
Stephanie decided to let the men hash it out. “Amanda, help me get the entrées.” She gave Glenn a dazzling smile, brushing against him before dragging me into the kitchen.
Stephanie’s kitchen was huge, with a giant butcher-block island and a double Wolf oven.
“Wow, what a gorgeous oven,” I said, wanting to talk about anything other than a partnership with Andre.
“I told you, I love to cook. But it gets boring cooking for two people.” Stephanie removed a ham from the oven and sliced it onto six plates.
“Where did you get these lovely plates?” I admired the plates lined up on the marble counter. The number of times Stephanie said she was bored was making me nervous.
“Where did you get your divine dish?” Stephanie replied.
“What?” I asked.
“Your husband,” she cooed. “He is a cutie. How did you snag him?”
“Um, just love,” I said, sounding stupid even to myself.
“I never expected you
to catch a sexy Frenchman,” Stephanie continued.
“Glenn seems really wonderful.” I tried to change the subject.
“Glenn’s great,” Stephanie agreed, adding asparagus tips to each plate and dribbling a hollandaise sauce. “But you got the hunk. I’m impressed.”
“Andre’s going to be a great dad,” I mumbled. I wanted to get out of the kitchen, out of the house, and back into Andre’s old VW.
“Here, take these plates, let’s see if our husbands struck a deal.” Stephanie pushed two plates into my hands and nudged me into the dining room.
* * *
“Stephanie, your tips are cooked to perfection. And this sauce … Where did you get the recipe?” Andre asked, cutting his asparagus into ribbons.
“See, Glenn, I do have talent. Can I please have my restaurant?” Stephanie turned her don’t-say-no-to-me pout on her husband.
“Andre and I were crunching a few numbers while you girls were in the kitchen,” Glenn said, slurring his words. He wasn’t as good at holding his liquor as he was at working his figures.
“Glenn is a real whiz with numbers,” Andre complimented our host.
“A French restaurant in town might have potential,” Glenn said, looking well lubricated.
“Please, please,” Stephanie purred. “We could call it La Petite Maison.” She turned to her dinner guests. “Glenn lived in a pension in Paris called La Petite Maison. It holds special memories.” She turned back to Glenn and gave him a secret smile.
“La Petite Maison,” Glenn faltered.
“I’ll pull out the Dom Perignon and we’ll make a toast!” Stephanie jumped up and flew into the kitchen to grab the champagne. I thought if I saw any more bubbles I’d throw up on their Persian rug. I looked at Andre, who was quietly wiping his plate, and thought I’d be sick anyway. I couldn’t fault Andre for encouraging Glenn and Stephanie. He needed a partner. I stood up and excused myself to the bathroom.
When I returned everyone was toasting “La Petite Maison.” Stephanie was jabbering about calling the Realtor about the space on the commons. Andre and Glenn were discussing “cash flow” and “reserves.”
“Honey, have some champagne.” Andre reached for my hand and squeezed it tightly.
I couldn’t be in their house another minute. I pushed my chair back and smiled weakly at everyone. “I’m actually not feeling well. I think we better go.”
“But I made the most wonderful dessert,” Stephanie protested. “It’s a Belgian chocolate mousse.”
“I’m practically allergic to chocolate at the moment,” I insisted. “Pregnancy is playing havoc with my stomach. And I just want to be asleep by eight p.m.” I grimaced.
“Oh, you poor baby,” Stephanie cooed. “Next time just send Andre over. There’s so much to discuss!”
“He doesn’t like to leave me home alone,” I said.
“It’s true.” Andre nodded. “We will start looking for a place to live in Marin.”
“Ooh, I’ll help you! Amanda, call me tomorrow, we can go house hunting.” Stephanie kissed me on both cheeks. She turned to Andre and he practically disappeared in her bear hug.
Glenn drained his second glass of champagne. “I’ll have my attorney get some numbers to you next week.”
* * *
Finally we were in the car. At first I was so grateful to have escaped I was silent. But as we neared our apartment, my horror of going into partnership with Stephanie surfaced.
“I can’t believe you would consider being partners with that human piranha,” I said as we neared our building.
“Amanda, you should be thrilled the evening was a success. We are going to have our restaurant.” He put my hand to his mouth and covered it with kisses.
“You are not opening a restaurant with that hussy,” I hissed.
Andre pulled up in front of our apartment and turned off the engine.
“Are you telling me what to do?” he asked in a low voice.
“How could you even consider it? She just wants a new boy toy.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked in the same stony voice.
“Of course I trust you,” I replied. “I just don’t trust her. She was doing half the male faculty when we were in high school. We don’t need her.”
“Actually, Amanda, we do need her. She is the only potential partner we have.”
I took my hand away from him and placed it firmly in my lap.
“Andre, we can’t,” I said plaintively.
“Why not?”
“She’s just too awful,” I begged him.
“Amanda, jealousy is an ugly trait. It does not suit you. We need an income.”
“But you can’t commute to Ross,” I said, trying another approach.
“You did all through prep school,” he reminded me.
“I had a driver, and I didn’t have a wife and baby to come home to. You wouldn’t get home till midnight.”
Andre was quiet. I thought I had convinced him the new restaurant needed to be in the city.
“We’ll move to Marin,” he said.
“We can’t afford to move to Marin.” I shook my head.
“There are apartments in Marin.”
“There aren’t any apartments in Ross. The only way I’m moving to Marin,” I said carefully, “is if we let my mother buy us a house.”
“Your mother cannot buy us a house.” Andre shook his head.
“For our baby. She wants to do something for us. She wanted to be your partner,” I reminded him.
“Darling, I would never be a partner with a family member.” His voice softened and he reached for my hand in the dark.
“Then let her buy us a house in Ross, in the baby’s name. Then you can have your restaurant.” I wanted to go upstairs and climb into bed, but we needed to resolve this first.
“Okay,” Andre said finally. “But it must be a very small house, and I will pay her back when the restaurant is on its feet.” He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.
“Amanda, why are you crying?” he asked in the dark, brushing away the tears on my cheek.
I couldn’t admit I was terrified of Stephanie stealing him away. “Oh, pregnancy,” I lied. “I cry about everything.”
“Well, stop crying and kiss me. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you how happy I am.”
The next morning I lay in bed while Andre ran to the market to buy croissants and orange juice. We had made love last night and again this morning, as if Andre was convincing me he couldn’t get enough of me. I leaned against the pillow and willed myself to be happy. We would find a lovely house. Our child would grow up in Ross, playing soccer on the commons. Life would be good. And life was good, until Black Tuesday when I found Andre with his pants down and his legs wrapped around Ursula and it all fell apart.
Chapter Two
After I stopped hurling stones into the lake, I decided I needed someone to talk to. I didn’t trust myself to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to see my mother. I thought I would visit Stephanie. She was still a silent partner in La Petite Maison; she should know what was going on in the back room.
One of the most surprising things about the last decade was that Stephanie and I became best friends. She did have extremely good taste and the restaurant was a success from the day it opened. La Petite Maison occupied a small shop on the commons. Inside there were ten tables, two of them pressed up against the bay windows. Candles sat on linen tablecloths and big murals of Provence covered the walls. The menu was simple: soups and fish and fondue. Over the years, the variety of fondues grew and people came from San Francisco to try Andre’s chocolate fondue and cream cheese fondue.
In the beginning Stephanie was very involved in the restaurant and I was anxious from morning to night. Andre and I found a small bungalow on a leafy lane near the commons. My mother was thrilled to buy it for us and insisted on decorating it. It was within walking distance of La Petite Maison and it had a sunny flat garden. When I was still pregnant, I spent most of
my time at the restaurant “helping.” I was actually spying, making sure Stephanie kept her hands off Andre, and surprisingly she did. She giggled and made suggestive comments, but as far as I could see she kept her hands and her breasts to herself.
Then Stephanie became pregnant and lost interest in the restaurant. She confided in me that she had a bit of a crush on her ob/gyn, who told her standing for long periods in high heels was bad for her pregnancy. Andre hired a new maître d’ and Stephanie retired to decorate the nursery.
Max was born in September, and with Stephanie gone from day-to-day operations at the restaurant, I let myself relax and enjoy motherhood. From the moment Max came home from the hospital and I placed him in his crib, he became the center of my universe.
I didn’t mind Andre’s long hours at the restaurant. Having only one child to follow around, I had plenty of energy to make his meals, rub his feet when he came home late, and to listen to his stories about La Petite Maison. As my mother had predicted, he was talented, charismatic, and charming, and the restaurant established a loyal following.
What my mother had not predicted was that he would screw the chef, and that kind of put a damper on my happiness. As I jogged down the path to Stephanie’s, I wondered if he had screwed the waitress, the hostess, the wine stewardess, and all the other women he employed in the last ten years. Was it the constant parade of young flesh that kept him singing at the restaurant every day? I was so angry I broke into a sprint and arrived at Stephanie’s flushed and furious.
I rang the doorbell and waited. Stephanie’s house was so big it always took a full three minutes for Gisella, her au pair, to answer the door. I had come to realize Stephanie had gone to Penn and married reliable, wealthy Glenn because she was actually very intelligent. She didn’t employ a Swedish au pair with legs longer than a racehorse and white-blond hair that touched her bottom. She hired a short Portuguese woman with a mustache and ankles like boulders.
“Gisella, is Mrs. Chambers at home?” Stephanie liked to keep things formal in her house: to keep the separation between the help and the family evident. I had a lot to learn. When I thought of the welcome dinner I had given Ursula—I had baked bread and tossed a Caesar salad for her—I wanted to throw up.