Amanda's Guide to Love

by Alix Nichols

  “I’m so sorry. I had one of those terrible hangover headaches . . .”

  “We didn’t see your friend Kes, either.”

  Amanda racked her brain for a plausible explanation.

  “Mat has a theory.” Jeanne’s lips twitched as she struggled to maintain a serious tone. “The poor fellow sacrificed himself to help you nurse your headache, like any good friend would.”

  “Very funny.” Amanda sighed, giving up. “Just, please, don’t you and Mat jump to conclusions. We’re not dating. Kes and I, we’re not . . . an item.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  Amanda looked around, trying to find something to do—hopefully at the other end of the room. Where was Manon with her lists when she needed her?

  “Kes and I made a deal,” she said, turning back to Jeanne. “He agreed to be my date at your wedding, and I agreed to accompany him to his nephew’s baptism next week. That’s all there is to it.”

  Jeanne gave her a sympathetic look. “I didn’t mean to intrude, honey. I’m going to shut up and show more respect for your privacy.”

  Thankfully, Daniela—Jeanne’s concierge and friend—walked in with her son, Liviu, and another little boy Amanda had never seen before. Liviu was seven or eight. His peculiar mixture of childish innocence and emerging rational thought was most entertaining.

  “What’s up, young man?” Amanda asked him. “And who’s your friend?”

  “My name is Denis,” the other boy said.

  “I’m Amanda and this is Jeanne.”

  “I’m hosting a playdate this morning,” Daniela said with an apologetic smile. “And I need some strong coffee before I spend the next couple of hours chasing these two around the park.”

  Jeanne nodded and began to pack coffee into the filter basket.

  “Are you enjoying your summer holiday?” Amanda asked Liviu.

  “I went to Romania,” he said with pride, “to visit Grandma.”

  “That’s great. Does she visit you in Paris sometimes?”

  Liviu shook his head. “Uh-uh. It’s too far for a bus trip.”

  “What about planes?” Jeanne asked.

  “She can’t. Grandma has . . .” He turned to his mother for help.

  “Fear of flying,” Daniela explained.

  “Yep,” Liviu confirmed. “She’s afraid she would fall out of the plane during tabulance.”

  “Turbulence,” Daniela corrected him.

  “Orange juice or apple juice?” Jeanne asked the boys.

  While they named their preferences, Daniela helped them climb onto barstools and stood behind them.

  Amanda handed the boys their drinks. “If you can sit quietly for the next fifteen minutes, I’ll play foosball with you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart. But beware—I’m going to destroy you.”

  Liviu grinned.

  “Can I play, too?” Manon yelled from the kitchen.

  Amanda glanced at Liviu, who nodded his consent.

  “OK!” she shouted back.

  The boys behaved, and when the bistro hit its midmorning lull, Amanda was only too happy to keep her promise. She was brimming with energy and needed something more active than folding napkins to skim off the excess.

  The players formed two teams—girls against boys.

  “Prepare to lose!” Liviu boasted with a gleeful expression.

  “This is a boys’ game,” Denis chimed in with a patronizing smile. “You have no chance.”

  “Why is this ‘a boys’ game,’ sweet thing?” Manon asked just as she sent the tiny ball past Liviu’s skewered goalkeeper.

  “Because there are no ponies in it. Girls only play games with ponies in them,” Denis explained. He didn’t look so smug anymore.

  “Girls play all kinds of games,” Amanda said. “Especially the big girls.”

  Jeanne guffawed from behind the bar.

  Amanda scored another goal. “Take that, gnomes!”

  Ten minutes later, it was over. Amanda and Manon had scored ten goals to Denis and Liviu’s measly five, and Daniela announced their unquestionable victory.

  Manon turned to Amanda and raised her hand. “Well played, partner! Girls rock!”

  Amanda high-fived her.

  The kids looked as if someone had just told them the holiday was over and they were going back to school tomorrow.

  “Who wants ice cream?” Jeanne asked.

  “Me, me!” Liviu began to jump up and down.

  “Me, too!” Denis ran to Jeanne.

  “Me, three,” Amanda raised her hand and then turned to the smirking Manon. “What? She asked who wants ice cream, not who among the losers wants ice cream.”

  “We need to get back to work,” Manon said, pulling rank.

  Amanda looked around. “There are just four customers, and Jeanne has the situation under control.”

  “I certainly do,” Jeanne confirmed. “And I have just decided that everybody gets ice cream—the boys’ team, the girls’ team, and the referee.”

  Manon cocked her head. “Marriage has mellowed you, boss.”

  “Heat has mellowed me,” Jeanne said as she doled out generous blobs of pink and cream goodness.

  Denis and Liviu swallowed their portions at lightning speed and went back to play another round of foosball.

  The grown-ups took their time, savoring the welcome respite from the heat.

  “I’m getting this place air-conditioned before next summer,” Jeanne said and licked her spoon.

  Amanda watched Daniela. The woman could do with a little more grooming than she currently displayed. A lot more, actually.

  “Do you ever wear makeup, Daniela?” she asked.

  “Never.”

  “Well, you should. You’d look pretty with some makeup, better clothes, and a good haircut.”

  “I can’t afford good clothes and a haircut,” Daniela said. “As for the makeup . . .”

  “You can buy it from discount shops,” Amanda offered.

  “I know. It’s just . . . My current boyfriend doesn’t want me to wear any.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “He says that when I wear as much as a bit of lipstick, I remind him of Romanian hookers.”

  “Dump him,” Amanda said. “How can you be with a man who puts you down like that?”

  Jeanne nodded eagerly. “That’s what I keep telling her.”

  Daniela sighed. “Anyway, I don’t care if I look pretty. I just want to look . . . ordinary.”

  Manon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to stick out,” Daniela said. “Either in a bad or a good way. I don’t want people to laugh or gawk at me. I’m not even sure which would make me more uncomfortable.”

  Amanda stared at her bowl, remembering the conversation she’d had with Kes last night on the train back to Paris. She’d told him she wished he’d been less flamboyant. More ordinary and within the norm.

  He’d spread his arms. “I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.”

  “Could you at least try?”

  “What would you have me do? Renounce my Gypsy family? Bleach my skin and dye my hair?”

  “God, no!”

  “Quit doing what I’m really good at?”

  Amanda looked at him. “You make it sound like you’re an expert at something worthwhile. You go to casinos and gamble, Kes.”

  “Didn’t you, two months ago? Doesn’t everyone, all the time? Every decision we make is a gamble. Living is gambling. We bet we’ll have a good life if we work hard.”

  “True, but you don’t work, strictly speaking.”

  “Would you make the same reproach to an artist who paints or sings for a living?”

  She chewed on her lip, considering his question. “I guess not. But it’s different. Artists make art.”

  “And I take advantage of casinos that make their owners heaps of easy money while ruining a lot of people.”

 
“So you’re a clever little parasite feeding on a monster.”

  “That’s exactly who I am.”

  He had sounded so proud when he said that.

  What a shame.

  Why couldn’t he be more like Daniela, preferring normalcy to difference? Why couldn’t he see the point of being ordinary and fitting in?

  Amanda stuck the bowls in the dishwasher and began to set the tables for lunch.

  What a crying, bloody shame.

  * * *

  The vegetation outside the train window took on a Mediterranean quality with olive trees and cypresses replacing oaks and beeches.

  Amanda smiled with glee. Even if the sea was still far away, just watching the landscape change from verdant to coastal desert sent positive vibes to her brain. When traveling in France, arid vistas foreshadowed good things: they meant you were moving away from the drab and humid north and approaching the sun-drenched coastline of the Midi.

  In this particular instance, the arid vistas meant she and Kes were getting closer to Provence, where Kes’s little nephew would be baptized tomorrow. Tonight, Amanda was to sleep in Arles, in a guesthouse not far from the railway station, while Kes joined his family somewhere “just outside the town.”

  “Where exactly are they staying?” She turned to Kes, who sat next to her on the upper deck of the TGV train.

  “In a place called Fourchon.”

  “Is it a village?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a dedicated parking site for Gypsy caravans.”

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “I think the official name of the place is ‘Halting Area for Gitan Travelers,’ ” he said. “It’s only a few kilometers south of Arles off the main highway.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Absolutely not. The clan arrived there a week ago and will stay for a month or so before they take off.”

  “In their trailers?”

  “We call them caravans.”

  “Are you saying your folks will live in a huge parking lot on the side of a highway for a whole month?”

  “A halting site. You’ll see it tomorrow. It’s one of the best here in Provence. The authorities renovated it a few years ago, and now it has electricity, showers, and even outdoor kitchens. Everything a Gitan’s heart may desire.”

  “Well, thank God I’m staying in Arles,” she said. “I couldn’t survive in a place like that.”

  He said nothing.

  “Will there be time to go to the beach tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I doubt it. My cousin Marco and I will pick you up in the morning so you can take part in the christening ceremony. It’ll be held in a small church in Arles. When it’s over, we all go to Fourchon, eat and drink ’til we’re sick, and party.”

  “All night?”

  He nodded. “Campfire and all.”

  “Sounds fun.” She nudged him lightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He gave her a happy grin.

  Marco was waiting for them at the Arles station, the roof of his shiny red Citroën convertible pulled back for the occasion.

  The Moreno men drove Amanda to her guesthouse and lingered for a drink with her at the bar next door.

  “We’ll pick you up at ten in the morning,” Marco said when they stood to leave.

  “I’ll be in the lobby,” Amanda said with a polite smile.

  “Don’t bother,” Kes said. “Marco means ten GST—Gitan Standard Time. It could be anywhere between ten-fifteen and eleven.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll call you when we get here.”

  “OK.”

  An awkward pause followed, with Amanda hesitating as to what to do next. How did you say good-bye to your lover who wasn’t your boyfriend in the presence of his relative?

  Kes ended her indecision with a cheek kiss.

  Marco followed suit.

  “I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning, then,” Amanda said. “Sometime between ten and eleven.”

  They nodded and left.

  Amanda spent the rest of the evening exploring the town’s Roman ruins and reading her travel guide about its rich history. She returned to her room only when it grew too dark outside to admire ancient stones. Just as she picked up the TV remote, her phone lit up.

  It was a text message from Kes.

  Hey.

  She smiled and tapped her reply.

  Hey. Can you call me?

  Not before Grandma falls asleep.

  What?

  Are you rooming with your grandma?

  Yep. We’re separated by a partition, but it’s not soundproof.

  How do you know she’s still awake?

  She’s talking to my aunt.

  His aunt. Of course.

  What’s your aunt doing there at midnight?

  “Touching base” with Grandma—gossiping.

  Amanda rolled her eyes.

  Ask her to leave.

  I can’t. But I’ll sneak out and come to your hotel as soon as she’s gone.

  What do you mean by ‘come’? You’ll borrow Marco’s car?

  I can’t. Marco drove away on some business. I’ll just walk.

  He no longer sounded weird. He sounded like he’d lost his mind.

  You don’t mean that, I hope. It’s too far, too late, and too dark.

  Doesn’t matter. I want you.

  Amanda bit her lip. God knew she wanted him, too. But she didn’t like the idea of him walking in the dark through parking lots and wasteland and crossing a busy highway just so they could sleep together. There was no emergency. They’d have other nights—at least a dozen of them—before they parted ways.

  Perhaps they could try something different tonight? An alternative to physical lovemaking . . .

  Her fingers hovered over her phone for a moment, and then she made up her mind.

  How about phone sex?

  No.

  That was . . . fast.

  Why not?

  It’s weird. And I’ve never done it before.

  Neither have I, but I hear it’s fun.

  She waited a couple of minutes, and when no reply came, she texted again.

  Or we could have text sex instead.

  ???

  How unsporting. But she wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  What are you wearing right now?

  Nothing. It’s too hot inside this f-ing caravan.

  She pictured him sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, his toned legs stretched out, ankles crossed. To cool his body, he’d have bunched his blanket under his feet. And there’d be nothing—absolutely nothing—to hide the naked gorgeousness of him from a chance onlooker.

  She typed frantically.

  I want proof. Send me a pic.

  A few seconds later, she was staring at a portrait of a muscled, smiling Gypsy god—from the waist up.

  Now the bottom half.

  The next photo was a close-up of his toes. She smirked at his unexpected display of modesty.

  They’re sexy. And you’re chicken.

  :-) What are you wearing, ma belle?

  Pajama shorts.

  Take them off.

  She obliged and then sat back against the cushions and pulled up the first pic he’d sent her. It took her some time to type the next message as she was using only one hand.

  I’m looking at your selfie and touching myself.

  Close your eyes and imagine it’s me touching you.

  What do you think I’m imagining, silly?

  You’re driving me mad.

  Good. She grinned as she typed.

  Are you caressing yourself, too?

  No. YOU are caressing me.

  How?

  With your mouth.

  Am I good? Are you enjoying it, Gypsy boy?

  More than words can say. I hope you’ll do it again tomorrow. IN REAL LIFE.

  She put the phone on the bed next to her and applied more pressure, feeling her climax nearing. As she peaked, a new text lit up her sc
reen.

  I can’t believe I just jerked off with my grandma and aunt practically in the same room.

  You think they suspect something?

  They never stopped talking, so I hope not. Did you come?

  She snapped a picture of her flushed face and sent it to him by way of a reply.

  * * *

  The dancing began in the church.

  As soon as the priest congratulated young Lysandro, who was dressed like an oriental prince, on joining the Christian community, someone in the back started to play the guitar. Four or five women jumped up and launched into an energetic flamenco-like routine.

  They wore garish clothes in clashing colors and patterns. The total number of fashion faux pas was so high inside the church that Amanda’s eyes began to hurt.

  The priest, remarkably unfazed by the commotion, resumed the service. He read several gospel passages, talked with the parents and godparents, and then invited the congregation to pray together. Everyone did, loudly and devoutly, including the dancing women.

  From the corner of her eye, Amanda watched Kes join in. After everyone said amen and opened their eyes, his remained closed. His lips continued to move as though he was saying another prayer. It was short and muted, but she was sure she heard him whisper thanks to someone called Sarah.

  Was Sarah a Catholic saint? Why was he thanking her? Was Kes a religious person?

  In the many conversations she’d had with him over the last few weeks, they’d avoided discussing each other’s faith, politics, and families. Those things had seemed too personal to share with a pastime companion.

  Well, they were a little more to each other now.

  Amanda turned away and smoothed her hair, trying to shake her sudden melancholy. There were crucial things she didn’t know about Kes—things she would’ve liked to know. But considering how soon they’d part ways and how impossible it was for them to have a shared future, there was no point in asking, really.

  An hour later, the clan carried Lysandro out of the church on a canopied litter and drove back to Fourchon, where the fiesta began in earnest. Kes introduced Amanda to his parents, his brother Juan, and his sister Rosanna, both at least ten years his senior. Amanda also met his frail but vivacious grandmother and a dozen other people identified as aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends.

  She smiled politely and tried not to let the fact that the Morenos and other Gitans eyed her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion put her on edge. Who knew? Maybe in their place, she would’ve been just as suspicious of their son’s newly acquired “friend” who seemed important enough to bring to a family reunion.