Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

  “A European medal for this year, if you can,” Frederic says, giving me an emphatic look. “And next year, aim for the World.”

  I nod. “The best way to make water polo as popular as handball is in France is to get our guys up on the podium.”

  Michel arches an eyebrow. “You think your team can pull it off?”

  “I know they can.” I give him a hard stare. “And I’ll do what it takes to help them.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Frederic pats my shoulder before tilting his head. “What do you think of your assistant coach?”

  At the Paris club, Leanne and I agreed not to hire assistants for now. The budget we’re working with permits only one additional employee, and that’s going to be a publicist as soon as we find a replacement for Martin. But things are different with the national team. The money comes from the Swimming Federation, and—frankly—I’m happy to have an assistant coach. I wouldn’t be able to train two teams at once without one.

  “Eric is doing great,” I say. “He’s just as driven as I am.”

  Michel chuckles. “He certainly is.”

  Our server turns up with the appetizers.

  “You’ve got to love beer cheese!” Michel points to his plate.

  Frederic adjusts his napkin. “Is this your first time in Prague?”

  “First time post-amnesia.” I pick up my fork and knife and smile. “So yeah, first time.”

  2

  Isabelle

  Josiane and Sylvain Touquet

  are ecstatic to welcome little

  Nicolas Touquet into the world!

  Our prayers have been answered

  in the form of our darling boy.

  I skim over the darling boy’s birth size and weight and stare at his photo pasted next to the text.

  “Ecstatic” is the word Sylvain and his wife chose to describe their feelings for him.

  I have no doubt they are.

  As I slip the card back into its envelope, lock the mailbox, and head to the elevator, memories of my longest-lasting relationship flood in. Almost two years with a man who bored me silly and never failed to underwhelm in bed! But Sylvain aspired to be a father just as much as I yearned to be a mother. In hindsight, that common dream was the only thing that held us together as a loveless couple. Until it didn’t.

  We’d tried to conceive during those two years, naturally and otherwise.

  We failed.

  Doctors didn’t find anything fundamentally wrong with either of us. The potential culprits of our infertility were non-fundamental things such as Sylvain’s lazy sperm and my hostile womb.

  Yep, that’s what they said—a hostile womb.

  There’s a more complex and scientific explanation to what’s wrong with me, but the brutal metaphor dropped by one of my OB-GYNs sums it up nicely. My uterus attacks all invaders indiscriminately, squirting acids and killer antibodies at anything that gets too close.

  In short, it’s hostile.

  And now that Sylvain has managed to make a baby with another woman, there’s no more doubt who the weak link was.

  Oh well, maybe it was all for the best.

  If my womb had been welcoming and Sylvain and I had produced an offspring, we would’ve been obliged to stay together for the baby’s sake.

  I had started dating Sylvain when I was twenty-eight, about six months after Lucas broke my heart. When I declined every single one of Lucas’s attempts to bang me again, every invitation to go for a drink or hang out with our common friends, he got the message and stopped trying. But it wasn’t enough for me. I still saw him at the pool and bumped into him at various events. The French water polo world is much too small.

  So I quit it.

  The night of his horrible mugging, Eric and I bumped into him at Le Poivre. He said he was sorry. He didn’t say he missed me or needed me or he was leaving Angie. Just that he was sorry.

  When I was thirty, Sylvain and I admitted we weren’t made for each other and broke up.

  I haven’t had a long-term relationship since.

  Now at thirty-four, I guess it’s time to kiss my dreams of motherhood goodbye. With my biological clock ticking, my womb unconquerable and my seductive skills fast deteriorating, what are my odds of becoming a mother?

  Notice how I didn’t even mention my “plain” looks.

  I step inside my apartment, drop my purse on the entryway table, and place Sylvain’s card next to it. Then I open the second envelope, a draft contract. Eric, aided by my former coach Leanne, both of whom now work for Lucas, has been conspiring for several weeks to bring me in as a publicist.

  I’ve been resisting.

  Not because I love my current job.

  I don’t.

  And it’s not like Lucas isn’t offering a better salary.

  He is.

  Besides, I’m totally over him.

  It’s just… working for him would be weird.

  He knows we used to be friends. But he doesn’t know we slept together. Neither does Leanne, or Eric. The official version I gave everyone at the time was I’d gotten fed up with water polo—had enough of the grueling workouts, always being hungry, and dreading the next somebitch who would try to drown me or grab my suit so hard it would tear.

  No one needed to know I had to get away so I could lick my wounds. No one needed to know I had any wounds to start with.

  Eric supported my decision.

  Leanne tried to dissuade me before realizing it was no use.

  Lucas… I don’t know what his reaction was because I carefully avoided him. And then he got mugged, spent three months in a coma, and forgot who he was.

  I bet he’s still a jerk, though. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, amnesiac or otherwise.

  My phone rings.

  “Did you see the terms we’re offering?” Leanne asks, not bothering with small talk.

  “I did, and they’re good. It’s just—”

  “What?” she asks before yelling, “I saw that hand! Natalie! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Um, that one was clearly not for me.

  “Sorry about that. You were saying?”

  “It’s just I’ve turned the water polo page of my life and moved on.”

  “Well, make a U-turn and move back.” She sighs. “We need you. I need you.”

  “Why? There are plenty of hungry young publicists out there who’d love the opportunity.”

  “It’s you we need,” Leanne says. “You’re a former player and a woman.”

  “Why does my being female matter?”

  I can barely make out Leanne’s reply because of the noise around her. “Because the club has a women’s team now.”

  “So?”

  “Hang on.” The noise recedes—Leanne must be moving to a quieter spot. “Let me give you an example. Martin, the publicist Lucas fired recently, was hitting on the girls.”

  “I’m sure they were able to reject him politely.” I smirk. “Or hit him, if politeness didn’t work.”

  “The older ones, yes, but we also have a few teens. When he came on to Letitia—she’s only eighteen—the poor girl was in a flap. He had somehow convinced her he was so important that Lucas would kick her out if she didn’t humor him.”

  “What an asshole!”

  “Exactly.”

  “What happened?”

  “Fortunately, she confided in me,” Leanne says. “I talked to Lucas, and the next day Martin was out.”

  “Good.” I kick my shoes off and head to the kitchen. “Hey, not all men are like Martin. Or, you could always hire a female publicist. I’m not the only one!”

  “You’re the only one who knows the sport so well. You used to be semi-pro, for Christ’s sake!”

  I open the fridge and survey the empty shelves. “Please. Anyone with half a brain can figure out the rules and get up to speed after they’ve seen a few games.”

  “It’s that extra sensitivity someone who’s never played can’t have,” Leanne says. “I’l
l give you another example. Martin did a calendar with the boys, and it was a big hit, so he wanted to do the same with the girls.”

  I smirk. “I bet they hated the idea.”

  “Of course, they did. As a woman, one of the reasons you do professional sports is because you want to be more than a ‘pretty little thing.’ And you certainly don’t want to be photographed naked.”

  “True.”

  “Well, Martin didn’t get it, and I doubt even a female publicist who hasn’t been an athlete would,” Leanne says.

  I grab a yogurt, shut the fridge door, and pick up a cereal box to fix some “dinner.” Yay. I love single life. No racking your brain about what to cook to make your dear husband happy. No worrying the kids aren’t getting enough vegetables. No fuss, no pressure. No need to eat sitting at the table or bore one another with uninspiring stories about our uninteresting days.

  What’s not to love?

  “All I’m asking,” Leanne says, “is that you come over for a chat with Lucas and me before you say no.”

  I let out a resigned sigh. “All right.”

  “Tomorrow after work?”

  “OK.”

  We say goodbye, and I dig into my crunchy no fuss meal. The same I had for breakfast. And for dinner last night. And for breakfast yesterday morning.

  As I chew, my heart quickens.

  I wonder what Lucas will look like when I see him tomorrow, what he’ll sound like, smell like, feel like when we cheek kiss hello.

  Then I wonder why I’m wondering about him, and the answer depresses me even more than the fact I’ve hit my mid-thirties, and I still eat cereal for dinner.

  3

  Lucas

  “Here.” Isabelle hands me a manila folder.

  I glance at Leanne and Eric, both of whom have been singing Isabelle’s praises nonstop for the last couple of weeks.

  They shrug as if to say they have no clue what’s inside.

  I open the folder and pull out a stapled printout. “What is this?”

  “Just some ideas I jotted down last night.” Isabelle smiles. “I don’t plan to work for you guys, but I want you to have this and share it with whomever you end up hiring to be your publicist.”

  Leanne takes the document from me and leafs through it slowly. I skim the subheadings. Where to look for corporate sponsors… Who might be interested and how to get them to a yes… Ideas for commercials… How to use the Easyfundraising app… Tips on attracting celebrity backers…

  I cock my head and stare into Isabelle’s big brown eyes. “So, you wrote this last night, just like that, even though you don’t want to work for the club?”

  “Yeah, well… I do care about water polo.” She shifts nervously and points to the document. “It’s not a big deal. Just some ideas to get you started.”

  I survey her.

  Isabelle had been a good friend of mine, I’m told, but we were on the outs when I was attacked.

  Is that why she’s so generous with her expertise? Does she feel guilty for something? Has she realized in retrospect that whatever it was I’d said or done to cause our falling out was insignificant?

  I must find a way to ask her.

  “Thank you for this,” Leanne says to her. “We do get some funding from the city of Paris and some from the Swimming Federation. But it’s far from enough.”

  Isabelle nods.

  “The good news is our men’s team won silver at the Pro A championships last season,” I say. “Surely that’s something you—or whoever we end up hiring—can use, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Isabelle’s eyes light up, and she stops fidgeting. “That victory can be tapped in so many ways! Promoting the club is one avenue, promoting the sport to make it easier to attract talent and sponsorship is another. And it shouldn’t be difficult to land contracts for all kinds of commercials—anything from deodorants to beer to car insurance.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “You think you could do that?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Any publicist with a half-decent address book can.”

  Leanne and I exchange meaningful looks.

  “Martin had a hard time,” Eric says.

  Isabelle furrows her brow. “But that was before you won the medal, wasn’t it?”

  I’m sure she knows Martin got fired and why, but she doesn’t hit the man while he’s down.

  Well done.

  Everything about Isabelle is incredibly reassuring. She could approach you with the craziest investment scheme, and you’d still give her your money because your gut tells you she won’t con you.

  It must be something about the way she isn’t trying to mystify her work or to suggest we’re doomed without her magic touch. Her winsome smile helps, too. Add to it her fruity voice and easy manner, her friendly face and even her trim, athletic figure, and you have someone you want to down a beer with as soon as business is done.

  I can totally understand why I was friends with her. What I have a harder time fathoming is why we had a falling-out.

  One thing is sure—I trust Isabelle.

  What’s more, I like her.

  And that means there’s no way she’s leaving here without signing that damn contract.

  “Isabelle is friends with Fumé,” Eric says, beaming with pride. “She could maybe get him involved somehow.”

  I stare at my assistant coach. “Who’s Fumé?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I thought you’d know. He’s a rapper. He’s really big these days.”

  Isabelle signs, clearly peeved. “I’m not friends with him. I just know him from a video he shot for my former employer.”

  “Yeah, but you stayed in touch,” Eric says, jutting out his chin.

  Leanne frowns. “Isn’t he a… rough sort of person, what with being a rapper?”

  “He’s the sweetest guy,” Isabelle says. “A real pussycat behind the rough look.”

  There’s an awkward pause when it hits me that despite their good intentions, Leanne and Eric aren’t helping my case.

  “Hey,” I say. “How about Isabelle and I continue our conversation over a drink, since she’s isn’t planning to work for me, anyway?” I turn to my reluctant candidate. “Isabelle? A quick beer to go over your clever ideas?”

  “Er…” She chews on her bottom lip. “OK.”

  “Do you mind if I jo—” Eric begins.

  “Off you go,” Leanne butts in. “Eric and I need to get some administrative stuff done tonight.”

  Eric gives her a WTF look.

  Leanne arches an eyebrow, as if daring him to voice his unspoken question.

  He swallows. “Right. It’s true. We have some… some stuff to do. You guys go ahead.”

  I nod a goodbye to my two acolytes and turn to Isabelle. “Shall we?”

  She sticks her folder into her sensible handbag and follows me to the exit.

  In the bar, I choose not to beat about the bush. “What can I offer to make you sign the contract? Name it, I’ll consider it.”

  “I’m flattered,” she says, “but also perplexed. It’s not like I’m the only publicist in Paris.”

  “You’re the one for my club. Leanne and Eric dream about working with you. Starting today, I do, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” I give her an earnest look. “You’re my man, Isabelle.”

  She curls her lip. “Your man, huh? My, now I’m truly pumped.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.” Her expression softens. “But it’s a strong statement for someone who just met me.”

  “Maybe it’s the suppressed part of my brain talking.”

  She shifts her gaze to her beer.

  OK, I must ask her.

  The question that bugs me might ruin my already slim chances of swaying Isabelle, but I need to know.

  “We didn’t get a chance to discuss it when we met a few years back, but I was wondering…” I search her face. “Why did we have a falling-out, Izz?”
r />   She nearly jumps at my last word.

  I blink, trying to figure out where that came from. “Is that what I used to call you—Izz?”

  She nods slowly.

  For a long moment, I stare at her, processing what just happened. Was it a coincidence? Is that how I would normally address a woman named Isabelle whom I just met?

  For a man who has no clue what he used to call his mother, this could be huge. A potential breakthrough. The first step on the path toward remembrance.

  “Do you think…? Did you…?” She pauses, unable to form her question.

  Judging by her heaving chest and her furious blush, it isn’t just excitement for a former friend gaining a tiny bit of ground in his battle to recover his past. It’s personal. Whatever it is, it’s significant to her, perhaps too significant to reveal. I must tread carefully.

  “Probably just a coincidence,” I say. “I don’t remember calling you Izz. Or anything else about you. Or about anyone. My mind is still as blank as before.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “No, it’s me who’s sorry.” I force a smile. “Whatever killed our friendship, I’m sure it was my fault.”

  She lifts her beer to her mouth and takes several long, slow sips, sets it on the table, and lifts her eyes to me. “You can’t apologize for something you don’t remember doing. It isn’t right. Besides, you didn’t do anything… reprehensible. We just drifted apart.”

  I peer at her. So not buying it.

  “What are your doctors saying about your chances?” she asks. “Isn’t there some new drug or a powerful mindfuck that can help?”

  “There’s no medication for amnesia, but some individuals succeed in retrieving most of their memories, even years later.”

  “How?”

  “By exposing themselves to objects and people from their past—triggers that can jog their memory.”

  She chews on her bottom lip. “Is that the only way?”

  “There’s also hypnosis and group therapy, but my doc doesn’t think either is a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too little evidence they’re effective, coupled with a high risk of creating false memories—or worse—delusions.”