Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  You know that song that goes “you say po-tay-to, I say puh-tot-o, let’s call the whole thing off”? Well, whoever penned that inane ditty must have spent time with a Frenchman and a Brit. If Fanny says po-tay-to, you better believe Poppy politely chimes in with her corrective, “Pardon me, but I believe it is po-tot-o.” To which Fanny invariable argues the etymology of the word—how it most certainly comes from a French word because everyone knows the French are the masterminds behind civilization’s most tangible and tangential achievements.

  Now, Lord Jesus knows I love me some Fanny Moreau, but my best friend really can be a…snob. It’s not her fault. She’s French. If you have spent time in France, you understand arrogance is as much a part of their genetic makeup as bone marrow or superb fashion sense.

  Fanny explained it to me once. She said, “Several hundred years ago, the French believed Paris was the center of the Universe. The farther one traveled from Paris, the more uncivilized the world became. It’s a belief that has metastasized throughout the body of France. We genuinely believe France brought civilization to the Universe, and this belief gives us a sense of deep, unshakable superiority.”

  “So you believe you’re better than the rest of the world?”

  “Believe?” Fanny frowned. “We don’t believe we are better, we just know we are.”

  Poppy might be British, but nature has endowed her with an equally healthy dose of arrogance. She is holding her own against anything Fanny is throwing down.

  They have bickered about food, romance, literature, art, tea.

  Yes, they had a spirited discussion this morning about the merits of consuming tea instead of coffee. Just when Fanny seemed on the brink of conceding her coffee to Poppy’s tea, she volleyed back with her great “red wine” argument.

  For Fanny, red wine is the elixir of life. One of my first memories of my best friend is of her taking long, dramatic drags of a cigarette while expostulating on her theory of the medicinal benefits of consuming at least one glass of red wine a day.

  “A day without zee wine, cherié, ees sheet.”

  Fanny was a few glasses over her daily quota when she made that proclamation, which explains the heavy French accent. She speaks nearly flawless English except when she is very angry or very tipsy.

  After the Great Tea Debate, they bickered about eggs. Eggs, for Humpty’s sake! The hotel restaurant served our eggs slightly on the runny side—way undercooked by American standards. Poppy sent her plate back to the kitchen with detailed instructions on how to prepare the perfect poached egg.

  Poppy was only being polite when she asked us if we wanted our runny-side up eggs recooked.

  “I do not understand the British and their obsession with pasteurization and sanitization,” Fanny said, waving the waitress away. “It’s an egg, not a medical utensil.”

  And they were off…again…circling and thrusting, parrying and riposting. I managed to intervene and establish a wary truce by redirecting their focus to our impending journey to the sheep farm and my dire need for appropriate sheep shearing attire.

  “I want a pair of Hunter Wellies. Tall, shiny, pink rain boots perfect for bog stomping.” I tossed my napkin on the table beside my runny eggs and stood. “I saw a pair at that boutique on Victoria Street that had the cute pink cashmere fingerless gloves and scarf. I am going to get them. Who’s with me?”

  Two hours later, we are cruising over a bridge spanning the Loch Ness and I am sporting the fiercest pair of shiny pink Wellies and itching to stomp a bog. I can’t stop clicking my heels together and staring at the glassine pink toes. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, mesmerized by all of the pretty, shiny things.

  “This is awesome!”

  “Awesome,” Fanny mumbles.

  Fanny is crammed in Poppy’s backseat, wedged between her two Louis Vuitton suitcases, her carry-on perched on her lap. Poppy’s tiny trunk couldn’t accommodate Fanny’s travel accoutrement.

  Fanny is the Rose DeWitt Bukater of our group. You remember Rose, the heroine in the movie Titanic? Remember the opening scene with Rose standing on the dock, dispassionately staring at the ship of dreams while her two car loads of steamer trunks and suitcases are unloaded? Yeah, that’s Fanny.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to hold your carryon for you?” I tear my gaze from my rain boots and look at my miserable best friend crammed in the backseat. “I don’t mind.”

  “It’s fine.”

  The flat tone and averted gaze tell me all I need to know about Fanny’s attitude. She’s pissed. The best way to deal with a pissed-off French woman is to pretend you don’t know she’s pissed off.

  “I can’t believe I am driving over Loch Ness,” I say, staring out the window at a purple-painted ferryboat loaded with tourists. “It’s spectacular, isn’t it Fanny?”

  “Eh.” Fanny’s tone is blasé and I imagine her shrugging her shoulders. “It’s too touristy.”

  “Sometimes touristy things are fun. Remember when we rented electric bikes and rode them over the Golden Gate to Sausalito? That was fun.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Lighten up, Fanny. Your negative ’tude is harshing my mellow.”

  “Sorry.”

  She emphasizes the first syllable, drawing it out in an unnatural falsetto voice that tells me she’s not really sorry.

  I take a deep breath—drawing in light and positivity—and then exhale slowly—pushing the negative vibes away. “What a beautiful day.”

  “Look at those clouds.” Fanny taps the window with her finger. “It’s going to rain.”

  “Good! I like rain.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must be a new development because you hated rain when you lived in San Francisco.”

  “Only because I didn’t own a super cool pair of Wellies.”

  Poppy glances over at me.

  I smile apologetically. “The world looks different when you’re wearing Wellies. You should have bought a pair, Fanny.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re fun.”

  “They’re rubber boots.”

  “Rubber boots that come in cool colors.”

  “They’re overpriced.”

  “Can you put a price tag on happiness?” Poppy chimes in. “I don’t think so.”

  “Pfft.”

  Uh-oh. Fanny’s pfft-ing. We’re losing her. Someone grab a crash cart filled with bottles of French wine and tubes of Dior lip gloss, STAT.

  “I can’t wait to climb gorse-covered hills and stomp through a bog.” I click my shiny heels together again, smiling at the rubbery thud sound. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  “Fabulous fun,” Poppy says.

  “No.” Fanny shifts her carryon, banging it into the back of my seat. “It doesn’t sound like fun. People die in bogs, Vivian. Do you want to drown in a bog and then a hundred years from now have some Scottish farmer pull your leathery body out by one of your stupid pink rain boots?”

  Black-cloud Fanny and her sunshine-stealing bad mood are really bumming me out. I want to pull out my happy umbrella and shield myself from her negativity deluge, but her unprovoked attack on my Wellies has stunned me. Complain about the weather, the tourists, the runny eggs, but leave my innocent overpriced rubber boots alone.

  “That’s quite enough!” Poppy engages the directional signal with unnecessary force. “Just because you have an abundance of negativity doesn’t mean you need to share it.”

  “Sorry,” Fanny says in an unnaturally high voice. “I’m French. I haven’t learned how to do that fake stiff-upper lip routine. What you see is what you get.”

  “What I see is a foul-tempered woman with a Napoleon Complex. You’re a small person with a large ego!” Poppy slaps the directional signal again to turn it off. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Fanny Bonaparte. Just because you’re mood is in the gutter doesn’t mean you have to pull everyone down
with you.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Josephine! Poppy did not just call Fanny a midget-sized megalomaniac, did she?

  “Hold up!” I raise a hand. “Let’s pause this before someone says something she will regret.”

  Fanny and Poppy respond in unison. “Too late.”

  “Can’t we just get along?”

  “Putain! What did you expect Vivian?” Fanny spits. “England and France have been rivals for hundreds of years. The British have an inborn distaste for my country.”

  “Bollocks!” Poppy declares. “I love France. I simply dislike the French.”

  Fanny’s response in her native tongue is too rapid for me to follow, but Poppy has no problem translating.

  “I can answer that,” Poppy says, glancing at Fanny in the rearview mirror. “I don’t like the French because you’re pseudo-intellectuals and insufferable snobs.”

  “You confuse sophistication with snobbery.”

  “Puhleez,” Poppy laughs. “You’re snobs about food, wine, art, fashion… About the only thing you’re not snobbish about is your battlefield tenacity. Understandable, since you needed the British and Americans to rescue you from Hitler’s clutches.”

  “C’est des conneries!” Fanny’s this is bullshit ricochets around the BMW’s quiet interior. “It’s been over sixty years. How much longer do you British plan on cashing in your World War Two chits?”

  “Probably about the time you French stop being pretentious snobs.”

  I purse my lips and let out a low, long whistle. This is getting ugly.

  “The French are not snobby.” Fanny pokes my shoulder. “Are we, Vivian?”

  “Don’t drag me into this.” I hold up my hands. “I am Switzerland.”

  “You’re American.”

  “I am neutral.”

  “So you do think I’m a snob?”

  A dozen memories flicker in my brain—Fanny rebuking me for buying a knock-off Prada bag, Fanny clucking her tongue at an overweight woman sitting on a park bench eating a donut, Fanny wrinkling her nose at my grilled cheese and saying, “Processed American cheese? Really, Vivian? In France, we only use perfectly aged Gruyère.”

  I swivel around and look my best friend in the eye so she doesn’t read more into what I am about to say.

  “Well, at times, you can be”—I lift my hand and make a pinching gesture, leaving barely an inch of space between my thumb and index finger—“just a teensy, weensy snobby.”

  “Nice, Vivian,” Fanny fumes. “Nice! Way to have my back.”

  “That is not fair!” I let my hand fall to my lap and swivel back around to stare out the front window. “I always have your back, Fanny.”

  “Not this time.”

  “C’est des conneries!” I swivel back around and stare into her flashing brown eyes. She looks surprised by my correct usage and pronunciation of the French oath. “That’s right, sister. I can parle a few curse words, too.”

  We stare at each other—engaging in a classic game of “who will look away first.” To keep the peace, I am usually the one who submits, yields, gracefully concedes victory of minor skirmishes. For this reason, Fanny thinks I am a pushover. She thinks I fear confrontation. She is très, très wrong. I choose to avoid minor skirmishes, preferring to save my firepower for the big battles. Fanny questioning my loyalty is escalating this into a big battle.

  Fanny glances out the window and back at me. The confrontation-loving French girl just bowed her head and handed me her sword. A rare occurrence, indeed. Something is definitely up with my best friend. Bowing her head and yielding her sword is not in her nature. Also, although she’s never been a “glass half full” kinda girl, her negativity this trip has reached new heights. It’s like she is determined to make this trip a miserable experience.

  If I didn’t know better, I would think Fanny is jealous…of me. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Fanny is beautiful, sophisticated, confident, and rich. Why would she be jealous of me? The notion is too ridiculous to entertain.

  “One of the best things about our friendship is that we tell each other the truth.” I reach out and give her knee a quick squeeze. “Has that changed?”

  “No.” She exhales and her shoulders slump. “And the truth is you think I am a snob?”

  I am proceeding gently because I have never seen my battle-ready friend look so defeated.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say it before? Why tell me now—” She darts a glance at Poppy and I know what she is thinking: Why tell me now, in front of a stranger?

  “Because you asked.”

  I don’t tell her that she’s been particularly snobbish this trip, or that she becomes extremely combative when someone offers her constructive criticism. I also wonder if my reluctance to call Fanny on her bullshit stems from my pathological tendency to varnish the unpleasant things in my life in a rosy hue. This possibility frustrates me, because it would mean I am still struggling with issues I struggled with when I lied to my ex-fiancé about being a virgin. Keep it real, Vivia.

  “What else do you think, Vivian? Really think?”

  “I think you’re a caring, generous, supportive human being, but you’re not perfect. Everyone has flaws, even the French.” I pause to let my compliment sink in. “You can be snobby sometimes. I never told you that before because I have just accepted it as part of who you are—a small part of who you are—just as I know you accept that I am a verbose, scattered, frizzy-haired redhead.”

  Fanny glances at Poppy again and presses her lips together. I know what Fanny is thinking. It’s like she wrote her thoughts in a bubble suspended over her head. She wants to apologize for stealing my sunshine, but doesn’t want to appear weak in front of her foe.

  I squeeze her knee in encouragement before turning back around in my seat. Several minutes pass with only the BMW’s softly purring engine breaking the silence.

  “I am sorry if I have been negative—”

  I don’t know if she intended her apology just for me or as a white flag to end the Great British-French War. So, I wait.

  “And I am sorry I called your boots stupid. They’re not stupid. They’re actually really cute, and you work them, girl.”

  “Yes, I do!”

  Poppy chuckles. “Yes, you do.”

  We slip into a slightly more comfortable silence because there’s still a big, fat elephant in the car.

  One of my friends needs to apologize. If forced to bet, I don’t know if I would place my money on France or England. I never understood how the two countries could have engaged in a war that lasted one hundred years. I get it now.

  In retrospect, I should have considered the possibility that bringing two stubborn, slightly-controlling Type A’s together would result in an end of the armistice. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Immovable Object, meet Lady Irresistible Force.

  The tension in the BMW is still thick enough to cut with one of Fanny’s Swarovski crystal-encrusted nail files. I want to say something to lighten the mood, but what? I wish I could text Jean-Luc. He’s a born diplomat, adept at smoothing ruffled feathers.

  Just thinking of my handsome, sweet French lovah makes my heart ache in places I’ve never ached in before.

  I pull out my iPhone and check it for messages. No new voicemail messages, even though the little tower symbol in the right hand corner tells me I am getting a signal. I open my e-mail, hoping—praying—for an e-mail from Luc. Nothing.

  The silence is killing me. Kill. Ing. Me. So I play the pathetic anti-feminist woman Gloria Steinem has written volumes about: the clingy, submissive, overly-dependent female.

  Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:

  I have never missed you more than I do right now. Tell me what I can do to win your forgiveness and I swear I will do it. Je t’aime.

  Do you hear that hissing? It’s the sound of me tossing water on a bonfire of burning bras. Soon, I will be quitting my job to bake cookies for Luc’s col
leagues, mend the holes in his socks, and cook him hearty meals in my new crock pot.

  Does committing to spend your life with one person mean you have to give up your soul?

  I press a hand to the place between my breasts where Jean-Luc’s engagement ring hangs from a chain. The morning I left London, before Poppy picked me up at the Rubens, I took a taxi to a jewelry store near Waterloo Station and purchased a thick white gold box chain. Wearing Luc’s engagement ring on my hand didn’t feel right—wouldn’t feel right unless he was the one to slip it on my finger—but I still wanted it near me as a tangible symbol of my commitment to him.

  I screwed up—big time—but I will do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes, to prove my love and devotion to Luc.

  I just hope “whatever it takes” doesn’t mean spending an eternity sending unrequited, groveling texts.

  I am beginning to think it’s going to take a miracle to earn Luc’s forgiveness. With all of the wars, tsunamis, school shootings, and Hollywood sex scandals, Jesus is working overtime in the Miracle Dispensing Department. I doubt he has time for my silly prayers.

  Chapter 16

  Jonesing for a Geezer

  Praise Jesus! Miracles do happen.

  Poppy is deftly navigating the BMW around a traffic circle on the outskirts of Inverness when she breaks her silent standoff with Fanny with an apology.

  “I am sorry for calling you Napoleon,” she says, looking in the rearview mirror at Fanny. “It was brutally unfair of me.”

  “It was,” Fanny agrees.

  I spin around in my seat and shoot her a give-the-girl-a-break look, but she ignores me and focuses on Poppy’s rearview mirror.

  “Though, I probably would have done the same thing if I were trapped in a car with a boorish, hostile little person.” Fanny smiles one of her genuinely dazzling smiles.

  I exhale.

  Huzzah! Field Marshall Lord Wellington has subdued Le Petit Empereur! Ascend the belfries. Sound the bells. We have a truce!