One Week in Paris

by Roya Carmen

  My heart sinks. “Why? What happened? You were so looking forward to it.”

  “I know… I was. It sucks. But the store is crazy busy right now with the new Spring line, and I just can’t take the time off.”

  I blow out a breath. “That’s too bad.”

  “Maybe Oscar can take my place,” she suggests. “Paris is pretty romantic in the spring,” she adds in a teasing tone.

  I smile at the thought of Oscar and I in Paris… it could be fun… and pretty sexy.

  After I hang up with Maeve, I call my mom. She doesn’t answer, of course. It goes to voicemail.

  “Hi mom, listen… forget about today. Just forget about the whole thing. I’m very excited about Paris and just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to take Oscar. So you can let Mark’s assistant know. She can books the ticket under mine and Oscar’s names. Oscar Cohen.”

  I pause for a beat.

  “Forget I said anything. I love you, Mom.”

  I hang up, feeling lower than I’ve felt in a long time. The last time I remember feeling this horrible was when I broke mom’s prized vase, an heirloom which once belonged to her late grandmother. We patched it up with some Krazy Glue, but it was never the same. I wonder if our relationship will ever be the same after this. Especially after what I’m about to do.

  I’ve decided to bring Oscar because I need all the backup I can get. Corrie can pay her own way, and I know she’ll be a willing participant.

  I text Oscar.

  Get your sexy ass over here, now.

  His reply comes about five seconds later, and makes me laugh.

  Booty call?

  Top-of-the-line male specimen at your service, ma’am. Hard and ready for action.

  I shake my head.

  He’s at my door about two minutes later, hair mussed up, t-shirt inside out.

  I smile at the sight of him. “Were you naked when I called?” I ask. Oscar is always buck naked, walking around, making toast, watching TV. I just don’t get it — it must be a guy thing.

  He grins. “What do you think?”

  “Get in.”

  He smirks. “Feeling frisky, are we?”

  “You know how I told you about Mark?” I start.

  “Yeah, did you tell your mom?”

  I nod. “I did. She refuses to believe me. Now she hates me.”

  “Oh crap… I’m sorry.”

  I take his hand and lead him to my sofa. “Anyway, I have good news for you. You’re coming with me,” I tell him, excited as a kid, “to Paris.”

  He studies me for a second, confused. “Why? What’s changed?”

  “Well, there’s a catch…” I explain. “Corrie can pay for her own ticket, so she’s coming too. But I wanted extra backup.”

  His brows knit together. He’s very cute when his brows do that. “Extra backup?”

  I shift on the sofa and tuck my legs in. “Corrie and I want to break up the wedding, and we’ll need help.”

  Oscar’s eyes are wide as saucers. “What?”

  “We can’t let her marry the jerk. She’s going to be destroyed. I know all the plans are made, but I mean…”

  Oscar is completely speechless. He obviously thinks I’ve gone crazy.

  “Well, look at Maeve… she got dumped at the altar, and she ended up with someone else. And she’s one of the happiest woman I know. If she’d married Peter, she’d probably be miserable.”

  He chews on his lower lip, mulling this over. “Well, if you think…”

  I can tell he’s not quite on board.

  “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he says. “I’m glad that dickwad won’t be your new brother.”

  “Yeah, actually turns out, Matt’s not so bad. He seems to have grown out of it.”

  Oscar’s expression shifts swiftly. “You’re telling me you like the guy now? Even after all he’s done to you? Just because he treated you to a nice dinner.”

  “No, it’s just… he’s actually nice now.”

  Oscar shakes his head. “Whatever. Once a jerk, always a jerk.”

  “I don’t want to fight again, Oscar,. Are you in or not?”

  He closes the distance between us. A slow mischievous smile curves his lips. “You. Bed. Paris. I’m in.”

  I smile, and as his hand slides slowly up my thigh, I forget all about my mother’s troubles.

  Part II

  PARIS

  13

  MY MOTHER AND MARK are in first class, and we’re back here in coach. Which is fine because she’s not talking to me anyway. I’m kind of glad to see that Matt is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably in first class too. Corrie is sitting at the back of the plane. She couldn’t get a seat next to us, but she was lucky enough to be able to purchase a seat on the same flight, last minute.

  I hate red-eye flights. I plan to sleep, and luckily, there is not a baby in sight — this just might work. If only I could get Oscar to shut the hell up. He’s been chattering like a tween girl at a sleepover since we boarded. It’s actually kind of cute how excited he is.

  I’ve got everything I need for PLAN SLEEP: sleepy-time tea, noise cancelling headphones, my relaxation music mix, comfy pillow, throw, and last but not least, Oscar’s shoulder.

  The flight attendant is kind enough to give me hot water for my tea, and Oscar and I chat while I drink it. Corrie comes over to say goodnight. She’s got pink fuzzy sleep booties on and a zebra airplane pillow.

  “I’m going to read for a bit,” Oscar tells me. “I’ve downloaded the latest Stephen King.”

  “Can I borrow your shoulder to sleep?”

  He grins. “Always.” Damn, I love that smile.

  I lay against him, listen to music, and let myself drift. I’m exhausted — I haven’t slept well at all these past few nights, too caught up in my mother’s drama, and too full of nervous energy about Paris. Just as I drift off, I mutter, “Goodnight, Oscar… I love you.” I don’t know why I say it.

  I guess it’s because I mean it.

  When I wake, the plane is much brighter, bathed in the light of dawn. Oscar is sleeping.

  Oh, damn…

  Did I really say that out loud? Did I really tell him I love him?

  I check the trajectory graphic on the screen in front of me. We’re almost there — only an hour to go. I’ve slept a good six hours — I’m pretty thrilled about that. I really need to go pee.

  I awkwardly climb over Oscar, trying not to wake him up. He tosses and mutters something unintelligible.

  I don’t have time to worry about the whole business of telling Oscar that I love him. I’ve got much bigger fish to fry. I need to break up this wedding, and soon. If I just stand there and do nothing, my mother will make the biggest mistake of her life in five days.

  Five days. I do the math quickly in my head… one-hundred and twenty hours.

  I have about one-hundred and twenty hours to break up this wedding.

  Paris is as lovely as I remember, but chillier. I’ve never been here in April. It’s not quite as busy as I recall, and I’m happy about that. I suppose it’s not tourist season yet.

  Oscar is already busy checking out the French women wandering about. You can easily set them apart from the tourists — they’re the ones beautifully dressed and wearing fashionable shoes. I don’t think French women would be caught dead in sneakers.

  We both love to people watch. Sometimes, we’ll just sit on a bench and watch people go by, and he’ll run commentary based on their appearance. He’s never too mean though. He just likes to make up funny stories.

  Once, a harried woman walked by, two kids in tow, wearing yoga wear and a messy ponytail. Oscar smiled and whispered, “I’m busy as hell today. I’ve got to run to the store after I drop off the kids at school. I need to drop off William’s suits at the cleaners, and pick up chicken for dinner. But thankfully, I’ll let my hair down and get out of these shabby clothes later. I’ll throw on the pretty teddy I picked up at Victoria’s Secret, and slip it on under a tr
ench coat, and surprise Jose, my Portuguese lover. He’s a brooding artist, and makes me come like my boring husband can’t.” I laughed my head off. The man has stories for everyone. I can’t wait to see what he’ll have to say about the French. I’m sure there will be a horrible accent involved.

  My high school French is good enough to communicate with the taxi driver and get us to our destination, a quaint little apartment in the first arrondissement, the center of it all.

  The driver has a heavy foot, a little fast for my liking. Corrie sits shotgun, speaking horrible French to the driver. I’m sure he doesn’t understand a single word. I certainly don’t. Oscar and I enjoy the sights of the city as we zoom by; the stunning European architecture, and the people milling about. Memories of my last trip here assault me — it was a long time ago, with friends on a backpacking trip. I’m sure this experience will be very different.

  I spot the Eiffel tower in the distance, and think about Matt. I’m looking forward to dinner with him. He called to let me know that we’re having dinner on our first night here (tonight).

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?” I’d said.

  “Well, not when it comes to the very beautiful ones,” he’d replied. “Truth be told, I’m hoping for a second date.”

  I’d frozen at his words. The man is a charmer like his father, and I wonder how many women he has going. I certainly am not the only one.

  I shake my head. Why am I thinking about myself as ‘one of his women’? How did that happen?

  I turn to Oscar and he flashes me a smile. I’m glad he’s here. I need him here. I don’t care if he gets the wrong idea, if we cross the line.

  “So, you love me, hey?” he teases.

  I smile “Yeah, you know… like a little girl loves her puppy.”

  He grins. “I love you too,” he says. “But not as much as I love Nellie.”

  I smile. Nellie is his rag doll cat, whom he absolutely adores.

  “Well, yeah. I love Mitzy more than you too, of course.”

  “This friend of yours… Gabbie. Can we trust her?” he asks. “She won’t steal my Nellie, will she?”

  I laugh. “Gabbie is very good with animals. She has a cat too, and a dog. She’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

  He smiles and looks out the window. It’s sweet how he’s in one of the most exciting cities in the world and he’s worried about his cat.

  “Let the adventure begin,” I cheer.

  He smiles at me again, full of excitement. “Yeah, let’s.”

  We arrive at our destination, a quaint, charming European street. I love it. Corrie pays the driver, and I check the notes I’ve written about this place: the address, second floor, unit 10.

  The driver doesn’t help us with our bags, and I’m mildly annoyed. I wonder if he would have offered to help if we weren’t accompanied by six foot two of disheveled man. It’s fine — Oscar’s got it.

  Corrie pulls at the huge door with all her might. “Fuck, this thing is heavy.”

  The old staircase creaks under our feet as we trudge up. We both carry a small suitcase. Oscar is in charge of the big ones — I knew he’d be good to have around. The lock sticks when I try to open it, and I’m worried for a second, but then it finally relents.

  As soon as we walk in, I relax a little. The place is just as it was in the pictures, small but lovely. Wooden beams run across the low ceiling, and there’s striking vibrant art on the walls. The decor is casual French with a dash of Victorian. One could say the place is a bit ‘girly’, which is perfect for Corrie and I, not so much for Oscar.

  But I’m sure Oscar doesn’t give a shit. I dash over to the antique bookcase. A collection of French and English books line the shelves, and even a few Spanish ones. Donations from previous guests? Who even has the time to read in this fabulous, exciting city?

  “This place is the bomb,” Corrie says.

  I laugh. “The bomb?” I tease. “You watch too much Gossip Girl.”

  We venture in to the bedrooms. The rooms are almost identical, both furnished with double beds dressed in pretty linens, antique armoires and bedside tables, and flowing white curtains. They’re both very romantic. “I call dibs on this one. The view is better,” Corrie says.

  “I guess that leaves the other room for Oscar and I,” I say.

  Corrie smirks. “The walls are thin. Don’t you two be too loud.”

  Oscar laughs. “No promises. This one’s a screamer.”

  I shake my head. “I am not.”

  “No, she’s more of a moaner,” Oscar tells Corrie.

  Oh damn, this is going to be a long week.

  After we get settled in, we stop by a small Japanese restaurant down the road. We stuff our faces with sushi, and I get trapped in the small washroom in the basement when the lock on the door gets stuck. Thankfully, Corrie comes to my rescue.

  We take a walk around the neighborhood. Our place is not far from a market where we stop in at a café where I order a ‘café’ which as it turns out, is not coffee, but espresso. I know I’ll be wired all day. I learn that if you want a plain old coffee in Paris, you must order a ‘café américano’. You live, you learn.

  We watch the tourists and locals mix and mingle. I get a chance to practice my French when we buy baguettes, cheese, wine, grapes, sausage, milk and a bag of cereal. I already miss the Kellogg’s Special K Protein cereal I usually have every morning. We have a little kitchenette in our apartment, and the tiniest washroom I’ve ever seen.

  I try to make out the conversations around me but fail miserably. The men here are cute, but a little too fashionable for me. What’s with all the scarves? Oscar is wearing dark jeans, a white tee, and a black leather jacket. And he’s unshaven, like most of the men here. I don’t fail to notice the looks he’s getting from the French ladies — apparently, they like what they see. They are so flirty. I suddenly find myself very possessive of him.

  I wrap my arm around his. He’s mine. Back off, you French hussies.

  We go back to our apartment to make a charcuterie plater, and take a breather… so many people in this city.

  We take our phones and venture to the Pont des Arts, where local artisans sell their wares, and street performers entertain the tourists for money. Corrie poses beside the silver statue man. He winks at her when she leaves.

  “Looks like you’ve already snagged yourself a Frenchman,” Oscar teases.

  She grins. “He is pretty cute. I like silver men, but I prefer the gold ones.”

  My heart practically leaps out of my chest when a disheveled Frenchman grabs my arm. “Come with me. I will draw you.”

  “No… no, it’s okay.”

  “You must sit for me.”

  “I’m okay. I don’t want—”

  “You are beautiful, and I must draw you.”

  Well, in that case…

  I glance over at Oscar and Corrie, a silent plea for help, but they just laugh at me. Despite my objections, I find myself sitting for this very scary man. He busies himself with his chalk pencils, his arms dance as his dark eyes study me intently. I get excited at the thought of being drawn. I’ve never been sketched before. I decide that I will frame and hang my portrait over the fireplace in my living room. When I have guests over, I will just say casually, ‘That’s a portrait I had done by a talented local artist when I was in Paris.’ It will be perfect.

  I wonder how much this will cost.

  A minute later, he’s done.

  Wow, that was fast.

  He hands me the drawing with a toothless smile. I’m appalled — I look hideous. It’s one of those caricatures, the kinds that exaggerate all your distinctive features, aka your flaws. My nose is bulbous, my ears stick out, and my two front teeth are ginormous. And there are about a million freckles on my cheeks. Yet, it does look like me. And he did do a great job on my clothes — I look like a fashionable cartoon bunny. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my big teeth, my nose, and my freckles. And my ears. Thanks a lot,
buddy.

  “That will be fifty euro, please.”

  I almost choke on my own disappointment. Is he freaking kidding me?

  “It’s too much,” I tell him.

  “It is fifty euro, please.”

  “But you didn’t even tell me how much it would be—”

  “It is fifty euro,” he repeats, this time a little more forcefully. “I work very hard.”

  Fifty euros, that’s like… sixty dollars. “It took you about five minutes.”

  Corrie and Oscar step in, and take a closer look. They both burst into laughter.

  “Thanks a lot, guys. I’m so glad I could entertain you. He wants fifty euros for this shit.”

  Their eyes grow wide. “No fucking way,” Oscar says.

  Disheveled Frenchman is getting impatient now. “Fifty euro now, please. I have many other customers.”

  There’s no one else around. “How about twenty euro?” I ask.

  “Forty,” he says.

  I debate this for a second. “Thirty.”

  “Forty,” he repeats.

  Corrie digs into her purse and hands him ten euro. “This is what you’re getting, buddy, and it’s more than you deserve.” She’s about half his size, but she looks like she could blow his head off any minute. He’s speechless and takes the money.

  And to think, I was going to hang this in my living room. I stare at the drawing and I want to cry. I’m so focused on the very unflattering rendition, I almost step in dog shit… Oscar warns me just in time.

  Yep… I hate Paris.

  14

  Mom sends me a very curt text:

  FYI: Wedding Agenda.

  Sending you this information again, in case you’ve forgotten.

  Tues: Rehearsal.

  Rehearsal dinner 6:00 PM and cocktails 8:00 PM: Hotel Athénée

  Thursday: La Vigne de Paris Bagatelle