Working It Read online

  And that, Mesdames et Messieurs, is why Vivian Perpetua Grant is my best friend. Her colorful, free-flowing language, often peppered with random pop-culture references, and open, affectionate nature is in complete contrast to my reserved speech and manner. Vivian views every stranger as a potential friend and every friend as family. She smiles, laughs, and hugs freely. She has a bonhomie that is infectious. I grew up in an affection vacuum and am, by nature, more reserved. Vivian is the yin to my yang.

  “I’ll be fine.” I glance at my watch. It’s only 8:46. What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day? “That is, if I can figure out what to do now.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Union Square Park.”

  “Ooo! I know!” Vivian half murmurs, half moans into the phone. “Go to Bitchin’ Baklava!”

  “What?”

  “Bitchin’ Baklava, on Balboa. They make the best dark chocolate almond baklavas. One bite and you will forget all about Nicola the Salope.”

  “Do you know how many calories are in baklava?” I stretch my legs out in front of me and flex my calf muscles. “I don’t want to be miserable and fat.”

  I have never told Vivian that I was overweight as a child, that the girls at my boarding school called me Éléphanny, and made stomping sounds whenever I walked by. Boom. Boom. Some secrets must be kept hidden away, like a bad boob job, even from best friends.

  “Okay, no baklava.” Vivian sighs. “You could go to Tuescher Chocolatier and have one-eighth of a champagne truffle.”

  “I could go to the gym. I think they offer a noon-time Body Combat—”

  “Boring,” Vivian interrupts. “Go see the new Colin Farrell movie, hang out in that music café near Leaning Tower of Pizza, or get a massage so you’re nice and relaxed for your date tonight.”

  “Putain! I forgot about my date. I am going to cancel.”

  “You can’t cancel this late. It would be rude.”

  “Look, Vivian, even on my best days I am woefully inadequate when it comes to small talk.”

  “True, but meaningful relationships start with small talk. Luc and I started out talking about fast food and cowboy movies.”

  Vivian is engaged to her dream man, Jean Luc de Caumont, a witty, kind romantic literature professor and former Tour de France cyclist. We met Jean-Luc on a bike tour through Provence and Tuscany. Actually, it was supposed to be Vivian’s honeymoon, but her priggish ex-fiancé dumped her after he found out she had lied about her virginity. Vivian is the only woman I know who could go from jilted bride to long-distance lover in two weeks. She’s the absolute master at flipping the script, and I envy her for it. She is overdramatic—über-dramatic is the word she would use—and moans about every setback as if it were fatal and final, yet she always manages to turn it around.

  “I wish you were here” —I sigh—“or I were there. I miss France.”

  “What? I thought you loved California.”

  “I loved it when you were here and we could get into mischief.”

  “You mean I got into mischief and you got me out.”

  I laugh because Vivian has never said a truer statement. She does have a penchant for misadventure.

  “It will all work out, Fanny. I just know it. You are too organized, talented, and driven not to succeed.”

  “I don’t feel driven.” I lean back against the park bench and exhale. “My internal drive mechanism seems to be malfunctioning. You think I have it all together. I thought I had it all together. But I am not so sure anymore. I don’t know what I am doing with my life.”

  “You could always move back to France. I’ll bet Philippe would hire you as one of his bike guides.”

  We laugh. Philippe is Jean-Luc’s brother, and he owns a thriving bike tour company.

  “Enough about me. How are you? How’s nearly-married life? Get the minivan yet?”

  “Ha-ha. Actually, I bought a zippy little Fiat convertible…”

  I only half listen as Vivian tells me about the article she is writing for her magazine column, her hunt for the perfect “muffin top-concealing” wedding gown, and her struggle to adapt to life in France, because I am brainstorming ways to make the store’s grand opening the most successful in L’Heure history. That would surely net me another shot at impressing Monsieur Henri.

  “…Hello? Fanny? Damn mobile connection.”

  “I’m here! The line just dropped off for a few seconds.”

  “Thank God!”

  I lied because I can’t exactly tell my best friend that listening to details about her happy life is making me feel worse, that I would prefer to talk to someone with a crappy life so I can feel better about my own.

  “This call is going to cost you a fortune.” I look at my Blackberry screen. “We’ve been talking for thirty-six minutes already.”

  “Shit! Are you serious? I better go, then. Cheer up and have fun on your date. Text me when you get home tonight, unless you invite him back to your place. If that happens, skip the text and send me selfies instead.”

  “Vivian!

  “Kidding.”

  “Au revoir, Vivian.”

  “Hasta la vista, baby!”

  The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, I get a text.

  Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

  I forgot to tell you. Fiona and Angus are coming to the wedding. If Calder comes, you could be his date. Think about it.

  Fiona and Angus operate the sheep farm Vivian and I visited when we went to Scotland last year. Calder is Angus’s slightly sexy, completely arrogant brother.

  Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

  So not gonna happen. He was into you, remember?

  Chapter 4

  Balling

  I arrive at Snob, an artsy wine bar not too far from my apartment, take a seat at the counter, and order a glass of my favorite red wine while I wait for Morph2Perfection, also known as Ethan DuBois.

  I “met” Ethan in an online dating site’s chat room. He is a software developer with a “passion for rock climbing, fine wine, and foreign languages.” Apparently, he developed some unusual software program and is now Zuckerberg rich. He didn’t tell me that last part. I Googled him.

  “Waiting for someone?” the bartender asks.

  “A date.” Nerves tickle my belly. “First date.”

  “Nice.”

  “I met him online.”

  He whistles. “Hope you don’t get catfished.”

  I don’t watch a lot of television, but I get the reference. “Me too.”

  The bartender smiles and moves down the bar to greet a new wave of customers.

  Honestly? I’ve been so wrapped up in the fall-out of the Kitty Kat Purrfect debacle, I haven’t considered the possibility that Morph2Perfection might have lied on his dating profile. I am not a religious person, but I suddenly feel the need to pray.

  Please, Higher Power and Goddess of First Dates, please don’t let Ethan be a catfish. Please no finger-sniffing, overweight, balding, middle-aged men.

  I finish my wine and order another glass.

  Nothing wrong with courage by Cabernet, is there?

  We agreed to meet at seven o’clock. Ethan walks in the door at six fifty-nine.

  Punctual. Score one for Ethan.

  He looks just like his profile photo—tall, lean, with sandy brown hair that points in all directions, like he just ran his hand through it. He’s cute, in a slightly disheveled absent-minded professor kind of way. He doesn’t hesitate in the doorway but walks right over to me.

  Confident. I like that. Score another point.

  “Stéphanie?”

  “Ethan?”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Moreau,” he says, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You’re even more beautiful in person than you are on your profile photo. How is that possible?”

  Perfect French accent and charming compliment. Score two more points for Ethan.

/>   “Merci.”

  “Shall we move to a table?”

  I pick up my glass and follow him to a small table situated in a partially-curtained alcove. He doesn’t pull out my chair.

  Minus one for Ethan. Fortunately, he’s still up three points.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes making polite chitchat. I use a trick I learned from watching Vivian in action and ask him an open-ended question about his job. People love talking about themselves, even on awkward first dates. Ethan is not the exception. Using technical programming jargon, he tells me about an exciting new program he’s developing for a government contractor that will revolutionize battlefield tactics.

  “That sounds exciting. You’re a regular Q.”

  He stares at me. “Q?”

  “James Bond.” I smile. The head of research and development for MI-5.”

  How can a geek not know that?

  “Ah.” He leans back in his chair. “Except Q was an industrial scientist who developed hardware that could be used in the field, and I am a computer engineer who develops software. Not quite the same, technically speaking.”

  “Right.”

  An awkward silence stretches between us. Is he always a stickler for precise language?

  “So you work in a clothing store?”

  “Not exactly. I work for L’Heure.”

  “Isn’t that a clothing store?”

  “Boutique. Yes, but the phrase ‘work in a clothing store’ implies a sales position. I am a regional manager, responsible for several boutiques.” I grin. “Not quite the same, technically speaking.”

  He continues to stare at me, and a wicked little voice in my head whispers, Does not compute. My playful jab simply does not register.

  Sorry, Ethan. Half a point docked for inability to detect sarcasm. I am French. Sarcasm is an inherited trait. It’s in our DNA.

  “So,” I say, changing the subject, “how long did you live in Paris?”

  “Twelve weeks and two days.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I attended a language immersion course.”

  Three months? A three month language immersion course hardly qualifies. Minus two, Ethan.

  If I can’t date a Frenchman, I at least want to date someone with an understanding and appreciation of my culture. Acid churns in my belly. Clearly, disappointment and wine do not mix.

  The bartender arrives, hands Ethan the wine list, and promises to return in a few minutes. Ethan studies the list for several seconds. He frowns and his brow knits together, as if the menu were written in Greek. He looks over the top of the menu at me.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Chateau de Beaucastel Coudoulet Rouge. It’s a Rhône Valley red. It has notes of plum and blackberry.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Oui!”

  “Can I try a sip?”

  And just like that Ethan, morphs from a great catch into a catfish.

  The uncouth creature reaches for my glass, and I have to quell a sudden impulse to slap his hand away. I stare at his lips pressed against the rim of the glass and wonder if he brushed his teeth. He finishes swigging my pricey pick and hands me the empty.

  “Huh,” he says, smacking his lips. “It tastes a little…gamey. Like the grapes were stomped on by a herd of wild boar.”

  C'est quoi ce bordel?

  English translation: What the fuck?

  “Perhaps that’s the truffle.”

  “Truffle? As in mushroom?”

  Wine connoisseur, my ass. Minus one. Game over, Ethan. You lose.

  “Chateau de Beaucastel Coudoulet Rouge is made with Mourvèdre grapes, which take on a certain earthy flavor as they age.”

  He raises his hand in the air and snaps his fingers.

  I am cringing. Inwardly. Outwardly. Cringing. Who does that?

  Nobody.

  Next, he will be saying, “Oh gar-son.”

  The bartender hurries over.

  “I’ll take a glass of the Yellow Tail Sparkling Rosé.”

  Cringing. Again.

  Yellow Tail? Sparkling Rosé? I look around to see if anyone else heard Ethan order. Maybe this is an elaborate prank. Maybe Vivian met Ashton Kutcher and talked him into punking me.

  I was stuck in an airport lounge in Omaha once, and the televisions were set to a Punk’d marathon. Yeah, my idea of hell is being stuck in Nebraska and forced to sip Yellow Tail Sparkling Rosé while watching endless loops of Punk’d.

  The bartender looks at me, widens his eyes a fraction, and returns to the bar.

  If Vivian were here, she would say, “Ain’t no shame in drinking pink wine.” I would vehemently disagree. Pink is not the new white.

  “So, Ethan”—I plaster a fake smile on my face—“what do you do in your free time, that is, when you’re not developing James Bond software?”

  “I volunteer at a soup kitchen near the Tenderloin.”

  Tenderloin? His mention of that seedy area reminds me of Nicola and her snarky comment implying I worked it in the red light district.

  I groan.

  “Not into volunteering?”

  “What?”

  “You groaned when I said I volunteer at a soup kitchen.”

  “Sorry.” I wrap my fingers around the stem of my wineglass and tip it back and forth. The residual wine moves like a tiny claret wave. “Your comment just reminded me of something my boss said about the Tenderloin—”

  The bartender returns with Ethan’s sparkling wine, rescuing me from having to lie or recount my most humiliating professional encounter.

  Ethan takes the glass from the bartender, lifts it in the air, studies the streaming legs in the light, brings the glass to his nose, sniffs, and then takes a sip, swishing the pink wine around in his mouth as if it were Listerine.

  I would cringe, but I am all out of cringes. So I decide to keep the conversation rolling until I can toss my catfish back in the dating pond and forget I ever snagged him.

  “I read in your dating profile that you are an avid rock climber.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “I love climbing. Do you have any climbs planned?”

  He grabs his right shoulder and rotates his arm, groaning. “I’d love to, but I messed up my shoulder ’balling with some college buddies last week.”

  “Balling?” I smile. “You play basketball?”

  “What?” He frowns and then chuckles. “No.”

  “What is balling then?”

  “Paintball.”

  Putain!

  What do you even say to that?

  Somewhere, out there in the vast sea of people, there is a paintball-playing, soup-ladling, Rosé-swilling female just yearning to catch this catfish. I am not that woman. No yearning going on here.

  Somehow, I keep the conversation going for another hour before offering a flimsy excuse about needing to be up early for an important meeting.

  Ethan looks genuinely disappointed, which perplexes me. There has been no connection here. Zero. I haven’t even felt the tiniest jolt of sexual electricity flowing between us. Is it possible he has?

  “I am so glad we did this,” he says, smiling. “I really feel a connection.”

  He stares at me. I stare back.

  What is wrong with me? Why aren’t I racked with guilt or suffering the pin-pricks of embarrassment?

  “I brought you a little something,” he says, reaching into his jacket. “A first date gift.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “It’s just a little something I made for you.”

  Please, please tell me he didn’t knit me a paintball jersey.

  He pulls out a folded square of papers, unfolds them, and hands them to me.

  I take the papers and stare at the images of two mutant looking children, a boy and a girl. They have big brown eyes—like those Japanese cartoon characters—and pouty expressions. The girl has a sharply angled asymme
trical bob, curiously like my own.

  I look at him, frowning.

  “They’re our children.”

  “Excuse me?” Bile bubbles up my throat.

  “I morphed your profile picture with mine.” He grins. “This is what our children would look like.”

  “What? How?” I drop the papers onto the table. “Why would you…?”

  My mouth suddenly feels dry and my thoughts fuzzy, like someone shoved cotton in my head, like I drank too much cheap pink wine.

  “I developed a software program that analyzes the genetic history and images of two people and digitally recreates their offspring.”

  “Morphing?”

  “Technically, yes. But Morphenetics is far more complicated than the average morphing software, which merely takes two shapes and morphs them into one image, often accomplished by utilizing cross-fading film techniques.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Morphenetics analyzes multiple faces, scans them for commonalities, and comes up with a complex mathematical algorithm that results in the creation of a new face. It’s a sort of digital DNA. Just as geneticists have been able to analyze and isolate DNA to detect the probability of a person inheriting certain diseases, my program analyzes and isolates facial DNA to detect the probability of a person inheriting a particular hair color, eye shape, moles, dimples—”

  “Wait a minute.You said multiple images. How were you able to come up with this”—I point to the image of the wide-eyed mutant girl-child—“this if you only used my profile photo?”

  “I didn’t only use your profile photo. I used several of your photos, as well as photos of your father and cousins.”

  C'est quoi ce bordel?

  “I only loaded one photo onto the dating site.”

  Ethan grins. “I was able to access your Facebook photo albums and downloaded images of your family. You don’t have many pictures of your family in your albums. I couldn’t find one of your mother.”

  Ma mère.

  An invisible band tightens around my chest, violently pushing the air from my lungs. Several seconds pass before I am able to inhale.