scrutinised Anne-Sophie’s figure suspiciously. ‘Look at you – even with all your scrumptious cooking, young French lady, you’re still quite slim.’
Anne-Sophie smiled enigmatically once again, feeling a twinge of pride at being French.
‘The French don’t eat foie gras, meat and heavy dishes with sauce every day, you know,’ I couldn’t help telling Mary-Whitney.
I was tired of hearing my fellow Americans say they didn’t understand how the French stayed so slim in spite of their rich, fatty diets. They didn’t eat rich, fatty food all the time; they consumed a lot of fruit and vegetables, and they didn’t eat constantly, either! But when they did, they sat down and ate slowly to appreciate what they had on their plates. I wanted to scream this vital piece of information at her, but managed to restrain myself.
‘Really?’ sighed Mary-Whitney.
Mary-Whitney’s sighs had now taken the place of her strange smile and laugh. Since learning that Anne-Sophie intended to stay in Boston, Mary-Whitney’s fighting spirit appeared to have waned considerably, maybe because she knew she was really going to need help to save her marriage.
‘Then it’s … er, well, I’m sure you’ve heard of the French red wine paradox,’ Mary-Whitney ventured in a subdued voice.
‘Yes, there was a show on TV about it a few weeks ago. Pretty funny, actually, don’t you think?’ I said, looking at Anne-Sophie.
Her brief fierce glance reminded me of a witch considering what kind of potion to prepare in order to poison the asparagus-shaped superwoman.
Mary-Whitney continued, ‘Er, I don’t know. I worked in France for six months, tried their food, drank red wine every day at lunch and dinner, like them, and gained around twenty pounds. Of course, I lost it all when I came back, thanks to the Slender Quick diet, and if—’
‘It’s in the genes,’ Anne-Sophie declared, smiling. ‘It’s in the genes. And there’s nothing you can do about it!’
‘Of course! I don’t see any other explanation,’ Mary-Whitney agreed, letting out yet another big sigh.
‘There is a further explanation,’ I offered. ‘It’s not only genetic, it’s what is actually consumed, and how the eating rituals are followed, so it’s also cultural.’
‘Of course. It’s also cultural …’
But Mary-Whitney would probably never change her lifestyle. And why should she? To get her Spaulding back? No, he was the one who simply needed to stop his childish behaviour. But if he was really unhappy with Mary-Whitney there was little to be done.
However, the woman was a fighter.
‘I’m afraid that I need your help, Anne-Sophie. Can you teach me how to cook healthy French food? I could perhaps cook on the weekends.’
I knew that at this point Anne-Sophie would have liked to shout a loud ‘Ça ne va pas, non?’ But she was too flabbergasted by the question and still feeling rather proud to be French at that precise moment. Instead she remained silent, waiting to hear what was to come next.
‘If I prepare the kind of food my Spaulding discovered thanks to you, I’ll have a chance of winning him back, even if I do gain weight.’
Actually, your Spaulding might like it if you became a little plumper, I thought. It might remind him of his curvy Latina prima donna.
‘I don’t know about that …’ Anne-Sophie mumbled.
‘It probably seems surprising, but it’s not that stupid an idea, when you think of it. I’ll pay you good money for it,’ Mary-Whitney added. She had clearly recovered some of the self-control a multi-tasking superwoman of the new millennium is supposed to have. ‘And you could give me advice about a French-style makeover.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
That was the very answer I would have given myself.
‘Well, think about it. Here’s all the information you need to reach me: emails, home and work phone numbers, fax, cell phone … Just think about it.’
Mary-Whitney finished her double Bourbon, got up eagerly and left a fifty-dollar bill on the table.
‘That’s for the Bourbon and more champagne. Celebrate Valentine’s Day on me!’ And the asparagus-shaped woman with her unstyled hair, baggy dress and overlong worn-out coat laughed once more as if to show that she had completely regained her strength. Was it the effect of the Bourbon? Or the thought that she had found the solution to getting Spaulding back by believing that Anne-Sophie would help her?
She vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.
‘Was it a dream, or should I say a nightmare?’ asked Anne-Sophie, pulling herself together while signalling to the waitress for another round of drinks. Then, looking at the fifty-dollar bill on the table, she exclaimed, ‘Someone is going to get a big tip tonight …’
‘Actually, that was all quite funny,’ I ventured.
Anne-Sophie frowned at me, but then started giggling.
‘Yes, the whole thing is laughable, but what am I going to do now?’
‘Ignore Spaulding at work from now on. Nothing needs to be discussed further. And don’t worry, I have a feeling you won’t have to do anything. You’ll never see that woman again.’
‘Good. Jessica, thank you, I trust your judgement as usual.’ Anne-Sophie leaned over to hug me.
‘No problem. She’s really something, isn’t she? No wonder Spaulding wants some time off from her.’
‘Enough of all this foolishness! Dear friend, pass me the chocolates. I’m suddenly craving these sweet treats for the intense pleasure and comfort I need right now.’
I took the chocolates out of my bag and ceremoniously handed them over to her.
‘Hmm, champagne and chocolates, at the top of my number-one city in the world, qui dit mieux?’ I said, smiling.
Pierre Hurel was back at the piano by then, playing a popular piece of his, ‘The Crush’ – so appropriate, I thought, my eyes following the pretty new waitress as she moved from table to table.
A year has passed. I’m at the Zenith Bar waiting for Anne-Sophie, just like every Tuesday night. Tomorrow will be another Valentine’s Day, and for the first time I’ll have a real date. I’m pretty excited. I met Regan a year ago. She was the new waitress here at the Zenith Bar that I couldn’t keep my eyes off on the night of the St Valentine’s Day tragicomedy.
Funny how my prediction that Anne-Sophie would never see Mary-Whitney again was proved right.
A few weeks after that fateful evening, Spaulding went into work and announced that Mary-Whitney had had a big promotion, and the family was moving to Portland, Oregon, the following month. Such an opportunity couldn’t be passed up.
It seemed that Spaulding didn’t have any choice but to go along, since Mary-Whitney had always been the main breadwinner, and he was too weak to leave the comfortable life he led with his wife – even if he was constantly tempted by extramarital affairs.
The saddest thing for him was that he never had the opportunity to say goodbye to Anne-Sophie properly. She didn’t go to the farewell party that the office organised for him. She simply couldn’t make it. It was a Tuesday night, after all, and we were together having our weekly happy hour, and with champagne, s’il vous plaît!
Jessica’s Favourite Anne-Sophie Recipes
Gougères (Savoury Choux Buns)
A gougère is a choux pastry puff often served as an amuse-bouche. It’s a speciality