knows that!’ she declared with conviction.
I was so tired of people counting carbohydrates.
‘Everybody knows that you need some carbohydrates, like everything else,’ I offered, ‘but in moderation, of course …’
Ignoring my remark, Mary-Whitney didn’t take her eyes off Anne-Sophie, who ventured, ‘I understand that you have a problem with Spaulding. Let me reassure you that I haven’t done anything … Believe me, I—’
‘Charming French accent, very charming, dear. Keep it, it’s lovely,’ Mary-Whitney interrupted. And she started laughing once again.
Anne-Sophie preferred to keep silent. I knew how much she hated it when people told her that she had an accent, even if they found it charming. She had been trying to work on her American-English pronunciation, doing her utmost to obtain a ‘ch’wing-gummy’ American accent, as she called it. She hadn’t been too successful. But we Americans, don’t we just love the French accent? I know I do.
While I was distracted by this thought, the strange scene continued to unfold before me.
‘I believe you, I believe you,’ Mary-Whitney was saying, with a new burst of laughter.
This woman was truly dreadful!
‘Well, after losing interest in the Latina prima donna and her pasta – my Spaulding didn’t have much choice since she went back to her native Sicily – he started to wonder if he should buy a few Yves Saint Laurent or Karl Lagerfeld suits. Then he began learning French, this “extremely useful and beautiful language, which opens the door to the rich and fascinating culture of France”, as he put it. He watched a programme on PBS called French in Action, in which the main female character never wore a bra under her ample top, and she was quite busty. The French can be so lewd!’ And she laughed again.
Anne-Sophie and I said nothing.
‘He was also talking about eating some bizarre food …’ Mary-Whitney took a little note from her pocket and, smiling in that odd way again, she read it out with a terrible accent: ‘Fwa graz, gojugere, paine deepice …’
She threw the note on the table in disgust. I took it and read in silence.
Foie gras, gougère, pain d’épices. Gougère and pain d’épices were my favourite Anne-Sophie recipes.
I’m quite a Francophile but not a foie gras fan, since I know how the poor geese and ducks are brutally force-fed until their livers nearly burst.
With a devilish smile, as if talking about French food had suddenly given her more confidence, Anne-Sophie took up the note and read the list of dishes out loud, with, of course, the proper accent.
‘Oh, excuse my French!’ Mary-Whitney blurted out.
‘Well, your husband is a colleague of mine with whom I’ve talked a lot about food …’
Was Anne-Sophie going to make a confession after all?
‘Ah-ha! After la cucina italiana, calorific French cuisine! That’s even better!’ Mary-Whitney shouted a little too loudly. Some other customers – and they seemed to be more numerous now – turned to look at our table. They appeared to be interested in our little scene, particularly since the pianist, who might have provided a distraction, or at least drowned out Mary-Whitney’s voice, was away taking his break. I felt a little embarrassed.
Could it be that even if Mary-Whitney was the embodiment of the multi-tasking superwoman, she was really quite distressed by the awkward situation Spaulding had put her in? Were the peculiar smile and laugh merely her way of externalising her distress?
‘You can easily figure out why he doesn’t want to eat my Sunday tofu casseroles any longer. These exotic Italian and French dishes are more appealing to him – my Spaulding, who most of the time never paid any attention to what he had on his plate before he met the Latina prima donna, and now you. It seems to me that he really admires you two because you can do wonders with food.’
She stopped and inhaled deeply, as if needing oxygen to start up again, but then merely sat there, silent and pensive. She took a large gulp of her double Bourbon.
Anne-Sophie and I stared vaguely out of the window, hoping that she would simply leave.
‘As if all that were so important. As long as what we eat is healthy!’
‘Health is important for sure, but …’
But food also has to be appetising as well as attractive, as Anne-Sophie would have asserted. I could picture Mary-Whitney preparing her boring tofu casserole. I don’t like tofu at all, even if I’m American and live in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
‘You agree with me, though.’
‘Yes, but—’
She didn’t allow Anne-Sophie to finish.
‘Then my Spaulding started to talk about the amazing home-made pastries you sometimes brought to share with your colleagues. Anyway, he needs to be careful with sugar, you know.’
Anne-Sophie and I were speechless. What next? Was Mary-Whitney going to sue Anne-Sophie because Spaulding’s health was declining thanks to too much sugar from her cakes?
‘Jessica?’ Anne-Sophie whispered imploringly.
I knew that she needed some help here. Even if things had been smoothed over a little by the topic of food, I was still in a better state of mind than she, since I was just a spectator. I decided to do my best.
I turned to the asparagus-shaped woman and said in a serious tone as if I meant it, ‘Mary-Whitney, why don’t you tell us what we can do for you? You seem to have something on your mind. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?’
‘You’re right.’ Mary-Whitney looked at me with gratitude. ‘I’m getting there.’
She took a sip of her Bourbon. ‘Of course, Anne-Sophie, I wouldn’t need your help if you moved back to France. That’s what all the French do, once they’ve had enough of American food. Am I right?’ She punctuated her question with a burst of laughter.
‘Actually, I eat quite well here. There’s a wide choice of ingredients, and I cook at home most of the time.’
‘So no move back to your beloved France planned?’
Anne-Sophie shook her head.
‘Not like the Latina prima donna going back to her native Sicily, then?’ Mary-Whitney pulled a sad face. No more horse-like laugh.
‘No.’
Mary-Whitney seemed to be thinking. She had tried to warn off the little French lady, but that was clearly not going to work since the fault was all her Spaulding’s. When she spoke again, I realised that she’d decided to work with the situation.
‘Fine! What should I do now then? Have a French haircut, wear French clothes? Buy some healthy French food – if such a thing exists?’
‘Of course it exists,’ Anne-Sophie and I chimed in unison, both of us surely thinking about the fabulous French caterer that had opened the previous year in Central Square.
‘But no takeout food – you’ll have to cook yourself!’
And hopefully far more interesting stuff than tofu casseroles! Oh, please!
‘But I don’t have time to cook! I work late almost every night!’
Do you want to rescue your relationship or not? We’re giving you good advice here, so take it or leave it!
The balance of power had shifted and now I was really starting to have some fun.
‘But I always buy healthy takeout food, most of it made from whole grains and veggies. That’s why