heard other women say that their friendships helped bring out the best in them. I had never felt that way before, but in the company of Marcelle, I was starting to understand the sentiment.
When we were upstairs, I turned toward the dining room, but Marcelle caught my arm.
“First, to the bar,” she said. We waltzed in, and I offered a faint smile to the four other women seated inside. I sat with my back to the bar, and we ordered two highballs, which arrived ice-cold. I had planned on drinking nothing. I wanted to stay sharp, observant, but Marcelle’s vivacity had already worn me down. Suddenly, it all felt very silly, my paranoia. I enjoyed laughing with her, speaking frankly with her. I was relieved that I could now do so without analyzing the intonation of her every word.
“To a morning of self-betterment, to discovering our similarities. And, of course, to freedom,” Marcelle said, clinking her glass against mine. “And also, to making it all the way to this evening after drinking these.”
“Strong,” I said, taking a sip, trying to stifle a cough, which turned into a laugh.
Marcelle smiled, and when we were seated comfortably, she launched into a tale of the first time she’d come to the club—like me, on the day she arrived in Hanoi. She was describing herself as pale and terrified when she’d driven up the palm-tree-lined road, before stopping midsentence and breaking into a bright smile.
“He would be here,” she said, looking past me. “I bet he slept here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Red, of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Cautiously, I turned and followed her gaze. A man with unkempt blond hair was sitting at the bar, his back to us.
“Red,” Marcelle called loudly, causing the man to pivot in his seat. He looked from her to me and gave us an easy smile. Immediately, something about him unnerved me.
“Marcelle de Fabry,” he said, rising and walking over to us. I noticed a mound of light chest hair creeping out of his white shirt, which was unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into his beige chambray pants.
He took Marcelle’s hand in his and kissed it.
“I’m happy to see you,” he drawled. “I thought it was going to be a dull morning, but no longer.”
“It’s almost afternoon, Red,” she said. “Did you just wake up?”
“Something like that,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re the color of a sunset. In fact, you are red,” she said, looking at his deeply tanned, slightly burned skin. “Sandalwood and turmeric. Mix it and apply. Then you’ll look less lobster, more European.”
“Did you get that recipe from a Tamil coolie?” said Red, looking down at his arms. “We used to do that in Burma.”
“You should do it again here,” she said, touching his skin. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it tightly, and then turned to me when he dropped it.
“We haven’t met, have we?” he asked, blazing holes into me with his dark blue eyes. They were nothing like Victor’s nearly translucent ones, beautiful by their absence of color. This man’s were like a storm brewing in daylight.
“Or have we?” he asked, when I didn’t answer right away.
It bothered me the way he phrased it. As if I weren’t memorable. But I didn’t like that it bothered me.
“We haven’t,” I said coolly, reaching out and shaking his hand.
“No kiss?” he said, looking down at our interlocked hands and grinning. “You can’t be French.”
“I’m American,” I said, dropping his hand. “And French women don’t kiss strangers. Neither do Americans.”
“But I’m not a stranger. I know Marcelle very well. We go back years, don’t we? To the wild days?” He looked at her, earning an eye roll. “Oh well,” he continued, leaning down and kissing both my cheeks. “I’m British, so we should really be speaking English, but Marcelle here barely knows a word of our barbaric language, so we won’t. For now.”
For a moment we locked eyes but said nothing. When I felt my skin prick, I blinked and said, “Do the British kiss in greeting?”
“Est-ce qu’on fait la bise?” he repeated in his low voice. “Oh, no. We British aren’t allowed to kiss at all. We even marry without kissing first. Then we make love to each other through a hole in the sheet. A rigid people, aren’t we?” He looked at Marcelle, who nodded her agreement.
“Though you’re about as rigid as spaghetti,” she added.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“Cooked spaghetti,” she clarified.
“I still haven’t been told your name,”