‘Airy macarons, mille feuilles, and the dacquoise I ate in Pierre Hermé in Paris,’ she continues, completely ignoring me as she runs through her list of patisserie porn. ‘Oh, hazelnut meringue! Chocolate ganache, and Chantilly crème—seven layers of delicate deliciousness that just melts in the mouth!’
‘I got the bread from le marche,’ I admit. Basically, the grocery store.
‘That bread is no substitute! Get thee to the boulangerie!’
‘I’ll take it under advisement.’ I usually ignore the aroma as I pass the boulangerie nearest to the office. My ass needs less carbs. Besides, it’s not like I have to do the grocery shopping myself these days.
‘It’s got to be dinnertime there, right? And you’re eating cheese all alone?’
‘Remy will be home soon. Dinner’s cooked’—though not by me—‘but I decided I couldn’t wait.’
‘No, sweets. In French terms, you’ve just switched the courses around a little.’
‘I like that idea. It’s better than stress eating any day.’ The explanation rolls off my tongue before I can bite it back.
‘Stress eating? Is it the job? The boyfriend? Do you have too much glamour in your life these days?’
‘Do you know French women don’t get fat?’ I say airily instead, flipping over the book I’ve placed next to my plate. The title in a bold font reads:
French Women Don’t Eat Cake
And Other Reasons French Women Aren’t Fat.
I wasn’t going to say anything to her but find I can’t help myself.
‘They don’t? Maybe I should apply for a passport.’ Amber’s answer is accompanied by a snort. ‘This baby weight is proving a little harder to shift than I imagined.’
‘Puh-lease. You are hot!’ And still slim. I’ve seen the proof on Facebook. ‘Also, you cooked a whole human in your goddess bod.’
‘Let me tell you, it still looks like I’m cooking something in there. Maybe a cake.’
‘Well, French women don’t eat cake,’ I grumble, flicking through the pages.
‘Then they’re living very, very boring lives. What exactly is this about?’ Her tone turns a little militant. ‘There are women who would kill for your figure. And men who’d kill to get their hands on it.’
‘Easy for you to say when you don’t have to shove your fat ass into an evening gown soon.’
‘Ohhh!’ she trills. ‘Who’s having a party?’
‘Remy’s mom.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ But if she’s half as nice as Amber’s mother-in-law, I’ll be happy. Sally Phillips must be the gold standard.
‘You’re going to her party, but you haven’t met her?’
‘Apparently, she’s been busy.’ Too busy to be told about her son’s accident while she does whatever she’s doing in the Bahamas. ‘So I’m told. And it’s not a party. It’s a benefit gala.’
‘That sounds kind of scary as far as first meetings go.’
‘It gets worse. Remy’s ex has been her right-hand woman through the planning.’
‘Far out!’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is fuck.’
Fuck is as good a word as any to use right now, even if my bestie doesn’t know about the whole business-deal-fiancée-fiasco because I figured it’d be something easier explained face-to-face, at a time when it doesn’t smart quite so much. We’ll crack open a bottle of wine and tell war stories about how we were both pursued by gorgeous and determined men, men who hadn’t the sense to wait for us to turn up first. Gorgeous men who had pasts that lingered and hung around like a bad smell. Or maybe that’s just my take on things, I think as I glance at the book once more.
‘Yes, totally. Fuck her. You’ll look ravishing, and you’ll have the man on your arm. And she won’t.’
Or maybe I didn’t confide in Amber because I couldn’t bring myself to explain it all.
‘Anyway, French women do eat cake. That’s just the title of some book from a few years ago.’
‘Yeah, I know. I just found a copy on my doorstep.’ Not here, but back at the Tower. I’d gone to collect some clothes after work to find a wrapped package lying next to my door. I thought maybe a neighbour had dropped it on the way past because mail isn’t delivered this way. But when I’d picked it up, I saw it was addressed to me.
‘You found a copy on your doorstep? Is it, like, a failed Amazon delivery?’
‘Nope,’ I reply with a bitter sounding chuckle. ‘It was addressed to me, gift-wrapped, and lying on my welcome mat.’
‘You do not have a welcome mat.’
‘You’re right, I don’t.’ But I think I might get one for this place. You know, while I’m pretending it’s mine. Something