In the Bag (25 page)
“Fine,” I said. “Be that way. Throw a complete hissy fit just because the poor dude doesn’t have e-mail. I hate to tell you this, but it’s not like you’re a real computer whiz yourself. You still don’t know how to text very fast. And I’ve seen you write e-mail in all caps, which is considered completely
rude
.”
Mom turned to face me. The wine stain on her blouse looked like a gunshot wound.
“
Rude?
” she asked. “You have the gall to lecture
me
on being rude?”
“Yeah,” I started to say. “Because—”
“Go up to the room,” she said. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
I
f only I’d told her about the note in the bar after the exhibit opening. Or how about if I just hadn’t written the goddamn note in the first place? How about that? Or how about if I weren’t such a first-class
ass
?
These were the thoughts that crashed like waves in my head later that night at the hotel.
“Are we going back to Madrid?” Webb asked. He was in bed, but not sleeping.
“No,” I said. “We’re just an hour or so away from Paris now. I’ve booked us to fly into Paris early tomorrow morning. And then we’ll catch our flight home from there.”
“Great,” said Webb. “We’ll see Coco and Daisy again. They’re on the same flight to Chicago.”
“They are?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you hear Coco and me talking?”
I didn’t hear anything after Daisy handed me the note. I knew I couldn’t face her again. Not until I could explain why I had refused to give her my e-mail address, which meant coming clean about the note, which meant utter humiliation.
If I really cared about her as much as I thought I did, I should have the courage to risk looking like a fool. But I couldn’t. The very thing I’d been telling Webb he needed to learn, I couldn’t do myself.
I used my BlackBerry to change our flight itinerary.
“Get some sleep,” I told Webb as I confirmed seats on the 12:15 p.m. flight out of Paris. “We’ve got a long day in front of us.”
B
ack in the room, Coco was acting pissy and I didn’t care. I should’ve left her with my parents and taken a vacation by myself.
Now, after a week of putting up with her roller-coaster moods, I was stuck with the prospect of returning home to the inevitable questions about why I’d quit Bon Soir and where I’d be working next.
There were probably a half-dozen job offers waiting for me. Old restaurants. New restaurants. I had a loyal following. Restaurant owners knew I could bring in good business.
Or I could go the route of becoming a private chef for some moneybag couple on the Gold Coast who liked to entertain. Or I could send lunch over to Harpo Studios and go after a little green room business. Catering for celebrities was practically a cottage industry in Chicago.
“The world is your oysters Rockefeller,” Solange had told me at the exhibit. “Decide what you want and go get it.”
“What Does Daisy Sprinkle Want?” That stupid headline had ruined my vacation.
What
did
I want? I wanted to stop falling for jerks like Andrew. I wanted to stop getting my hopes up like a pathetic teenage girl worrying about prom.
Nancy thought I needed to spend more time in therapy. I thought I needed a small vacation. We were both wrong.
I needed to work. I was a person who was happiest when working. Because when I didn’t work, I let my guard down. And look what happened: Andrew.
I was still fizzing with rage and indignation, but now I felt a dull headache start to take shape in the space behind my eyes. I thought about calling Solange and telling her the whole story. But then she’d feel obligated to feel sorry for me, and I didn’t feel like being pitied at the moment.
It was humiliating to think I’d gotten my hopes up over Andrew. It must’ve been jet lag. I’d lost my game for a few days. There was something in the water in Europe that made me drop my guard. It’d happened during culinary school and now again with Andrew. I knew I’d get my groove back. But still. Damn him and his “Sorry, I can’t give you my e-mail” bullshit. I felt sorry for whoever he was seeing. No, I didn’t. I felt jealous. No, I didn’t. I pitied her. Poor thing. Poor fool. Poor stupid woman who didn’t know her man was hitting on another woman.
I thought back to the look on his face when he was reading the note from my secret admirer. He looked ashen. Almost ghostlike.
Wait a minute. Did Andrew think
I
had somehow encouraged that creepy guy who wrote the note? Did he think I was a flirt? A slut?
The nerve of men. I took two Excedrins and crawled into bed.
At least I wouldn’t have to see him again. The concierge had changed our flight reservations out of Paris from five o’clock to twelve fifteen.
Solange,
You’re a dream to let us stay here.
Lots to talk about when you come to Chicago.
xxoo Daisy and Coco
W
hen I woke up, Dad was on the phone, ordering room service coffee.
“Don’t you want to see your friend?” I asked. “She’ll probably be downstairs having breakfast.”
“I’ll pass,” he said in a gloomy voice. “But you should go get something to eat. We have to leave for the airport soon.”
“You’re not going to stay in the room, are you?” I asked. But Dad didn’t answer.
I dressed and went downstairs. As soon as I walked in the hotel dining room, I saw Coco’s mom sitting at a table by the window. She was alone, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. I took a deep breath and walked over to her table.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Webb,” she answered, putting the paper on the table and smiling. Then she frowned. “Is your dad here?”
“No, he’s upstairs.”
“Oh.” She seemed to relax.
I had to think fast. “Dad wanted me to tell you you’re welcome,” I lied.
“What?”
“Remember when you told me to thank him last night? For dinner? I did, and he said, ‘She’s very welcome.’ ”
“Oh,” she said again. This time she lowered her eyes.
It was no use. I’d ruined whatever chance they had. Coco had tipped her off that I was an idiot. So, by extension, whoever raised me was also an idiot.
“Have you eaten yet?” she asked. “There’s a nice selection of pastries over there.”
I followed the direction of her hand. “Thanks. That sounds good.”
I walked over to the buffet where I removed two croissants from a platter and put them on a napkin. I glanced back at Daisy. She was reading the newspaper.
I got the hint and left.
M
om was in such a lousy mood that morning that I took my croissant to the hotel business center, where I finally had a chance to do what I’d wanted to do since I saw Webb at the restaurant.
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Okay, here goes . . .
Dear Webb,
I am still trying to wrap my frazzled brain around what happened—not just in Paris, but here in Barcelona. And I wish I could laugh about it. But the truth is, I feel like such a bitch. You came all the way from Madrid on a train to see me, and what did I do but YELL at you? If I tell you the reason, will you promise not to laugh? (I’m going to have to imagine you promising.) Okay, so here’s what happened. My mother (who I can’t believe you’ve now MET) somehow persuaded me to pack all my worst, most stretched-out, most pathetic underwear. Stuff I never wear. Stuff I never should’ve bought. Take, for example, that pink foam-padded bra that practically leaped out of my bag when you opened it. I think I wore that bra once—as a joke. Maybe twice. Or three times, at the very most. I only bought it because some girls in my class thought it would be funny to
The door to the business center opened.
“Hey, Coco,” Webb said. “Wanna croissant?”
“Webb!” I screamed.
And with one click, I deleted the e-mail.
I
found myself checking out of the hotel right behind Daisy. I considered asking if she wanted to share a cab to the airport. But why? So I could ruin yet another blouse? I had screwed this thing up so thoroughly I didn’t have the courage now to be even polite.
And yet I couldn’t resist staring at her as Webb and I waited for a cab outside the hotel. She was wearing the same black jacket she’d worn on the flight from Chicago—this time, over a T-shirt. Probably Coco’s.
I tried to smile as the two of them climbed in a cab.
I will never see her again,
I thought.
Never. Ever. Ever.
Naturally, an hour and a half later, I saw her on the plane. I barely had the nerve to look up as Webb and I walked past her and Coco on our humiliating way back to coach.
As the plane took off, I closed my eyes. The show had been a success. That was the reason I’d come to Spain. That and spending time with Webb during his spring break.
I opened my eyes and looked at Webb. He was sitting across the aisle from me and staring straight ahead. Z
oning out,
as he called it.
I thought back to the night in the hotel bar when Daisy and I had talked about our kids. It was such a rare and welcome exchange of parental fears. But why did I tell her the whole sorry saga about my sister? I barely knew Daisy. And yet I’d felt an immediate connection with her. She was strong and confident, but also warm and caring. I wondered if she’d minded when I touched her knee under the table at dinner. She didn’t seem to, judging from the look on her face.
But that face was long gone now, never to resurface again in my company. This was a woman who had banished steak sauce—a condiment!—and waged a jihad against televisions in bars. She was a person who didn’t suffer fools, and I admired her for that.
I just wished I hadn’t been such a fool.
A
s awkward as the whole stupid situation had become, there simply wasn’t time to worry about it on the flight from Barcelona to Paris. When we landed, we had to get from the airport to Solange’s apartment so we could pick up Coco’s bag and the rest of my stuff, and then back to the airport—all in two hours.
“Depechez-vous, s’il vous plaît,” I said several times to the cab driver.
“I cannot understand you,” he said in a thick, unidentifiable accent.
“I’m trying to ask you to
hurry,
” I said. “Please.”
“I am attempting it, of course,” he barked. “But Cinco por Cinco. Quelle horreur.”
Only then did I notice the protesters marching down the center of the street, holding their hand-shaped signs and tying up traffic. I remembered the newspaper article Andrew had read to me about the Amish extremists, subsisting on a diet of water and uncooked oats.
Maybe they have a point,
I thought. I’d been eating buttery croissants all week and was feeling the effects on my waistline.
When we finally arrived at Solange’s apartment, I threw fifty euros at the driver and asked him to wait ten minutes. Coco and I raced up to the apartment. While she gathered her gear, I quickly tidied the place: wiping down the kitchen counter, scouring the sink, throwing a set of clean sheets on my bed. I scribbled a note and left it on Solange’s desk.