Page 87 of From Fling to Ring

Not my problem, I told her.

I wish I believed that myself.

I also wish I could find a way to watch his games from here. I keep trying to find them online, but no luck so far.

When I’m done soaking my feet, I dry them and pull on the furry socks I brought to wear as slippers. I pad over to my one window, which is actually huge, and watch the street scene below. I don’t have much of a view, but I do look right down on several cafes and restaurants that are full of the energy of people going about their lives and having a good time.

Myself, not so much.

It’s funny. I thought by coming to Paris, I’d be leaving all the crumminess in my life behind. But no. That shit followed me all the way here and in fact might even be magnified, now that I have time to myself and can really ponder it.

It’s so not fair.

I’ve been wandering around Paris in a funk so bad even dogs are moving out of my way. But tomorrow’s a new day. I will meet with a friend from home, really Petal’s friend, who married a French guy and needs a nanny. I’m not a big fan of children, but I’m hoping I land the gig so I can keep busy. Maybe make a little cash.

The good news is, the job comes with a place to stay, most likely a room connected to the children’s, but still, it’s free.

The downside to free room and board, though, as I’ve learned from all the nanny blogs on Reddit, is that you get paid that much less. But what the hell. I was underpaid in San Francisco. Might as well be underpaid in Paris.

The misery just keeps piling on.

45

LUCY

“Hi. I’m Lucy Daley.”

I extend my hand to a woman I supposedly know from San Francisco, but have no memory of. She takes mine, pumping it up and down two times, really hard.

Interesting.

When she sees me looking at our grip, she explains. “That’s how they do it here. Not like us back home where we shake up and down several times.”

Okay. One of my first cultural lessons, but not as important as learning you have to buy something in order to use a restaurant’s toilet.

“Come on in, Lucy. I’m Frenchie.”

I thought her name was Susan.

She sees the confusion on my face. “I know. It’s a nickname. Throws everyone off here. But all my life I wanted to live in France so badly my friends started calling me Frenchie. And now that I’m here, I decided to keep the name. The French all think it’s hilarious.”

I bet.

“Your French must be really good by now,” I say, accepting a Perrier as we take a seat in her cavernous all-white living room.

How does someone with little kids keep a white living room clean? Shit. Is that one of the things I’ll be expected to do? I can’t even keep my own apartment clean.

Frenchie waves a hand at me, laughing. “Are you kidding? I can barely ask for the bathroom.”

Ha. At least I’ve got that one down.

“I just use Google translate. I mean, why bother learning when you have a translation app in your pocket?” She giggles.

“But your husband’s French, right? How does he feel about that? Is his family okay that you don’t speak French?”

She waves her hand again with an offhand laugh. “Oh, totally. They love me. When we get together, they speak French the whole time. My hubby promised to tell me if they say anything about me, but he swears they never do.”

Can we say denial?

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