Page 2 of Prelude To You

“Here, you should have these twoprofiteroles,” she said in her hoarse smoker’s voice. “It’s the last ones left, and since you made them…”

“Thanks, Marguerite.”

“Good for you not taking shit from that ugly fat bastard.” With her heavy French accent, it didn’t sound half as insulting as it should have. “But sometimes,chéri,” she added, “just sometimes, maybe you should grin and brake.”

“You mean grin and bear,” I said. I spoke fluent French, but Marguerite got offended when an American tried to speak to her in her native language. She nodded, “Grin and bear, oui.”

“I don’t think so,” I murmured, unraveling the foil from the Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle’s cork.

“You fucking Americans… So uptight, all the time.Merde!

“I’m picky as to who I allow to touch me, thank you very much,” I said.

And with that I popped the cork off the champagne, the sound bouncing off the alley walls. I raised the bottle to mylips and drank a liberal amount, then passed the bottle to Marguerite. She took a few generous sips and went on to question my life choices. “With Jean-Rene blacklisting you,you won’t find another job like this in town,chéri.”

“I know, but I can do something else until the dust settles.”

Marguerite shook her head, as if gravely contemplating my doomed future. “It doesn’t work like that. Maybe only inyourmind. Jean-Rene can destroy your reputation as a pastry chef. All you would have left is to go to Madagascar baking cookies for the penguins.”

“There are no penguins in Madagascar. Don’t believe everything you see in the movies.”

“Who cares about penguins right now, Isabel? Paying rent and bills is more important,non?”

“I know, you don’t need to tell me that.”

We passed the bottle between us. Working in the same kitchen, in a tight space, and sharing the same bottle of very expensive champagne came with the territory.

Marguerite lit a French cigarette, inhaled, and coughed out the smoke. “Maybe find a man, get married,” she said. “Settle down with some kids. That’s what I should have done ten years ago if I had a brain.Merde!”

“What can I say,” I said. “Maybe I have dreams—"

“Ohchéri,” she interrupted. “Everyone has dreams. I had dreams. It’s just the roll of the dice. Forget your dreams; get real, get married.”

A strained chuckle escaped my throat. “Jeez Marguerite, I thought you were a feminist.”

She sucked down on her cigarette and blew smoke circles in the cool air, ignoring my quip.

I was beginning to feel the urgency of the situation. Rent was due, bills were stacking up. I needed a job. “Maybe I shouldapologize to Jean-Rene and beg for my job back,” I said. “What do you think?”

Marguerite took one last drag, then threw what was left of the cigarette on the ground and mashed it to a pulp with her shoe. “Forget that. I might have an idea.Une superbe idée!”

“You know someone who needs a pastry chef?”

“Not that. It’s something else. You said you’d do anything?”

“No, I didn’t say that exactly,” I mumbled meekly. “I know beggars can’t be choosers, but I draw the line at pimping out my body.”

“Oh you crazy girl!Folle!”She laughed.“Who said anything about pimping out your body?”

I took a deep breath. “Okay, just wanted to clear that up.”

“You read,oui?”

“I dabble, including the classics.”

I took her puzzled frown as not knowing what dabble meant, and I was too tired to explain. “I read, yes.”

“Okay,superbe! I will call you later tonight with the details,chéri.First I must call my friend and see if they still need someone at the place where his boyfriend works. It’s not in the kitchen. It’s some crazy rich place. And please get a nicer coat,pour l’amour de Dieu!” She kissed me on both cheeks and hurried back inside the restaurant.

---