Sleeping With Paris (12 page)

We women, on the other hand, are always in the pursuit of love. But, as we throw our hearts on the line, guys are just wondering when they’ll get their next lay.

So, I am calling on each and every one of you to make a dramatic shift in your thought process. Remember this: pleasure just for the sake of pleasure is a good thing. We don’t need to be madly in love with a guy to have amazing sex and feel satisfied. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. If we’re not worried about what happens after the sex, the sex is more fun, more carefree, and definitely more orgasmic. Plus, if we don’t care about the next-day callback, we can eat a big, fat chocolate bar in bed with our hot new catch, and not feel bad about it one bit.

And just in case you’re all wondering, Half-Naked French Hottie is currently sleeping in my bed, after having hot sex and sharing a bar of scrumptious chocolate. See, all that and no dreadful “talk” was necessary. What could be better?

This brings me to my final lesson of the night:

Rule # 3 – After being cheated on, there’s nothing like a little revenge to lift a girl’s spirits. If you need to experience the sweet taste of revenge in your efforts to get over your ex and move on to bigger and better things (no pun intended), go for it. Granted, it won’t erase the pain or the hurt he caused you, but trust me, it will make you feel a hell of a lot better.

Ten

mardi, le 5 octobre

Smiling won’t get you very far with a French woman.

When my alarm buzzed at six o’clock the next morning, I sent Luc back to his room and hurried to get ready for my appointment with Madame Rousseau. There was no way I would mess up another meeting with her. I was hoping that by being early and by telling her how dedicated I was to this program, she would forgive me for standing her up and actually turn out to be a nice person. One could only hope.

As I crossed the street to get to the train, masses of students were exiting the station and cursing. What the hell was going on? I pushed through the crowds to the message screen inside only to find out that there was a
grève
, otherwise known as a strike. The French were famous for their
grèves
, as I remembered all too well from my semester in Lyon. Back then though, the transportation strikes were a great excuse to skip class. But today of all days.
Seriously
?

The transportation workers were striking for the entire day, so the only way to get up to the Sorbonne would be by cab. I checked my wallet to see if I had any cash on me, and of course, I didn’t. I sprinted back across the street to the student center ATM, waited in line behind one unbelievably slow Spanish student, withdrew some euros and ran back out to boulevard Jourdan to hail a cab. Everyone else had the same idea though, so it didn’t look promising. I jogged down to the corner to get away from the masses, and after showing a little leg, I snagged one. Sometimes it helps to be a girl.

As we wound in and out of the busy Parisian streets, I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes to get there. I would make it on time. I would. I closed my eyes and willed the traffic to be clear.

The cab pulled up in front of the Sorbonne at exactly seven fifty-eight a.m. I thrust the bills into the driver’s hands and bolted up the stairs.

With their massive guns in tow, the same two police officers stood guard at the entrance. I’d forgotten to get a student ID card the day before, so I handed them my driver’s license, hoping they would let it slide once more.

The taller one shook his head at me, but his expression remained blank. It made me want to scream. I
could not
be late.

I explained to them in French that I was terribly sorry, and that I would be sure to get my student ID today. I told them that I had an important meeting at eight a.m., and that I absolutely had to be on time.

By the time they let me through, I had less than ten seconds to fly up those wobbly stairs or take the minuscule, ancient elevator that was already packed with too many students. I opted for the stairs.

I had seen Madame Rousseau’s office after my class the day before, so thankfully I knew where to go. I arrived at her door at eight a.m. on the dot, out of breath with beads of sweat pouring down my face. But, hey, I was on time.

I knocked on her door as I wiped my brow with my forearm. No response. I waited a few seconds and knocked again, a little harder this time. Still no response.

Then, I heard a set of high heels clanking down the hallway. I turned to see a miniature, gray-haired woman marching toward me. She wore a black turtleneck paired with a long, black skirt, and she had her hair pulled back into the tightest bun known to man—so tight that the corners of her eyes were actually stretching to accommodate the pull of the bun. I didn’t even have to ask—
this
was Madame Rousseau.

Without smiling, she locked eyes with me, walked right in front of me, unlocked her door, then closed it in my face.

What was I supposed to do with that?

I waited a second or two, then knocked again.

A full five minutes later, she opened the door, peered down at her watch and in a flat tone said, “
Vous êtes en retard
.”
You're late.

Was this woman for real? First of all, I wasn’t late. And second of all, since when were the French so keen on timeliness?

I walked into her tiny, but pristine office and noticed the rows upon rows of French pedagogy books packed into the bookshelf above her desk. She motioned for me to sit down as she took a seat at her desk.

“So,
you
are Charlotte Summers,” she scowled in French.

“Yes, thank you so much for meeting with me today, Madame Rousseau. You have no idea how honored and excited I am to be a part of this program.”

“Yes, well, we will have to work on your timeliness, won’t we?” She tapped her pen on the desk and peered at her watch once more.

“I’m terribly sorry about last week. My plane—”

“I do not have time for this, Mademoiselle Summers. Let us discuss the program and what will be expected of you. As you know, I am the professor appointed to help you find a teaching position after you complete your year of study at
la Sorbonne
. But, this is not to say that it will be so easy. You must prove yourself this year. Not only academically, but you must show yourself to be of good character and of sound judgment. I work with some of the most prestigious, elite private schools in Paris, and it is my responsibility to make sure that the teachers I place in these schools are not
stupide
, but rather outstanding, brilliant role models for these young children.
Vous comprenez
?”

“Yes, I totally understand.”

“You will meet with me two or three times each semester to go over your progress, and you will turn in copies of your final papers to me, as well as to your professors. I will personally monitor your work, and if I see fit, I will recommend you to one of the private schools in Paris. And trust me, Mademoiselle Summers, the schools look very highly on my recommendation. Without it, well . . .
bonne chance
.”

Madame Rousseau stood abruptly, opened her door and gestured for me to leave. “I have class in twenty minutes. We will meet in December, at which time I expect you to turn in your final papers. You must contact me by email to schedule the meeting.”

“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I said as she ushered me out of her office.

Just as she was about to close the door, she peeked her tight little face out and shot me her sternest look yet. “And Mademoiselle Summers, when we meet in December, I expect you to be here fifteen minutes early.” With that, she closed the door in my face, and I stood there wondering how in the hell I was ever going to make this woman like me.

***

During my first week of classes, Frédéric sent me three more hilarious text messages, but I didn’t hear a word from Luc, nor did I hear from Jeff after the ruthless email I had sent him. While I couldn’t help but admit that I was disappointed Luc hadn’t called or stopped by after our great night of sex, it was Jeff who I couldn’t get off my mind.

I had so many mixed emotions swimming around in my head. I wanted to see his reaction when he read my email. I wanted to see the pain on his face. I wanted to know that I had hurt him as badly as he had hurt me. Then I wondered if I
had
even hurt him? If he was able to run around on me so easily, did he even care what I was doing now?

On the other hand, I did think there was a slight chance that Jeff still cared for me or he wouldn’t have written that email begging to talk to me. Maybe I should’ve agreed to talk to him. Maybe he could’ve explained things so that we could at least be friends.

I tried to envision Jeff and myself as friends. We weren’t the kind of couple who had, in addition to being lovers, become best friends over the course of our relationship. I always assumed that would happen later on as we matured as a couple. After all, we hadn't even been together a full year, and for most of that time, we were still in that lovey-dovey, sickening stage that made our friends want to vomit. But, as I imagined what it would be like to be friends with Jeff now, in the aftermath of our break-up, only a few key images came to mind: Jeff telling me over the phone what a phenomenal lover Brooke is, then me screaming “Bastard!” into the phone and throwing it across the room . . . or even better, Jeff introducing me to Brooke, and me pulling her hair out while kicking Jeff in the balls.

No, it didn’t look like the whole “friend” thing would work out after all.

I wasn’t capable of being friends with him at this point, and I probably never would be. The hurt was too deep. At times, I felt like I couldn’t breathe without him. The only thing that made me feel better was to keep busy and to not think about the whole disaster.

***

Late Thursday night, while I was sitting alone in my room, wishing I could be with Jeff at that very moment, the phone rang. It was Katie.

“Hey lady!”

“Hey Katie, what’s up?”

“I don’t have long to talk because I’m on my way to the hospital for my super depressing ICU rotation, but I just wanted to tell you my news.”

“Good news I hope?”

 “Yes, very good.” She took a long pause. “I met a guy.”

“You met someone? Where? When? Give me the details.”

 “Well, I met him during my ob/gyn rotation of all things.”

“Oh my gosh, don’t even tell me he’s a gynecologist.”

“Yep, you got it.”

“That’s hilarious . . . I mean, not to be immature about it, but doesn’t it bother you that he’s staring at other women’s judies all day?” Back in high school, Katie and I had coined the term “Judy” as an alternative to all the other vulgar expressions referring to the female anatomy. However immature, the name stuck throughout the years . . . until I met Jeff’s mom, who, as it would happen, was named Judy.

 I got a hard laugh out of Katie for that one. “After doing that rotation, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing sexy about it, so I’m not too worried.”

“Hmm . . . I’m surprised,” I said sarcastically. “I thought you’d fall in love with it and want to become a gyno yourself.”

“Ha! Yeah, right,” she said. “It’s definitely not my thing. I’m not even going to go into all the stories I have from that one.” Katie was known to have extraordinarily gross stories from all of her medical experiences; I was too queasy to handle most of them.

“Mmm . . . I can only imagine.”

 “Anyway, his name is Joe, and you’re going to love him. He took me out on our first date last weekend, and . . . I just have a good feeling about this one.”

The thought that Katie may have found the love of her life just one week after I had lost mine made me feel just the slightest twinge of jealousy. Okay, it was a pretty large twinge. I knew I should’ve been happy for her, and it was only their first date, but Katie didn’t really date as much as I did, so when she found someone she liked, they usually stuck around for a while. Which meant that if all went well, Katie would be experiencing that perfect, blissful (sickening) beginning of a relationship where you love absolutely everything about the other person. And after my love life had taken a plunge down the gutter, the last thing I could handle was listening to all of the wonderful things this new guy would surely do for her.

But Katie was my best friend. I needed to be happy for her, no matter how shitty I was feeling.

“That’s awesome, I’m so happy for you. Any more dates on the horizon?”

“Yeah, he’s taking me out in the city again this weekend, so we’ll see . . .” she trailed off, sounding dreamy and hopeful.

I remembered when I first felt that way about Jeff. Those early butterflies and the hope that this is really it. That you’ve finally found the guy you’re going to spend your life with. I hoped that this was it for Katie, but my loss made me feel bitter at the same time. Along with losing Jeff, I had lost my faith in love, in marriage, and in relationships in general. I wasn’t going to be heading back down that road for a long time. But Katie hadn’t been burned like I had, so she was allowed to be hopeful and excited.