And so it is with much confidence that Mebel pushes open the brass doors of the Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts and strides inside. The lobby is as impressive as the outside of the building, the reception table lined with dark green leather and people speaking in hushed voices and moving about with purpose. Mebel approaches the receptionist, her Ferragamo heels clacking across the marble floor and turning heads toward her. She reminds herself to do a little sashay. She is a trophy wife, after all, and what are trophies for but to be looked at and admired?
“Bonjour!” Mebel trills.
All noise in the lobby ceases as conversations pause mid-sentence. The receptionist glances up, gives Mebel a once-over, does a small approving sniff at Mebel’s white-and-black double-sided Check’n’Dior virgin wool fitted jacket, and says, “Bienvenue à L’École des arts culinaires Saint Honoré. Puis-je vous aider?”
Mebel blinks. Clearly, the way she said “Bonjour” must have been so flawless that this young woman has falsely assumed that Mebel does, in fact, speak French. Something she needs to rectify immediately. “En Anglais, s’il vous plaît?” she says.
“Of course, Madame,” the receptionist says without skipping a beat. “How may I help you?”
“Yes, thank you.” It takes a beat for Mebel to switch from thinking in Indonesian and speaking in broken French to thinking in Indonesian and speaking in somewhat less-broken English. “I would like to check in. I have reservation here—”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, this is not a hotel.”
“Right, of course. No, that’s not what I mean. I am checkingin as student.” When the receptionist doesn’t respond, Mebel adds, “To the cooking school.”
The receptionist visibly winces at the words “cooking school.” “The culinary school,” she corrects Mebel.
Mebel resists the urge to say, “Aiya, isn’t it the same thing?” Instead, she nods and says, “Oui. The culinary school.”
“Of course, madame. Can I please have your name?”
“Mebel Fransin Tanadi.” Then she adds, “Mebel with an ‘e’ and Fransin with a—you know what? I write it down for you.” She takes out her phone, types out her name onto her Notes app, and shows it to the receptionist. To her credit, the receptionist does not laugh out loud at the atrocious spelling.
After clacking away at her keyboard, the receptionist purses her lips. “Apologies, Madame, I am not seeing your name on the list.”
“Did you spell correctly?” Mebel says, pushing the phone closer to the receptionist’s face.
“Well, I spelled it incorrectly, the way you did.”
Heat blooms in Mebel’s cheeks. All her life, she’s had to deal with customs officials and hospital receptionists and god knows what else who’ve had plenty to say about the spelling of her name. She is not about to take such abuse from this self-important young woman, especially not when she’s busted out her Dior ensemble, for heaven’s sake.
“I think maybe you try again, with correct spelling this time.”
The receptionist’s face hardens. “Madame, I have followed the spelling you gave me exactly, and there is no registration for anyone under the name of Mebel.” She pronounces Mebel the way it’s spelled, not “May-buhl,” but “Meh-buhl,” as though tohighlight the misspelling to anyone who might be listening to their conversation, which at this point is everyone in the lobby.
Mebel’s chest balloons, but before she can launch into a tirade (though a tirade based on what, Mebel herself hasn’t quite decided), a smooth, rich voice says, “Excusez-moi, may I please interject?” Mebel looks up and finds herself staring into a pair of the most luxurious brown eyes she’s ever seen. No, it would not be fair to call these eyes brown. They’re more warm honey, golden, with flecks of earth. And the face that surrounds the eyes is devastatingly handsome. A straight nose, a strong jawline brushed with gray stubble, and salt-and-pepper hair that curls up at the ends. Quite possibly the most gorgeous man Mebel has ever laid eyes on in real life, and she’s met George Clooney. Well, a George Clooney impersonator in Vegas, which is close enough.
The man nods at the receptionist and says, “I’ll handle this, Simone.” Simone flushes, and Mebel rolls her eyes.
How embarrassing, to be so easily charmed just because he’s a good-looking older man. He turns his attention to Mebel, and Mebel flushes. Goodness, is that a hot flash rushing through her body? Is this menopause all over again? Before she can stop herself, her eyelids flutter open and close.My lord, she thinks.I am literally batting my eyes at this man. Get a hold of yourself, woman!
She catches Simone rolling her eyes, as though thinking:How embarrassing, to be so easily charmed just because he’s a good-looking older man.Touché, Simone, Mebel thinks. She musters up whatever shred of dignity she has left and lifts her chin, meeting the man’s eye. “Thank you,” she says in her most regal voice. “Yes, if you can help find my registration, I appreciate it.”
“Come, let’s have a seat.” With that, he—eek!—places his hand on the small of Mebel’s back and leads her to one side of the lobby, where he gestures at the sofa for her to sit on.
Mebel can’t quite remember the last time a stranger touched the small of her back. It’s not something done in Asia, and it’s doing very funny things to her loins, which she does not appreciate. Chinese-Indonesian grandmothers are not supposed to be aware of their loins. They’re supposed to be above such things. Does she even still have loins, or have they shriveled up into a desiccated husk?Now get your head straight, you harlot, she scolds herself as she lowers herself onto the sofa primly.
“I am Alain Moreau. I am the director of the school,” the man says in his velvety voice. “And you are Madame Mebel? It’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” Mebel is sure that the tips of her ears are steaming by now. Somehow, in Alain’s mouth, her name turns from a mere name into a love poem. Roses are red, violets are blue, and so are Mebel’s balls right now.My word, she thinks,where did that come from?Vaguely, she recalls Sammy explaining the term “blue balls” to her decades ago, when he was a teen. She has never once thought of the concept of blue balls since, but apparently her perverted mind has tucked it safely away in the deepest folds of her brain to spit out at her at this moment.Thank you for that, brain.
Alain holds out his hand. It is massive, and Mebel stares at it, entranced, before putting her own hand in it. There is a momentary pause, then he lifts it to his lips and brushes her knuckles with the softest kiss, sending an electric spark straight through her—as she is now finding out—very much still present and active loins. He lowers her hand with a bashful smile and says,“Sorry, I was holding out my hand to ask if I could take a look at the confirmation email you received from the school, but I couldn’t help myself.”
Somehow, Mebel manages to stop herself from bursting into flames with a furious mixture of embarrassment and delight. Somehow, when she does speak, her voice comes out even. “Of course,” she says simply. She locates the email quickly and plops her phone on his palm before snatching her hand away so he won’t notice how shaky it is. The spot where he’s just kissed her is tingling.
Alain reads the acceptance email with a slight frown. “You are right, this is an official acceptance…”
Vindication, the favorite emotion of all Chinese mothers, flushes through Mebel, eradicating all traces of embarrassment. “Hah!” she says with a triumphant smile. “So it must be mistake on your system.”
