18
ANTOINE LIVES IN the north part of Paris, in the 18th arrondissement, also known as Montmartre. It’s one of the coolest neighborhoods in Paris, super artsy and quaint. It’s where they shot the very cool French movie,Amélie, one of my favorites. It was already on our list of spots to visit, a definite must see. It’s also where the Moulin Rouge is, the famous burlesque bar — definitely on Oscar’s list.
The sun is setting as we arrive. I wink at Oscar as we exit the cab. He’s stunning tonight, dressed in slim grey pants and a black shirt, unshaven and unkempt as usual. He winks back and I wonder if he likes what he sees too. I’ve worn a little red dress, tall heels, and my hair up in a messy bun, like he likes.
Like many apartments in Paris, Antoine’s place is absolutely charming; an old building nestled among many others, with a tin blue roof and gorgeous architectural details.
Antoine buzzes us in, and I’m excited as we climb up the old creaky stairs up to the fifth floor, also the top floor. Unfortunately, there is no elevator, but thankfully, we’re all pretty fit. Even my mom and Mark, who are both almost sixty are incredibly fit. Mom works out four times a week. She’s even come to a few of my classes, but yoga is not really her thing.
Despite this, we’re a little breathless by the time we reach our destination. “I could never live here,” Corrie says as she presses on the doorbell.
Antoine greets us with a huge smile and double kisses on everyone’s cheeks.
His place is amazing. Since he lives on the top floor, his ceilings are all slanted. It’s all angles and dark beams and skylight windows. The sparkling sky bathes everyone in the most flattering light. Built-in bookshelves display colorful books and knick knacks. There is fabulous art and contemporary furniture everywhere. I love the mix of modern and old.
“I want to live here,” I tell Corrie.
She smiles. “Me too."
Antoine urges us to make ourselves comfortable on the leather sofas in the living room. There’s soft French music playing, and the place smells of patchouli. I love it. He’s quick to present us with appetizers — a charcuterie platter of sliced meats, cheese, grapes, and olives. And wine is also served, of course.
“Wow, you’ve done all this already,” Mom says. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “I have help,” he tells us. “Sophie, Lucie,” he calls out, and then says something in French I don’t quite understand.
Next thing you know, two beauties walk out of the kitchen, all smiles. They’re both so stunning, I can’t decide which one is more beautiful. They’re both tall and slim, with olive skin like their father, and long silky black hair. One has big dark eyes, and the other has light blue eyes. The blue eyed one is the most stunning, I decide. Quick introductions are made. Sophie is the blue eyed one, the youngest. She studies at the Sorbonne. And Lucie is the brown eyed one. She’s an attorney. Beautiful and smart. Both have charming French accents, of course.
I catch the lewd expression in Mark’s eyes — he likes what he sees. “C’mon,” I want to say. “They’re thirty years younger than you, buddy.”
When I turn to Oscar, I catch him gawking too. I honestly don’t blame them. I was gawking too, after all.
We chit-chat about the city and the tour. Mom keeps going on about how much she loved it. Mark doesn’t seem too bothered by her gushing over Antoine. He’s too busy leering at Sophie and Lucie.
Sophie sits next to Oscar and asks him if he likes Paris. He smiles, his panty-melting grin. “Yes, I love it.”
I roll my eyes. Yeah, whatever. All he’s been doing is complaining about the tourists, the dog shit on the sidewalks, and snooty waiters.
She asks about his job. He tells her that he works in the service industry, and that he’s saving to own his own coffee shop one day.
Seriously? He’s just trying to impress her. He’s a barista. But that’s an interesting bit about him saving money to have his own shop. I didn’t know that.
She listens intently with a charming smile, and bats her gorgeous long lashes. I hate her a little. I check my watch. Where is Nicole? I’ve given her the address and the time. She’s late.
Mark tries to chat up Lucie but she won’t have any of it. A beautiful woman like her probably gets hit on a daily basis. I’m sure it gets tiring.
The dining room table is already set, a tasteful charming French country arrangement of yellow ceramic plates, blue glassware, linen napkins held in pretty ceramic holders. It’s pretty yet not pretentious, just like this apartment. I wonder what we’re having for dinner. His daughters are slim, beautiful, and smart and they can probably cook too. I hate French women a little.
Antoine and his daughters serve boeuf bourguignon, a garden salad, and freshly baked bread. It all looks delicious and I’m starving. I’m a little peeved at Nicole for not showing up, but I’m determined to make the best of this lovely night. Oscar is sandwiched between me and Sophie, and Sophie monopolizes all his attention of course — she’s much more interesting than little old me.
Just as we’re about to start, the intercom buzzes. “Oh, that might be my friend, Nicole,” I say. “I’m so sorry she’s late.”
“It is fine, the more the merrier,” he says again. I hear her muffled voice on the intercom and he buzzes her up. There’s an awkward moment when all of us stop and stare at each other, not quite knowing what to do.
“Please start,” Antoine finally urges. “Dinner will get cool.”
I dig in. I certainly don’t need to be told twice. I steal a bite or two before the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I tell everyone as I climb out of my seat. “She’s my guest.”
He nods and I scurry to the door. Nicole is… striking. There’s no other word for it. She has the kind of beauty that goes beyond the superficial typical supermodel looks; sweet smile, intelligent striking eyes, a gorgeous mane of auburn hair, and flawless skin. She’s tastefully dressed and sophisticated, like most French women. I’m not mad at her anymore. I’m just glad she’s here.
