Free J'adore Paris by Isabelle Lafleche

smile.
    “What do you think?” She extends her arm and places her wrist in front of my nose. “I just tried this on at Le Printemps, but I’m not sure.”
    “What is it?” I jerk my head back in reaction to the strong smell. “It’s a bit on the strong side,
non?
”
    “Osez-Moi! by Chantal Thomass. I’m trying to add a touch of spice to my life.” She takes a seat.
    “It’s very … sensual. I’m sure Christophe will like it.” My stepfather. “Maybe you should leave it on for a while and see how it reacts to your skin.”
    “You’re probably right,
ma chérie
.” She asks for menus, even though I already know what she’ll be having. She’s ordered the same thing for the last twenty years: a lemonade and the
salade de haricots
. “So, how are things with Antoine?”
    “Fantastic. He’s taking me out of town for the weekend to celebrate my new job. He’s such a sweetheart.”
    “Maybe he’ll propose?” She lowers her sunglasses and looks me straight in the eye.
    Her voice is kind, but I know that getting engaged isn’t necessarily her idea of a good time. My mother’s definition of aspouse is someone who’ll stand by you through all the trouble you wouldn’t have had if you’d stayed single. Although she’s happy now with Christophe, that was not always the case with my father.
    Before answering, I order a hearty croque monsieur and the Flore Cocktail: a delicious mix of Grand Marnier, cognac, Champagne, and red berry coulis. When the waiter departs, I say, “Don’t worry,
maman;
we’re not there yet.”
    “I’m just looking out for your best interests. Anyway, I’m glad you’re liking your new position at Dior. I always knew you’d be ten times happier working in fashion.” She takes a sip of her drink.
    “Yes, you were right about that. The world of counterfeiting is fascinating.” I refrain from telling her that one day’s work involved liaising with three gendarmes and getting my picture taken by criminals. There’s no need for her to worry.
    “I was thinking about you the other day. I read an article about fake hiking equipment and baby formula. Can you believe that counterfeiters would copy
that
?” She shakes her head. “It’s far more dangerous than a fake handbag, isn’t it?”
    “That’s why it’s so important to put a stop to it. And I won’t tell you what goes into fake perfume; it would kill your appetite.”
    “
Oh
mon dieu
.” She places her manicured hand over her mouth. “I can only imagine.”
    After our meal, we order espressos and the legendary tarte Tatin to share before we head over to the Musée des Lettres et Manuscrits for an exhibit about the French writer RomainGary. On our way out, some of the lunching ladies, a few of the solo gentlemen, and even the waiters stop us to say goodbye to my mother.
    Once we’re outside, we walk past the lovely Fragonard shop, where pretty perfume bottles, dainty pillows with French embroidery, and colourful home accessories are artfully placed in the window.
    The museum, located in a gorgeous Haussmannian building, houses an important collection of historical documents related to figures from French history ranging from writers to politicians. I’ve always loved seeing the handwritten notes of Marcel Proust, Gustave Flaubert, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
    A young woman at the entrance hands us a brochure about the current exhibit as we stroll inside. Gary was a diplomat, a compulsive writer, and a passionate lover. He was married to the actress Jean Seberg, and committed suicide a year after she did.
    A few minutes in, my mother pulls a vibrating cellphone from her coat pocket. She peers at the tiny screen and whispers, “So sorry,
ma chérie
, but I must take this.”
    She rushes out into the museum’s courtyard. I assume the call must be urgent if she’s willing to interrupt a gallery visit to take it. My mother isn’t a slave to her phone like the rest of us. Concerned, I follow her outside, keeping