Little Black Dress
Evernight Publishing
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2013 Scarlet Chastain
ISBN: 978-1-77130-512-9
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: JS Cook
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Merci beaucoup, RD!
LITTLE BLACK DRESS
Romance on the Go
Scarlet Chastain
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Jamie Scotts sighed at the familiar ring of her cellphone. A pointless glance at the screen told her what she’d already known. Just like clockwork, her boss Mitch Carson checked in every afternoon at two o’clock. His daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan began with a call to Jamie, his first international salesperson. She pinched the bridge of her nose and swiped a thumb across the screen. “Hey Mitch.”
“How’s my superstar techie this fine morning?”
“Considering it’s afternoon here, just fine. I had a demo this morning at Bonsoir Café. The owner’s very interested and asked me to call back next week. I have a few cold calls to make this afternoon.” She stifled a groan as she pinched her skin even tighter.
“We’re counting on you here. I know after you get a few sales under your belt, there’ll be no stopping you. That’s what I told the investors during the conference call this week.”
MC Technologies, Mitch’s brainchild, caught the attention of a Fortune magazine columnist and by sheer luck nabbed a feature in the magazine a couple of years ago. It was the publicity Mitch needed to help MC Tech soar to the top of handheld credit card technology. The company went from five employees to over five hundred with satellite offices all over America. Jamie started as a trainee fresh out of college and quickly rose through the ranks to one of MC’s top grossing sales people. Her product knowledge was unparalleled. Jamie knew Mitch took a gamble on her when MC Tech investors urged him to go global. Paris, their chosen test market, a logical choice considering the city’s countless cafés and shops, was MC’s foray into the global market. The company’s investors suggested hiring an international headhunter for the sales position but Mitch vouched for her. No one knew the product better than Jamie and it just so happened she spoke French.
At least that’s what her resume said. Out of desperation, Jamie broke the same rule everyone did when writing her resume. She inflated the truth. No. She flat-out lied. She pretended to be fluent when in reality, her French was limited to saying hello, goodbye and where’s the bathroom? She’d even learned a few lines using a French translation website for use during the interview process. She sounded pretty good considering none of the interviewers knew French. They hadn’t a clue her French phrase explained the history of the statues that stood in the Gardens of the Louvre. She figured she could take a crash course before she left. Unfortunately, Mitch booked her flight for the week after they announced she got the job and there was no time for learning a new language.
She’d considered backing out of the job offer. However, she needed a new start and a break from her prying family. Her mother’s constant questions about boyfriends led to numerous disastrous blind dates. She’d bought Jamie a membership to an online dating site, completed a profile and even uploaded Jamie’s picture. Yes, she needed to get away to figure out what she really wanted out of life, and Paris seemed to be the best escape. How hard could it be to sell to the French market without knowing the language? Pretty damn hard. Jamie had learned that lesson with every scowl and confused look she’d received. She’d been in Paris ten full days without one solid lead.
“I’m almost there, I can feel it. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, kid.”
Jamie tapped her screen and dropped the phone on the café table. How did I get myself into this mess?
“Voudrez-vous rien d’autre, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked, as he cleared the dishes from the next table.
“Some ice please?” How the French drank their version of Diet Coke, called Coke Light, warm, she had no idea. Her tall glass of warm soda tasted as appetizing as a puddle on the street.
The waiter narrowed his eyes as he turned and glowered at Jamie. “Qu'est que c'est?”
“You know? Ice.” She lifted her glass.
He shook his head. “No English.”
“Forget it, just bring the check.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he grunted and left her table.
“Yeah, you understood that. Didn’t you?” Jamie called after him.
A hearty laugh filled her ears. “Monsieur, glace pour la mademoiselle, s’il vous plait.”
Jamie swung her head to the side understanding the women’s voice asking the waiter for Jamie’s ice. “And you understood that, didn’t you?” The woman’s lips curled upward and she winked.
Heat traveled up Jamie’s neck to her cheeks. “My comprehension is much better than my speech, I’m afraid. Thank you for ordering my ice. I’m getting sick of warm soda.”
The woman chuckled and tucked a strand of blonde hair around her ear. “It’s an acquired taste,” she said in an accent Jamie couldn’t quite place. “I overheard your phone call. Are you here on business?”
“I am, but I’m in over my head. I thought my elementary high school French would get me through sales calls out here. Apparently the French want to buy from other French.”
The blonde cocked her head. “Not necessarily, although they do want visitors to make an effort and earn their trust. Part of that is learning the language.” Jamie admired the woman’s outfit as she stood from her chair at the next table. A low cut cashmere sweater hugged her pert breasts and narrow waist. She could’ve walked out of a Paris fashion magazine ad with her black leather skirt and high boots. Jamie smoothed her plain slacks and tried to hide her sensible shoes as the blonde beauty approached her table. “May I?” Her hand waved over the empty chair at Jamie’s table.
“Please,” Jamie said straightening her posture.
“Je m’appelle Giselle, et toi?”
“I’m—”
Giselle’s long manicured fingers stopped just inches from Jamie’s lips. “En francais.”
Jamie grinned. “Je m’appelle Jamie.”
“Nice to meet you, Jamie,” she said, offering her hand.
Jamie tried to memorize the way she pronounced her name as she took the woman’s palm into her own. She loved how she dragged out the ‘J’ and accentuated the ‘mee’ .
“Now what are we selling?” Giselle asked, nodding at Jamie’s leather case propped up against the table leg.
Jamie hoisted her bag onto her lap. She removed three different brochures written in French as well as the product prototype and began her spiel.
“No, no, no. It’s all wrong. Is this how you present to your prospects here?”
Jamie glanced at the brochure and prototype in her hands. It was exactly how she demonstrated it to the last two sales calls. Both presentations went over like a lead balloon. The shop owners’ confused expressions turned to boredom, then quickly moved to anger mixed with frustration.
“Yes.” Jamie’s voice rose like the word was a question, not a statement.
“Well, my dear Jamie. You may as well pack up your papers and this plastic thing and go back to the States. You won’t
sell anything here with that approach.”
Harsh.
Jamie swallowed the lump in her throat and set her chin. “What’s wrong with it?”
“First. I don’t know where you had these made up—” She picked up the brochures and threw them back on the table, “—but you can’t market to Parisians this way. Too many words. Business owners don’t have time to read all of this.” She waved her hand over the offending documents. “And this. Does it work?” She picked up the rectangle device.
“No. It’s a prototype. We don’t have an actual working one for international use yet.”
“Mistake number two. Why don’t you get your boss back on the phone and tell him to send you something that works? Parisians like visuals. A working model and a pared down brochure featuring the product and your contact information along with a few French phrases is all you need to sell.”
“You make it all sound so easy,” Jamie said in defeat.
She offered a warm smile and shrugged. “It is.”
They spent the next hour at the café. Giselle taught her some key phrases and Jamie practiced her new sales pitch. She’d also called Mitch about the prototype. He promised to have a model programmed and shipped by the end of the week.
Giselle checked her watch. “Oh, I have an appointment. I hope I was some help to you.”
“Thank you. You were a great help. Do you really think it’ll make a difference?”
“I’ve been dealing with Parisians for a while. Yes, those tweaks, as you say, will make all the difference. I come here each afternoon for un café. Stop back and let me know how everything goes. Good luck to you.” She placed her hands on Jamie’s shoulders and lightly touched her cheeks in a double air kiss before leaving.
Jamie’s gaze followed the woman as she walked down the sidewalk. She exhibited the grace and confidence of a runway model. Looking down at her sales material, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms and wondered how much longer she had until Mitch called her back home, replacing her with someone better. She dreaded the inevitable phone call. She wasn’t ready to go back to New York. There were too many unanswered questions.
Chapter Two
“Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît, monsieur,” Jamie ordered and took a seat in the same outdoor café she’d met Giselle the week before. She’d hoped to catch her but after scanning the outdoor seating area of the café, she assumed she’d missed Giselle.
“You’ve been practicing your French.”
Jamie grinned and swung around in her chair to find Giselle behind her. “Yes. I mean, oui! I’m glad I found you. Wait ‘til you see the new brochure and prototype.”
Giselle settled into the chair next to Jamie as she sifted through the assorted printed material on the table. Jamie pulled the working prototype from her bag and explained how it worked. Giselle stopped her a few times during her sales pitch to remind her to speak French.
“Much better than it was.” Giselle nodded appreciatively.
Jamie frowned. “But not perfect?”
Giselle regarded her for a moment. “Your materials are correct now so you have the tools to succeed, but your delivery needs a little work. I’ll tell you what. Meet me here each afternoon this week and I’ll help you. You need some work on your accent and you should learn a few more key phrases.”
***
Giselle and Jamie developed a fast friendship over the week. In exchange for coffee and pastry, Giselle taught Jamie how to speak French to a Parisian shop owner. After a week of meeting daily, Giselle nodded. “You’re ready.”
Jamie’s mouth went dry. “Ready?”
“Oui. I asked the café owner to come to the table. You’re going to sell him.” Giselle offered a smug smile, folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.
“What if I don’t?” Jamie’s stomach flipped.
“That will get you another week under my tutelage.” Giselle winked.
Warmth spread across Jamie’s cheeks. She’d be thrilled to get a sale but meeting Giselle each afternoon was the highlight of her day. Her new friend was never far from her thoughts when they were apart and she looked forward to their time together. She didn’t want it to end.
Stumbling through the presentation and speaking mostly French, Jamie received a better than expected reaction from the café owner. Nodding at the right times, he politely smiled as she mutilated the French language. He asked for a copy of the brochure and she grinned as he opened it on his way inside. Sadly, it was the best lead she had in almost three weeks.
“This is hopeless.” She rested her elbows on the table and hid her face with her hands.
“Stand, please.”
Jamie peeked through her fingers. “What?”
“Your problem is not the language,” Giselle said tapping her fingers on the table.
“Then what is it, because believe it or not, I’m pretty good at this back home.”
“Your problem is you lack a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s start with your clothes. Stand please.”
Jamie raised her eyebrows and slowly stood. She cringed as Giselle’s critical gaze moved over her body. Giselle shook her head. “Have you ever heard that clothes make the woman? When you look your best, nothing can stop you. Look around. Stylish Parisiennes[1] carry themselves with dignity and part of that is confidence in the way they look.”
Jamie scanned the sidewalk. Giselle was right. Women pranced down the boulevard as though they glided down a catwalk. Paris was a city in which to see and be seen.
“Go shopping for something a little more stylish. You’re in Paris, after all.”
Jamie slumped back into her chair. “Now you’re speaking another language. I wouldn’t know what to buy. The extent of my fashion is what’s on the sale rack at Marshall’s.”
“Mar-shall’s?”
Jamie laughed. “Man. You can even make Marshall’s sound glamorous. Seriously though. I really don’t have a lot to spend. Everything out here costs a lot more than I expected and I have a very small expense allowance from my company. Your skirt alone is probably more than my weekly base salary and Lord knows I’m not selling anything. My commissions are nonexistent right now. I’m out of my league.”
Giselle studied her for a moment. “That’s nonsense,” she said before snapping open her clutch and pulling out a card. “Meet me at this address at five o’clock tomorrow. I’m going to show you how to dress and act like a Parisienne.” She tilted her head, her gaze running down the length of Jamie’s body. “You wear an American size six. Oui?”
Jamie snorted. “A six? No. Most of my clothes are tens and twelves.”
“You don’t have a clue, do you? I have a feeling you’re going to learn much about yourself,” Giselle said with a wink.
Chapter Three
Je ne sais quoi?
Jamie strolled along the river near the Louvre toward her first appointment of the day, peeking at the women walking by. She graduated top in her class and became the highest grossing sales person at MC Tech her first year on the job. So why did she feel so inadequate? I’m going to find my je ne sais quoi if it kills me. Forcing a smile at her reflection in the store window, she swung open the door to the rue de Rivoli Fleur. The scent of flowers washed over her senses as she scanned two rows of fresh flowers perched in containers on the floor.
"Un moment," a woman's voice called from the back of the shop.
Jamie craned her neck around a long green fern to see a woman about her age wiping her hands on a towel before heading toward the front of the store. The woman's crisp gaze traveled from Jamie's shoes to the top of her head. Don’t shrink like one of these flowers sitting in a vase. You can do this.
Jamie extended her hand and offered a warm smile. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Dubois?" She eased into her practiced introduction and sales pitch in a decent excuse for French, thanks to Giselle's lessons.
“You’re from New York, n’est-ce pas?”
Jamie’s heart sank as she pulled her bag’s straps over her shoulders, ready to be handed the sendoff. “Oui,” she said apologetically.
“I thought so; you sound just like my brother, Simon.”
“Your brother’s American?”
“He’s French but attended boarding school in the States and lived in New York for many years. It was long enough for a New York accent to become noticeable.” She smiled warmly.
“So he’s lived the best of both worlds. There’s no place like home but I’m beginning to like it here, too.”
The woman studied the brochure and her eyes flicked up to Jamie. She cocked her head. “How long have you been in Paris?”
“Almost a month now.”
“Are you here alone?”
Jamie didn’t miss the woman’s quick glance at her bare left hand. “Yes. I’m here alone,” she said, laughing.
“I’ll tell you what. I’m the creative end of the shop. Simon handles all of this business stuff. Come back this time tomorrow when he’s here. I like what you have here and think it can work for our shop but I’d like Simon to hear what you have to say.”
“Okay, Mademoiselle Dubois. I can do that.” Jamie had the feeling there was more to it. The French were definitely a direct group of people. However, she needed the sale so she’d play along.
“Please, call me Anna.” She offered her hand.
Jamie gave it a friendly shake and grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
****
Jamie practically skipped down the street as she fished her phone out of her bag. The rue de Rivoli Fleur was the fifth solid callback she scheduled.
“Hey, Mitch. I’m finally getting somewhere.”
“Glad to hear it, kid. The investors are starting to get nervous.”
“You’re starting to get nervous.”