Sisterchicks Say Ooh La La! by Robin Jones Gunn Page A

breakfast.”
    Even though I’d spoken my request slowly and assumed a large hotel like this would host English-speaking guests frequenty, the woman’s voice on the other end responded to me in French.
    “I’m sorry, I …”
    “Here.” Amy reached for the phone.
“Pardon?”
she said and then followed with several smooth sentences in which the only word I recognized was
croissants.
    “Twenty-five minutes.” Amy handed the phone back to me. “I hope you don’t mind waiting that long.”
    “If I feel faint, I’ll go drink your other contact.”
    Amy squinted her eyes. “You’re just asking for it, Lisa-girl. I’ve never taken you out before, but I could do it right here, right now, if I had to.”
    Not since junior high school had I seen Amy go through so many mood swings in such a short period of time. It was as if this were her first time away from home and away from anyone who expected her to act a certain way. She seemed to be spinning through all the options, trying to decide if she was going to be tough chick Amy-girl or Amelie, American princess abroad.
    Secretly, I enjoyed watching her find herself out of her element. I suspected I was seeing the true Amy, in all her variations.
    “I dare ya.” I challenged her to get out from under those puffy covers and prove to me she was brazen enough to start a catfight. It was a crazy way to begin our first dayin Paris, but somehow, after all we’d been through, it didn’t seem unreasonable.
    “No,” she said with a pout. “I’m going back to sleep. Wake me when the food arrives.”
    I was about to taunt her with some sort of sassy comeback when someone knocked on our door. Amy and I exchanged surprised glances. It was too soon for room service.
    A knock sounded again. A male voice called out something in French. Amy’s eyes widened. She hopped out of bed and stood behind the closed door, peeking through the small viewing hole. “Oui?”
    “Who is it?” I asked.
    “The hotel manager. He says there’s an inspector in the lobby who wants to ask us some questions.”
    The manager spoke again through the closed door. Amy turned to me. “He wants to know if we’re dressed and can go down to the lobby with him.”
    Sadly, we already were dressed and had no other apparel options.
    “Oui,” she answered the manager. In English she added, “We’ll be right down.” She repeated the phrase in French as I stepped into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face.
    “I’m not going to put in my one contact,” Amy said. “So if we need to read any fine print or sign anything, you’ll have to do it for me.”
    I didn’t explore the thought that my trying to read French fine print to her was not going to happen. Especially on an empty stomach. All I said was, “I hope this doesn’t take very long. I don’t want to miss breakfast when it shows up.”
    The uniformed inspector was all business. He stood to the side of the front desk, his hands clasped behind his back. He was nothing like the traffic-directing policeman in my dream the night before. And, as an added reality check, not a single Monkee popped out from behind the counter or rode a tricycle through the lobby.
    “Bon jour,” the inspector said without smiling.
    “Bon jour,” Amy and I repeated in unison.
    He motioned for us to be seated on the only sofa and chair situated in the small lobby area. We were barely settled in before he asked us a question. Amy took it from there. Every so often she turned to me and asked for verification. Did the driver have dark hair? How tall would we estimate he was? Any distinguishing marks?
    “I thought we went over all this last night,” I said to Amy, while nodding politely to the inspector.
    “No. The questions last night were about the taxi and where the driver picked us up.”
    The inspector took notes on a small pad of paper with a Montblanc pen. I noticed his long fingers and trim nails. His watch was gold and shaped like a rectangle. It was