LOVE IS IN DISGUISE: Verne Estate Series, Book 3

I pretend to carefully examine the menu of the Café de la Place. Not that I need it, I know it more or less by heart, even if the chef makes a point of changing it every season. But what I’m really looking for is the answer to this question: What am I supposed to order to make a good impression? I glance at the man in front of me. His name is Frank. At least, that’s what his profile on the dating app indicates, as does his age: 29, and his zodiac sign: Aquarius. Of course, it would be bad to think that I’m going to settle for this simple information and some online discussions. Let’s put it down to professional misrepresentation. I’m a police officer. Everyone is suspect until proven guilty. On the other hand, there’s no question of using the resources of my work to conduct my little investigation. Firstly, because it’s totally f*******n, and secondly… In truth, there’s no second. I even have a bunch of counter-arguments, but my ethics prevent me from breaking this rule. I nevertheless pushed my investigations a little further before agreeing to meet him. But I was satisfied with the means offered to everyone, namely typing their name on the Internet. He has a dog, a 2-year-old Bichon Maltese; I learned that from his f******k profile. I would have preferred something more… I don’t know, a German Shepherd or a Mastiff, but why not? My research didn’t reveal any wife, concubine or fiancée, or some hybrid of the 3 in a gimp suit in a box. The first case is easier to verify than the other three. Apart from his active participation in video game forums, Frank doesn’t seem to spread his life on the web. His ** account contains only one photo of a pint of beer, posted two years ago, certainly the day he created his profile, never returning since. In short, if indeed he gave me his real name, we must believe that Frank Adonis didn’t hide anything compromising. Except that his profile picture did more justice to his surname than the reality. “Do you know what you’re going to order?” he asks, certainly sensing that I’m watching him. “Not yet.” And that’s true. As always in this kind of situation, I have a case of conscience. The rib eye catches my eye, especially when I think of the homemade fries that accompany it. But is Frank one of those men who judge women on the content of their plate? Wouldn’t it be better if I order something more delicate, and lower in calories, like the chicken salad? Or the Jerusalem artichoke soup? But I’m starving. I had a long day at work and it was freezing cold, so a few lettuce leaves are not going to be enough to sustain me. And we’re definitely going to be ordering a glass of wine at least, I hope so and my head will be spinning in less than two. I have to eat something, otherwise, I’m heading for disaster. “Have you made your choice?” asks the waitress without even a hello. I look up, surprised to discover that it’s Marie-Jo, a figure of the village, better known in these places to chain glasses than to serve them. She raises a dismissive eyebrow, as if to say, Yep, I work here, do you have a problem? “I’m going to have a Caesar salad,” announces Frank. Couldn’t he order something more… substantial? What am I going to look like? I nervously dive back into the menu, hoping to have a sudden revelation that will allow me to choose a dish that satisfies both my gluttony and my uncertainties. “Can I take your order, Loraine?” insists Marie-Jo, who taps her pen against her order book in annoyance. Taken aback, I finally say: “I’ll have the rib eye.” She emits a disdainful little snort which, instead of making me regret my choice, gives me the courage to outbid: “With a bearnaise sauce, please.” The sarcasm in my polite phrase doesn’t go unnoticed. Frank’s eyes go back and forth between the two of us. Marie-Jo walks away and I suddenly feel the urge to justify myself: “I fined her for prohibited parking a few weeks ago. I think she’s a little angry with me.” “Oh yes! You’re a cop,” says Frank, as if he could have forgotten this detail, although it was one of the first subjects he broached when we sat down at this table earlier. My job doesn’t leave many people indifferent. And the reactions are generally diametrically opposed. There are those who want to spit in my face and those who find it fascinating. Frank is to be classified in the second category. Well, he was until I confessed to him that I hadn’t often had the opportunity to work on homicide cases. Or never. It must be said that the crime rate in our small village of Locron is at a ridiculously low level, which would make colleagues operating in the hot suburbs envious. The inhabitants aren’t saints either, but most of the offences that we find are more banal incivism than organised banditry. Our dishes arrive a few minutes later as the conversation fell a bit flat. Frank seems to be not very talkative by nature, but I understood that he was making an effort, and I like that. It must be said that the very concept of a first date can be quite scary when you’re not a brilliant conversationalist. Not that this guy is necessarily the man of my life. At least, it’s too early to be sure. But at least, having landed this date, I’m increasing my chances of winning the great lottery of happiness a little. I glare at Marie-Jo when she uses a very condescending tone to say: “The salad is for miss, I presume?” Frank clears his throat and says: “No, it’s for me.” She sets our two plates down and I see my date take a surprised look at mine. It must be said, the proportions are rather generous. And as my curves are too and my stomach likes to satisfy them, that’s perfect. At least in theory. Because in practice, I have this little voice in my head that keeps telling me that I could have chosen something more... lighter? more feminine? Are some dishes more masculine and others more feminine? I’m not sure. And yet, there seems to be some unspoken rule that wants this to be the case. Especially on a first date. Have we ever met a guy exclaiming: “I knew she was the right one when I saw her devour her prime rib? But I also don’t remember hearing anyone raving about how a woman ate a slice of tomato. Suddenly, it’s with good grace that I finally attack my piece of meat. I take the opportunity to examine my dining companion without appearing to. Frank isn’t breathtakingly attractive; I think I’ve already said that. And I’m well aware that I’m not either. He’s not repulsive, though. Admittedly, his figure is much more slender than I would have liked, but he has pretty dark laughing eyes that end in crow’s feet. This is, in my opinion, a very good point. A companion who likes to laugh and smile, isn’t that an essential quality in a man? He has perfect teeth which, while certainly the result of years of orthodontics, at least proves that he doesn’t take his dental hygiene lightly. His hair is thin and he’s a bit receding, but hopefully, if one day we have children, they’ll inherit my thick light brown hair. I don’t have a lot of assets, and my hair is my favourite thing about me. Because let’s be honest, I have beautiful hair. The kind where you can pose for a brand of shampoo. In short, my careful examination of Frank’s physique allows me to classify him in the category: quite possible. It remains to be seen if his personality will seduce me. I don’t think I’m too complicated on that side. I’m just looking for a man who would be a nice life companion, with an easy-going character, I guess. And, of course, someone who would have affection for me. I’m not one of the cynics who thinks that only a dog can give you unconditional love, but neither am I a utopian. We’re not all fortunate enough to find true love. We can share our existence with someone who respects us and appreciates us enough, without having an intense passion. This doesn’t prevent us from considering having succeeded in life.