Am I really the only person in the fandom still kicking? Or are you just bored?
Anyway, expect some more fast updates. xx
January 26, 5 pm, Joëlle's Pastry
I got René to bring me the charger for my headphones. I tried to discreetly ask him whether or not Michael willingly handed it over, but René seemed more interested in the list of bakeries we were to check out in order to find the master of croquembouche.
Of course Lars had to chime in and say that he believed Michael laughed and then added that 'there was more where that came from'.
Completely outrageous!
I think he is forgetting that I am a Renaldo woman. We strangle or men with our hair or cut their heads off. And throw ourselves from bridges. It's just that, you know, my hair is not really long enough, there are not any bridges around and, well, I do not condone death penalty.
But still. We are stubborn.
This really is for the best.
Joëlle's Pastry was the first place we checked out. It was located on the main street, just between the shoe maker's and hairdresser's. The sign above the door was flapping in the slight wind, and the pink muffins in the window looked promising. I of course felt my thighs exploding just from looking at it.
The moment René opened the door (I have to say he was taking his role as a food taster really seriously. Up to that point, I mean. He even printed out pictures of croquembouche and carried them in a very important-looking folder, just like I usually do when I am presenting the Parliament with a new proposition), the delicious smell of vanilla sugar and cinnamon embraced us. At that point I TOTALLY felt my thighs exploding! And I wasn't even wearing my skinny jeans!
"Bonjour," a woman not much older than me appeared behind the counter. She was wearing a pink apron with muffins – it matched the sign above the door – and kept her red hair in a bun. Wild curls fell down at each side of her face and she wore the lipstick in the matching shade. There was an earring in her nose. And from then on I of course knew the path René's thoughts would take. Gee, I wonder where else she has those. And by the way he looked at me over his shoulder I knew I was quite correct.
You know, I want people to be themselves. I think this is the easiest, yet the hardest thing to achieve. Being yourself, so completely alienated from the expectations of others, so absolutely immune to their stares, glares and so unwaveringly focused on your own fulfillment. It is something I am striving and struggling to achieve myself, and René has aided me tremendously in this aspect. I will forever owe him for being amongst the ones who picked me up after I broke apart following Michael's departure for Japan. But still, it ached to see him opting for a girl with earrings rather than help me pick the right baker for my dream wedding pastry.
"Hello," he said with his most seductive voice, "we seek some baking assistance."
"Well, maybe I can help!" she replied to his voice without even registering Lars and me. And that says something, given Lars's size.
"Well, here's the thing," René started, "my cousin here," he of course emphasized our family relation, "is getting married. And she wants a croquembouche for the wedding. I was wondering if you might be able to help me make this dream of my darling cousin's come true. We will, of course, pay."
"Oh," the girl responded with a voice that I think was supposed to be regret, but there was none in her eyes. "You have come here at the wrong time. My mother, she is great baking anything. But I am substituting her for the week, and I can barely get the muffins together." Then she looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening, and dropped her voice to the whisper. "And even they are from the bag."
René sat down on the edge of the counter and leant closer to her. "I don't care in the slightest," he said, and she bit her lower lip. Of course by that point my thighs weren't exploding at all anymore.
Shockingly René managed to tear himself off her and dashed toward Lars and me.
"Well, only two to go," he said and pushed the folder in my hands. Then he turned to Lars and pulled an envelope from his jacket.
"The money Michael gave us for the food," he whispered. Surprisingly, this was not as loud as the discreet hooking up.
"I'll guard it with my life," Lars's words made my eyes roll. Trust me, I will probably never be as unhungry after leaving a bakery as I was right then. Even more so after I saw Lars give René thumbs up.
January 26, 5:30 pm, Angélique's Pastry
By the time Lars and I left the bakery that will never only smell of cinnamon and vanilla sugar again – I hate to say it, but René's cologne has an ability to find little cracks in the wall and then stay there. Which would be a nice thing if it smell anything like, I don't know, Michael, for example, but trust me, it doesn't. Mostly because René isn't what you'd call a dedicated bather. And sadly not an empathetic one, either – it was snowing.
Snow and certain people are a good combination. Like Michael, for example. His hair is so dark that when little snowflakes land on it, it looks like his head is covered with diamonds. I swear. Or maybe as if little angels have landed on him. It is intoxicating, really, especially because usually he wears a scarf when it snows, tightly wrapped around his neck. And then after we get inside the car, he unbuttons the first button of his black coat and takes off his scarf. And he gently wraps it around my neck and from then on I feel a little tipsy, just like he knows I will. I swear, Michael seems like was made for winter. Of course summer has its perks, such as minimal clothing, but romantic-wise, winter totally wins.
And autumn, too. When we saunter around Central Park, with lattes in our hands. … Jake Gyllenhaal has nothing on him.
Besides, more clothing means longer, well, process of unclothing. Taking off Michael's clothes is like unwrapping Christmas gifts (not the ones from Tante Jean Marie. She keeps giving me fur bags. After the sixth, I convinced René to hint at her that I may want something else, but apparently only young women are susceptible to René's charms. (And, yeah, René too keeps giving me shoes on all proper occasions. But at least them I can wear!)), just better. Like, I know what it is waiting for me under the layers of fabric, which totally, you know, excites me, and yet every time I feel like I am doing it for the first time. Which adds an entirely new dimension to excitement.
"Better be careful, Princess," Lars then said. "Snow may be covering some icy patches."
Lars of course knows everything about snow. He grew up in cold climates of Scandinavia. I had always wondered why he ended up working in Genovia, a country with sunny weather through the year and scorching summer, so I asked him once. He said he simply needed money very bad after his second divorce. "Besides," he added, "Phillipe lets me have summers off. So I stayed. And the country offers great fishing."
Anyway, when we entered the second bakery on the list, I felt like I was in Cupcake Heaven. Along the sides walls of the place were little round tables, and on them plates of pastry. They had EVERYTHING. And EVERYTHING looked delicious. They had cupcakes of every color. It looked like a rainbow. They even had PIZZA MUFFINS. MUFFINS WITH A TASTE OF PIZZA. And I swear I wasn't high from all the chocolate in the air.
Of course it was too good to be true.
Angélique turned out to be in her early forties (like Lars), with brown hair and huge, quite disproportionate eyes. She was slightly rounder around the hips (just like Lars likes them – he likes to show his past wedding pictures when the jet in stuck on the tarmac and he has had a drink or two. I think it is because it reminds him that being away a lot was one of the reasons that his marriages ended in divorce. And as a bodyguard, he isn't allowed to drink most of the time (you never know when the palace might have to be evacuated during the night, and the sheer number of halls could be unconquerable when intoxicated), so it doesn't take him long to get in the talkative mode) and there was flour in her hair (which Lars loves).
And since we were in the bakery, I knew there must have been something in the air tonight among my entourage.
"Excuse me, do you bake croquembouche?" Lars asked her.
"Could be arranged," she replied.
Lars hesitated a bit before asking the following question: "You don't use the mixture from the bag, do you?"
Lars is probably skilled as at reading people, thus he hesitated because he could anticipate the reaction the question would trigger. Angélique screamed something that sounded like German and not at all nice and threw a bowl in Lars's direction (and by extension at me, as I was standing right next to him). It turned out the bowl contained the mixture for the next batch of muffins, and the cloud of flour suddenly invaded by nostrils. Not to mention the egg that landed on my jeans. And that my hair was now all sticky with butter and smelt like vanilla (the latter was a good thing. I have tried out so many different shampoos, but never have has my hair had such a distinctive smell!). By what I could taste on my lips, it was a shame that this batch went to such tragic and unnecessary waste. It tasted totally yummy.
Obviously the woman was crazy. I didn't want her to contribute in any way to the deliciousness of my wedding.
I turned to Lars, totally expecting to get into his bodyguard mode and push me out of the bakery, protecting me with his rock solid body and the bulletproof vest. Actually, I was surprised he hadn't done it already.
And by the looks of things, he wasn't planning on doing it at all. I swear, he totally looked like Rocky that time Frederik (Grandmere's farmer husband) showed him how to recreate farting noises with his shoulder. IMPRESSED.
I AM NOT JOKING. MY BODYGUARD WAS TOTALLY TURNED ON WHEN A RANDOM WOMAN THREW A BOWL AT ME.
Thank god it was plastic, that's all I will say.
"Mia," he said with a heavy breath, without moving his eyes off the woman, "take the folder and the envelope and find out what they are offering at the last place. I will inquire what it is offered here. I will meet you at the hotel tomorrow morning."
And I ran out of there as fast as I could. I think I heard a lock turn behind me.
January 26, 6:30 pm, Girl's Best Pastry
It got weirder.
The third and final bakery turned out to be small and quirky. It smelt just as nice as the first two (yes, I am obsessed with olfaction), the pastry looked just good, but the girl behind the counter looked totally harmless. Which I immediately took as a good sign.
Boy, was I wrong!
She was about my age and when I told her I wanted croquembouche for my wedding she heartily congratulated me and hugged me. Then she noticed how snowy I was (by that time it snowed REALLY heavily). She sat me down behind the table which stood by the radiator and placed a plate with a huge chocolate muffin in front of me. The following minute she added a cup of hot chocolate.
I mean, I totally loved her.
But I love anyone who gives me chocolate (well, except those creepy fans that send me candy along with their naked pictures. That's just gross. Besides, I am not allowed to eat anything sent by mail, so people are just wasting the money (well, those pictures are kind of useful when Tina, Lilly (not that Lilly has much time for social visits now when she is exposing corruption in Haiti) and Lana come to visit.)), so I am not the best judge.
I told her I wanted croquembouche for my wedding and she brought a special folder with pictures of it. Like, what kind of plate I want it to be on, if I want it to be in different colors, decorations, everything. I once again felt my thighs getting fatter (though this time they probably did because of all the chocolate). I felt assured that at least this part of my wedding is handled by a professional (since pretty much everyone else is too busy risking sex injuries), and then the door just HAD to open.
Sebastiano walked in, holding a huge suitcase which, I presume, contained the beginnings of my wedding dress.
"I ho you don't mind I ask Michael whe to find you, I need feed on the dress…" he managed to get out before he noticed the girl sitting by me. And I don't mean noticed like, how mismatched her sweater was to her pants (it was), or how unbecoming (well, to me she looked just fine), or how the colors just didn't bring out her best assets. He also didn't look like he found a potential model; no, he looked, well, kind of like Jack when he saw Rose for the first time on Titanic. Or maybe Noah in The Notebook, when he saw Allie at that carnival.
Yes. THAT look.
Thank god I was sitting. Otherwise I think I would fall back, like Rebecca in the fourth cycle of America's Next Top Model. I mean, I have known Sebastiano for a really long time now, and while we never exactly discussed some things, I just assumed. Obviously I am terrible at assuming things (Re: Michael's virginity). Which I guess explains why I am so terrible at anything numbers-related. Numbers are FACTUAL. You can't just MAKE UP that you have enough money for a new Gucci.
"Oh, are those the sketches for the dress?" the girl (her name is Sophie, by the way? Isn't it adorable?).
"They are not done yet," Sebastiano said, looking totally perplexed. Which I probably mirrored.
"Well, maybe we could coordinate and make the dress and croquembouche match a little," Sophie smiled at the idea. (Which, by the way, I so totally approve)
"I don't think so," Sebastiano hurried, then turned around and ran back into the snowstorm (by then it was snowing like I had never seen it before).
"He's always afraid somebody will sell his sketches," I quickly explained to Sophie, "don't worry, it is not you."
January 26, close to midnight, back in my room
By the time I left Sophie's, the snowing was so bad I almost got lost. But I didn't. I did almost slip on one of those icy patches Lars had warned me of. But my ankles stayed whole. I was just totally snow-sodden. When I walked into my room and stood there for a minute, just coming to terms with the fact nothing was falling on me anymore, a paddle formed around me. Even my bra was soaked.
It felt kind of cold in the room, so I squatted by the radiator and tried to get it to work.
It was too slow for my liking, so I just boiled some water for tea and went to the bed. I pulled the covers and the blanket up to my neck.
That was when my phone beeped.
I got a text from Michael:
Michael: What are you doin'? I miss you.
To which I replied:
Mia: I got us a cake! And now I am warming up in bed.
Michael: I'm just sayin' you could do better (than blankets). Wanna come over?
Do you see the complete ignorance regarding the croquembouche?
Mia: I think I am doing just fine on my own, thank you.
And I sent him a picture of myself. The blankets were strategically placed just up my naval. And I had my best bra on.
I proudly sipped tea while I waited for his reply.
Michael: I don't want to brag, but my bed is totally bigger.
And he sent a picture, too. Not only was Michael's chest so better defined than mine; the blanket was placed just a little lower than mine, and the thing it insinuated totally made me spill my tea all over. HOT TEA. ALL OVER MY CHEST. IN WHICH I AM GETTING MARRIED IN A COUPLE OF DAYS. TO A GUY WHO BASICALLY JUST SHOWED ME THAT HIS ROOM IS WARM ENOUGH FOR HIM TO SLEEP NAKED. NAKED, WHILE I AM FREEZING HERE. BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW HOW THESE EUROPEAN RADIATORS WORK. AND I HAVE RUN OUT OF MINUTES FOR THE FREE INTERNET.
Obviously I was too distraught (AND BURNT) to reply.
Michael: You not gon' come? I guess I'll just chill here, then…
Michael: Come on, Mia, this is ridiculous. Come here. Or I'm coming to you, I don't care. I miss you.
Michael: Mia? You okay?
And I could reply to neither as I was in the bedroom pouring cold water all over my chest because my skin was still BURNING. BUT OF COURSE I COULDN'T TELL HIM THAT. I basically mutilated myself with TEA after I implemented the no sex rule in order for us to be in good physical condition for the wedding. I would never hear the end of it.
But he was totally capable of coming over. So I just went,
Mia: I am going to sleep now. Good night.
And then I returned to the bathroom to save what could be saved.
January 26, still close to midnight, back in my room
At least if this burn turns out to be fatal for me, they will be able to write on my gravestone that HER HAIR SMELT LIKE VANILLA AND HER B-OOBS SMELT OF ENGLISH TEA.
To Be Continued
Broughttoyouby:::winter.