OldProf – you prodded my imagination and this popped out. Hope it satisfies.

Isa In Paradise – I didn't mean to imply that Zannier is afraid of Richard but a bit traumatized by the whole 'William' episode. He's trying to do his job and keep up with dream-Richard but knows he can't.

S1 E2 - Reservations – just a bit more

Part 1 of 2

Zannier is up to his eyebrows (literally) in oily rags when the urgent cell call comes in. Cursing in fluent Creole, he snatches up his cell phone, peers at the name, and starts giving his Dining Hostess holy hell for interrupting the fracas happening in the mechanical room then his words dry up and his eyes widen as her voice cheeps into his ear. Within moments he has extricated himself from the A/C unit, yelling for his mechanic to take over, and rushes away.

A quick stop in his office, a swift swipe-down with alcohol wipes, a fast peel of his boiler-suit, a speedy slide into his good shoes, and Zannier presents himself most genteelly in the Main Dining Room all smiles and hospitality for he can see the lovely female form just sitting down at the Inspector's table. He makes an expertly executed deke into the supply room before he sweeps up behind the woman and glides the bud vase containing a single dark pink rose into pride of place.

"Welcome, Miss Bordey," he intones graciously, "the rose is by special request…" then stutters into silent confusion at the impish eyes that smile back up at him.

"Oh, bon soir, Zannier," Catherine Bordey lisps as she straightens her cutlery and glances towards the dining room entrance, "I seem to be early… or the Inspector seems to be late… I do not know which." As Zannier stands pole-axed, she continues almost gleefully, "I must say, this invitation came as a bit of a surprise." She regards him for a moment then adds, "And for you too it seems, n'est pas?"

Zannier snaps his jaw shut and pastes a big smile on his face, "Oh, non, non, Ms. Bordey. We knew the Inspector was inviting a guest and we didn't know who and we didn't know when but you are here now and… and…" he waves to a server, "… may I offer you a drink?"

She moues prettily, tips her head, refolds her napkin, "No, I don't think so. I won't be here long. As soon as the Inspector appears, we shall talk and then I shall leave him."

Zannier's whirling brain stops whirling at that. "Oh, you don't intend to stay?" he blurts out all the while thinking… poor man! His chosen one (who isn't the one I was expecting at ALL!) does not choose him! Ah, me, why did this have to happen on MY watch? How do I smooth this dilemma over without…

Then his eye falls upon the rose and he suddenly realizes there is ONE thing he can do to cushion the Inspector's pending romantic blow. His hand swoops down, "Here, let me take this away, I don't know why I brought it out, I'll just…"

But a cool firm hand is on his wrist and she deflects his move, "Non, leave it." She glances up at him, "He DID specifically ask for dark pink?" Zannier nods without thought then kicks himself for doing so. After all, men must stick together in the unending war of the sexes, mustn't they? Before he can think of some lie, Catherine sighs, "Bon, dark pink is exactly right for this first meeting, don't you think?"

Zannier gulps, "I do? Well, um, well, it's… it's most… um…"

Catherine nods happily as she spots a dark suit step quietly in through the doorway, "It's most fitting, that's what it is." She graces to her feet just as the Inspector begins to slow down, his face losing the carefully polite look and starting to match Zannier's own puzzled alarm at plans gang aft agley.

Detective Inspector Poole finally coasts to a halt beside his specially reserved table, his eyes wide in surprise. "Catherine," he barks, "um, why are you… um… where's… I mean, I'm very glad to see you but… but…" He can't seem to finish his sentence. He looks to Zannier for help but all Zannier can do is shrug helplessly behind the woman and shake his head in commiseration. 'Sorry,' he mouths, and covers his eyes with a sigh.

Catherine sinks back into her chair, a hand stroking the rose marooned there in the middle of the table, and says over her shoulder, "Zannier, I believe I WILL have a half-glass of your fine white wine, if you please?" She lifts sly eyes to Poole, "And you, Inspector? What shall you have?"

The Inspector's knees appear to give out and he manages a controlled fall into his own chair. His face stutters through several emotions before it settles on 'gentlemanly', "Oh, um, the same, please."

Zannier bobs a quick nod and scuttles away; roseless, clueless, and out of the line of fire! He mutters to his sommelier then dashes into the kitchen to peek out through the porthole window, watching with trepidation and hoping like hell that all this doesn't result in broken crockery.

He gestures to his Hostess, "Lithera, if the special table is still standing in the next minute, please go out and take the order of whoever is still there. Do NOT argue with anything they may say." Lithera nods and comes over to peek out with her boss and they watch as…

"So," Catherine murmurs, "you seem surprised to see me. What? I do not meet with your approval?"

Poole's eyes dart about like trapped birds, "Oh, er, no, I mean yes! Of course you meet with my… um… but… I thought my note… my note… um… didn't I put a name on my note?"

She smiles prettily, still stroking the rose, "Oh, yes, you did. Camille thought it was a cruel joke and threw it into the trash but I scooped it, smoothed it, and convinced her that a fine gentleman such as yourself would never play such a trick." She regards him from beneath lowered lashes, "Especially not upon a French woman, is that not so?"

He huffs, runs a finger beneath a suddenly too-tight collar, "Oh, yes, I mean oui, I mean right! Right! Who would dare? Not me! So…" he surreptitiously looks around, "… so where…?"

Catherine sits back with satisfaction, "Ah! She had to run home to prepare herself for such a prestigious meeting. I imagine her closet is all over the floor right now. And a woman cannot do her makeup and put up her hair in a trice, you know. We are not men, after all."

He swells with pleased expectation at this news, "No, no you're not, thank goodness. So she's coming? She's actually coming? Here? To dine with me?" His eyes plead with her to say 'yes'.

"Yes," she hushes, "for if she does not, I threatened to disown…" then her head snaps up and she sings out, "AH! There you are! Why do you dawdle while the Inspector waits?"

Poole spins to his feet, his nerves jangling afresh just as he was beginning to calm down at bit. There, in the doorway, stands a vision in red. He can't help himself. He gawps. Surely this radiant creature can't be…? But apparently it is because Catherine is suddenly breezing past him and gusting up to the woman frozen at the dining room entrance. He also hears muted shouts coming from the kitchen behind him but he dismisses it as unrelated to the drama taking place right here right now.

"Cami," Catherine purrs, coming to rest at Camille's side. She tucks a wild curl behind her statue-daughter's ear and trills, "So glad you could finally make it. I have been trying my best to keep the Inspector company but I fear I have lost my skills where such men are concerned."

Camille whispers back, eyes riveted on her nervously waiting suit, "Such men? Such what men?"

Catherine leans in ever so slightly and whispers, "Smitten men, my lucky lucky girl. He has eyes only for you, Cherie. Trust me on this." She straightens back up, smooths down a wayward ruffle on a richly gleaming shoulder, and adds, "Go get him, my lamb, he's got a dark pink rose for you."

Her daughter jerks startled eyes off the gently glowing man across the room and stares at her mother, "He's got a WHAT? A dark pink WHAT?"

Catherine groans, "Do you never pay attention? Don't you remember our talk about Floriography and the Victorians? The pink rose means admiration of femininity, elegance, refinement. DARK pink conveys appreciation, interest, perhaps a gentle question?"

Camille continues to stare at her mother like she's scrying the future (and perhaps she is), "A question? What question?"

Catherine shakes her head, murmurs, "The only question, the eternal question." At her daughter's frantically elevated eyebrows, she relents, "The question of do you return his regard?" At that, Camille's eyes snap back to her original target and she licks her lips but says nothing.

"I see," Catherine chuckles quietly, "then I shall leave you." She turns and waves to the Inspector who waves mechanically back. He really does have eyes only for Camille. Just before she sails out the door she offers one last bit of advice, "Floriography, look it up!" Then she is gone and Camille is irresistibly drawn across the room as if by a giant magnet.

END – part 1