City of Lights
Author: Celia Category: J/D fluff Rating: PG-13 (for language and sexual implications) Disclaimers: Stolen Characters. All language translations are courtesy of a free and probably unreliable online site. My sincere apologies to French speakers everywhere.
Feedback? I'm at celia1972@yahoo.com
PROLOGUE
On the fashionable avenue de Suffren, the Hilton Paris is located only steps from the Eiffel Tower and Trocadero Gardens, a block from the River Seine, and close to the Palais de Chaillot and the Porte de Versailles Exhibition Centre. Located in a refined and quiet area, this elegant property is an ideal location for both business and vacation travellers. - Hilton Paris brochure
I picture Gene Kelly crooning to me as I stroll casually along the Seine, the lights of Paris reflected in the dark water of the river. My simple black sheath dress and elegant chignon will blend into the Parisian landscape almost as well as my perfect French accent.
"Je préférerais un rouleau grille--I would prefer a toasted roll" says the voice on the Berlitz tape. I press rewind. I'm working on my "r"s (French "r"s are very tough for a person accustomed to Midwestern "r"s).
Ever since Josh put the "Paris Trade Trip" on his schedule, I've been working on my French. I ordered a whole bunch of language tapes and kept them in a regular rotation on my car radio. I took a weekend-intensive conversational workshop. I book-marked Le Monde online. I rented Amelie about 30 times. This last minute work on my "r" s is just for polish. I am prepared to be a Gallic sensation.
In the seat next to me, Josh is reviewing a fax from the French Minister of Trade. He doesn't seem happy about it.
"This isn't what we discussed last week. They're changing all their demands."
The new French parliament wants a revised Trade agreement with the U.S. They want tariff adjustments, price protections, lower import duties, and about a thousand different kinds of guarantees. Josh wants to export more American cars to France, protect the California wine industry, and uphold a strong tradition of US/French cooperation and friendship. I want all that too, but I also want my walk on the Seine.
"I'm missing a page. Where is page eleven? Donna, where is page eleven?"
I unhook an earphone.
"Let me see. Maybe it didn't come through."
The fax machines on commercial airlines are pretty unreliable. Josh has been thoroughly spoiled by Air Force One. I wave to a flight attendant.
"M'excuser, mon ami n'a pas reçu toutes les pages sur son fax."
She answers me in English.
"I'm sorry, but your boyfriend will have to wait until we reach Paris. The fax machine has been turned off now that we've begun our descent."
"Did I say boyfriend? I meant to say boss!"
"No, you said 'ami,' your boyfriend, or lover, Boss is 'patron'."
I don't like her tone.
"Of course. Thank you."
Beside me, Josh is wearing his patented smirk.
"Do me a favor," says Josh.
"What?"
"Speak English at the meetings."
"It was a little slip. I'm ready."
"I can't have you telling the Minister of Trade that we're lovers."
"Oh, you would just love that, wouldn't you?"
"I would. But, it might undermine your credibility."
"It wouldn't undermine yours?"
"In France? I don't think so."
"You think you're so suave."
"I'm not wrong."
"Maybe not, but I'm pretty sure that you're sitting on page eleven."
He stands up.
"Damn, how did that get there?"
PART I
A limousine whisks us through Paris. I'm prepping Josh for the initial press conference, so I barely get a chance to look out the window. I get a vague impression of cheese markets and cobblestones. It's so exciting and tempting! The negotiations should only last two days. That leaves a whole day on Sunday to explore. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the Arc de Triomphe and make a mental note to get my picture taken in front of it.
The hotel is disappointingly modern (I was hoping for a Belle Epoque feel), but it's fabulously luxurious. There's a pillow menu. I yelp when I see the bidet in my bathroom.
Josh and I have adjoining rooms, as is our habit. He's already hollering from his.
"Donna, where is my Blackberry?"
"You gave it to me at the airport, remember?"
"I need it back!"
"I'm coming, are you ready?"
I walk into his room. He's wearing a new suit. Wow.
Josh's handsomeness can be distracting. It catches me at off moments, like now.
"Well? Let's go!" he says.
"Right. You need to."
His tie is perfectly straight, but I exercise one of my executive privileges and go to adjust it.
"What are you wearing?" he murmurs.
"A suit."
"No. I mean, what is that perfume?"
I smile.
"It's French. I got it for the trip. L'heure Bleu"
"That's good stuff. I mean you smell really good."
I love having this effect on him.
"You're perfect," I whisper.
"I am?"
"I mean your tie's perfect, silly. Let's go."
Downstairs, a pack of reporters, translators, Ministers and assistants are gathering in the lobby. A tall sleek brunette corners us as soon as we get off the elevator.
"Mr. Lyman?"
"Yes," says Josh.
"I'm Alaine Michel from the Trade Minister's office. The Minister wishes to welcome you to Paris."
"Thank you."
"If there's anything I can assist you with while you are here, please let me know."
"That's great. Thank you. This is my assistant, Donna Moss."
She glances for a moment in my direction.
"Donna will take care of all of the logistical stuff. She'll let you know what we need during the negotiations."
"Of course," purrs Alaine.
"Right now, we need directions to the banquet room," I offer.
"Right this way."
Alaine leads us to another elevator. I notice that she's wearing Dior. How does she afford that suit on a government salary?
We enter the banquet room, and I gasp. The entire back wall of the room is a panoramic window facing the Eiffel Tower. My breath gets a little shallow.
"This is incredible," I whisper.
Josh is all business.
"Try to case the place for me, would you? Find out where all the copy machines are."
"Josh, we are in the presence of architectural greatness. Do you think I could have a moment?"
"Right, architectural greatness."
He takes a deep breath and lets it out.
"That felt great, can we move on now?"
I sigh. Even in Paris, Josh will never be Gene Kelly. Not even for a moment.
PART II
Day two of our big Paris Trade Trip is a little disappointing. First of all, we were up most of the night on the phone with Washington, so both of us are cranky and tired. Second, the hotel has this absurd lay-out with the copy and fax machines on the eighth floor and the conference center on the tenth floor, so I'm constantly running up and down the stairs. Supposedly, a hotel employee is supposed to do all of that for me, but Josh is worried about confidentiality issues, so I'm managing all of our paper myself. My feet hurt.
The negotiations are a little tense. Most of this meeting was supposed to be taken care of before we got here. Drafts of the trade agreement have been crossing the Atlantic for months now. But new elections in France have changed the majority in the National Assembly, and the Trade Minister seems to have a new agenda. He's fighting Josh on absolutely everything.
I'm standing outside the banquet room with Alaine, my impossibly elegant French counterpart. Her suit today is Chanel. If Alaine sold that suit at retail, she could buy a new Honda.
"Do you enjoy working for Mr. Lyman?"
This is suspicious. She doesn't seem like the small-talk type.
"Most of the time, yes."
She looks me up and down and smiles. What is she implying?
"How long have you worked with him?"
"About six years now. Since before the President was elected."
"Ahh. You were very fortunate to find yourself in the White House, then?"
Now, I'm annoyed.
"What do you mean?"
"You are so young, that's all."
Oh, well, it's always nice for someone to notice that I look young, I mean, I get a real kick every time I get carded in a bar (yes, it still happens!) But, this woman seems to be implying that I'm inexperienced or.
Wait a minute. A strategic advantage suddenly occurs to me. I put on my best mid-western twang.
"I just feel so lucky to be working at the White House. How about you? How did you get your job?"
"I have a. what would you call it in the U.S.? A Masters? In diplomacy from the Sorbonne."
Well, gee wiz.
"That's terrific. It's just such a pleasure to work with you!" I gush.
Alaine smiles graciously. She thinks she's got me pegged. We'll see about that.
My Blackberry starts to hum.
"Excuse me for a moment?" I say, and make my way into the banquet room.
I slip up behind Josh.
"Leo needs you to call him," I whisper into his ear.
Josh makes his excuses and gets up from the table. I follow him out. He's in a terrible mood.
"This is ridiculous. They've reversed their position on almost every count. Have you seen the twenty new pages on tariffs?"
"Alaine handed me a copy twenty minutes ago. What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing, for now. We're not agreeing to anything. Has Leo seen the pages?"
"I think that's why he wants you to call."
"OK. I'm on it. Wait a minute. Where's my phone?"
"It's in your other hand."
"Right."
He starts to dial.
"Hey, see if you can get an electronic copy of all this new stuff, would you?" he asks.
"Won't that imply that we'll agree to the new stuff?"
"Maybe. But I can't afford to waste time if we change our minds later."
I wander off to look for Alaine. She's down on eight by the fax machine.
"Alaine, I wonder if."
Before I can finish, Alaine stops a passing secretary.
"See if you can get an electronic copy of the new pages emailed to Miss Moss?" she says in French.
An idea occurs to me. Alaine doesn't know if I speak French or not, does she?
She turns to me.
"What was it you needed?"
This is too easy.
"I was wondering if I could get an electronic copy of the new pages."
A hungry-vulture gleam appears in her eyes.
"Of course, I'll let someone know right away."
Her phone rings. Instead of excusing herself, she takes the call right in front of me.
"Alaine Michel. Oui. Oui, je 'tenir de m avec son aide, et elle vient de demander pour les pages. Il'le s D'ACCORD. Elle peut't comprend un mot de Français."
I turn and pretend to study the copy machine. Alaine is clearly talking to her boss, and her tone is, well, a little flirtatious. I get the distinct impression that Alaine is sleeping with the French Minister of Trade. It's all very amusing, until she lets something slip.
"Les Américains ne voudront pas vouloir gaspiller plus de temps sur cet article. Donc donner il un autre couple d'heures."
I get it. The minister is playing an endurance game. He's got Josh on his turf, jet-lagged and over-worked, and he's testing him. He figures if he wears us out on the little issues, Josh will be more cooperative on the big ones.
I wait around until Alaine gets off the phone. Then I dash back to Josh.
He's on his way back to the Banquet room. I grab him by the arm and pull him into an empty conference room.
"I'm going to tell you something, and when I'm done, you're going to want to give me a raise, a promotion, and a big wet French kiss."
That gets his attention.
I relate the information that I've obtained from Alaine. Josh's mind starts working immediately.
"Start drinking coffee right now," he orders. "This is going to last all night. And change our return flight plans. We're going to smoke these frogs."
"Do I get my raise?"
"We can talk about that we when we get back to D.C."
"What about my promotion?" I remind him.
He grins. One corner of his eyebrow shoots up.
"What about your kiss?"
Ummm. Is he serious? My face gets hot.
"I'm ready to negotiate on that count," offers Josh.
Wow. My eyes drop to the floor He takes the tiniest step towards me, and I look up again. His brown eyes are searching mine, for.what? I'm not sure.
"Josh, what are you."
Both of our Blackberries begin to buzz simultaneously.
"Leo," says Josh.
"I'll go.see what's happening in the next room," is my lame reply.
For the next few hours, that last moment plays over and over again in my head. What almost happened? Could Paris actually be having an effect on Josh?
PART III
It's 5am Paris time, and we're all still playing Trade-Agreement-Chicken. It's getting ugly. At midnight, the Trade Minister ordered a really extravagant meal for everyone. We're talking heavy sauces, fois gras, Bordeaux, the works. He was sure he could get Josh to fall asleep and sign off on lower automotive import fees. Didn't happen. Josh sat right across the table from the Minister, downed two servings of filet mignon, a big glass of seltzer and smiled. He didn't even touch the cheese plate.
I wasn't quite as strong. I held out through the first five courses, but when I saw the dessert: strawberry mousse cake in a puddle of chocolate liqueur, I gave in. Also, Alaine talked me into a glass of Bordeaux (it was difficult to restrain myself when I found out the bottle had cost 600 euros). Later I may have let a shot of Grand Marnier find it's way into my coffee.
Alaine and I have really hit it off. She condescends at every opportunity, and I eavesdrop at every opportunity. Most of the time, I just get personal stuff. The Trade Minister is a very generous boyfriend. Alaine is pressuring him to buy her a house in Switzerland. They argue about which town it will be in. The Trade Minister wants something near Luzerne. Alaine prefers the Italian Alps.
They seem to work pretty well together, though. I make a mental note of that.
Come to think of it, where is Alaine? Has she gone home? That cheater! I check the Banquet room. Josh and the Trade Minister are deeply engrossed in a conference call with the Prime Minister. No Alaine.
I climb down the stairs to the fax room. It's silent. I check the extra conference rooms, the lobby and the restrooms. No sign of her.
If Alaine can go home and rest, why shouldn't I? Josh's conference call will go on for hours. I'm all caught up on my proofreading. Now may be my only chance.
I make my escape stealthily. The elevator takes an eternity to arrive. Just as the little bell goes off, I hear a voice behind me.
"Mademoiselle Moss?"
Damn. Who is it?
The Concierge catches up with me. I pray silently, "please don't say that Leo's on the phone, or that a new fax has arrived, or that you need my attention for any reason whatsoever."
"I just wanted to make sure things are going smoothly," he says.
"Things are great. Thanks!"
I dash on to the elevator. Thank goodness that was nothing.
In my room, I get a good look at myself in the mirror. It isn't pretty. My hair is a little greasy; my makeup is smudged. I feel dirty. My gaze drifts to the huge marble tub. Mmmmmm..
I turn on the faucet, pour a huge glob of shampoo into the tub (most designer shampoos double brilliantly as bubble bath), and settle in.
Things are going splendidly. Josh has nailed most of his important items on the Trade Agreement, I'm re-inventing myself as an American Mata Hari with my Alaine surveillance, and I've just pushed our flight back a day. Even though the negotiations are going on longer than expected, I will still get ten hours on Monday to stroll by the Seine.
I try to imagine Gene Kelly singing to me, but he doesn't materialize. Instead, I picture Josh. He's not singing (that would be impossible, even in my imagination), but he does kind of hum, and look at me softly, kind of the way he looked at me last night in that conference room.
The tub fills up and I start to feel a wonderful warm relaxation that 's only broken when I hear.
"DONNA!"
Oh god, where am I? I'm drowning! Where did all this water come from?
"Donna, are you all right in there?" It's Josh.
"What happened?" I try to scream, but I end up kind of choking.
Oh no, I fell asleep with the faucet still running! The bathroom is completely flooded!
"Help! I mean, don't come in here!" I scream.
But it's too late, he opens the door and comes barreling in. I reach for a towel to cover myself, but it doesn't matter, because Josh immediately slips on the water and crashes to the ground.
"Oh! Oh no! Are you OK?"
I manage to turn the water off, and I'm throwing towels in every direction.
Josh looks up, completely dazed and soaking wet.
"Close your eyes!" I insist.
He covers his eyes with his hands.
"Donna, what the hell?"
"I. I must have fallen asleep with the water running. Oh, Josh, I'm so sorry."
"I'm.wet!" he moans pathetically.
Someone is knocking on the door.
"Excuse me, this is the Concierge! We have a report of a leak below you!"
I hold a towel around my body with my left hand, and reach to help Josh up with my right.
"I thought you were on a conference call?" I ask.
He rubs the back of his head where it landed.
"Alaine told me you were missing. I got concerned."
That bitch! I thought she went home! The concierge is still knocking on the door.
I dash out into the room and open it.
"I am so so sorry!"
The concierge turns his gaze to the floor. Why didn't I put a robe on? He manages to say, in perfectly accented English, "This lady reports that water is seeping into her bathroom?"
I look behind him. It's Alaine.
Josh stumbles out of the bathroom.
"We've got it under control! Everything's under control!"
Alaine is wearing a huge evil grin. I can only imagine how this will play to the Trade Minister.
Josh spots Alaine, and his mouth drops.
I turn to the Concierge weakly.
"Do you think we could get some more towels?"
PART IV
Do the French sleep? I can't be sure. I've spent three days locked up in the Hilton Paris with an entire legion of French politicians, and not one of them has ever gone home. Their assistants leave occasionally to put on more perfume, but..
Josh looks up at me from across the long conference room. His eyes are starting to swim. I'm going to get up and help him with whatever he needs, but first I need to take a long deep breath. Do my legs still work?
We've been hammering out the new trade resolutions for 72 hours. Ten hours ago, I managed to embarrass us both royally by falling asleep in the tub, and causing a near flood of the Hilton Paris. I'm lucky I didn't drown.
Josh is still staring at me. He must need something. I groan and pitch my weight forward. Why am I still wearing heels? Every part of my body is sore, but my feet are in particularly bad shape. I hobble over to his side of the table and brace myself. If he needs anything from his room, I'm doomed. I don't think that I can walk as far as the elevator.
"You look tired."
Well no, shit.
Oh God, did I say that out-loud? Maybe not. French politicians 1, 2 and 3 do not look up. Josh is grinning in a kind of pained way.
"Go upstairs and take a nap," he whispers.
"I'm OK. Do you need something?"
"Not for at least an hour. We're waiting to get the proofs back."
"You should get some rest too."
"We're still waiting for Leo to call."
"Then I should wait until."
"I'm OK. Really, You look beat."
"What if I can't wake up in an hour?"
"I'll come find you. Just go, while you have a chance. Don't turn on any faucets."
I'm torn. I desperately need a nap, but Josh looks so forlorn. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue hits me, and I sway slightly. Josh leaps out of his chair to steady me.
"I'll walk you up."
His hand settles warmly on the small of my back. One of the French Ministers snorts slightly.
"Josh, I'm fine."
"C'mon."
His other hand takes my forearm, and the next thing I know, we're gliding out of the room.
Alone, in the hallway, I have the urge to lean on his shoulder, but I shake my head in resistance.
"Josh, it's OK. Everyone will think something funny if.."
"No one in that room has ever thought anything funny in their entire lives."
"They must all be robots. When does anyone sleep in this country?"
"On their month long government subsidized vacation."
Three days of near-round-the-clock-negotiations, plus jet lag, and Josh still has a comeback ready.
"You're like Napoleon."
"I'm six feet tall!"
"No. You're like Napoleon in that you don't need to sleep like an ordinary person."
"Napoleon never slept?"
"Not more than two or three hours a night."
"I didn't know that. That's interesting"
The elevator door opens and we're moving towards it, when Josh stumbles slightly. I'm able to catch him, but we both pitch forward in a dangerous way. My heel turns and I twist my ankle.
"Ouch!"
"Are you OK?"
"I.I.seem to have."
Josh has both arms around my waist, and I'm suddenly conscious of his breathing. I gulp slightly and look up to meet his gaze.
".twisted my ankle."
His brow has a deep wrinkle in it.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
The elevator lurches upward, and I can't help leaning into him for support. Our thighs meet. Oh god! He smells good. This is absurd.
"Christ, Josh, we are a mess."
He laughs, pulls me into a hug, and whispers in my ear.
"We're doing great. We've got over 90% of our agenda locked in. The final agreement will be ready for press in 2 hours. Leo will sign off on it, and we will be crowned diplomatic geniuses."
I smile and bury my head in his shoulder.
"You will be crowned a diplomatic genius.I will just be the girl who flooded her bathroom."
" You are my devious French-speaking secret-weapon!"
I take a moment to consider my recent foray into the world of espionage. Since my little accident, the unsuspecting Alaine has given away at least a dozen strategy secrets. Why does everyone here assume that I can't understand French?
"You're right, I have been pretty devious," I allow.
"How's your ankle?"
"Not too bad."
"I could carry you?"
I giggle. It's tempting.
"Josh. It'll be OK. Just, let me lean a little."
"Lean all you want."
My hips settle unconsciously on his thigh. I may fall asleep right here, on Josh's body. I'm so tired and warm and tired and..
The elevator dings and I lurch forward.
"I'm awake!"
Josh steps back slightly and looks me in the eye.
"Really, I'm fine," I insist.
Josh swoops down, and suddenly, I'm air-born.
"JOSH! Put me down.Oh my god! You'll hurt yourself"
No one has actually picked me up since I was eight. I'm shocked, and kind of.thrilled.
"I've got you."
He's completely calm. Where did he get all this strength?
An elderly couple passes us in the hall, smiling. The wife leans into her husband and says," La mariée quel charmante." I can't help it. I'm laughing.
"What did she say?"
"She thinks we're on our honeymoon," I whisper.
Josh takes a moment to sort that out. He turns us around to face the couple. They're beaming at us.
"Félicitations!" calls the husband.
Josh breaks into a wide grin. He squeezes me slightly and calls out in a truly terrible accent, "Merci!"
It's very sweet; I wish it were true.
"Where's your room key?" Josh asks.
"You have to put me down, so I can."
"Forget it, we'll use my room."
"What???
"I'm gonna carry you over the threshold!'
"Josh, it's OK, we can just wait until they get on the elevator, and they'll never know that we're not on our honey."
"Put your hand in my jacket pocket."
"Excuse me?"
"My room key is in my jacket pocket."
I give him a good hard look. He growls at me, "Before I drop you, get that key."
I reach for his pocket.
In a low voice, Josh corrects me, "Not that one. The inside one."
My breath stops. This is too intimate. I look into his eyes for confirmation and see a flash of fear, like he hopes I won't fly away. For the first time, I let myself relax in his arms. He notices the shift and smiles. My hand tucks itself into his jacket, and lingers a moment before retrieving the key.
Josh hauls me through the door. For a second, I think he might pitch me on the bed, but he manages to put me down semi-gracefully. I clutch my hands around his neck while he supports my back and .Oh wow. I'm leaning back onto a pile of perfect down pillows and Josh is hovering over me, his left hand resting on the bed behind me.
Are my arms still around his neck? I can't move. Our eyes have met, and I'm feeling a huge wave of pre-kiss wonder crashing towards me. I move my hand gently to his cheek, and he catches his breath.
"I'm going to do this, Donna."
And his lips are on mine. I'm wide-awake now. For six years of my life, every nerve in my body has been wiring itself in anticipation of this moment.
I don't ever want this kiss to end. Josh's hands find my waist and we roll into a tight embrace. Our tongues and lips and teeth are desperately pulling at one another.
Wait a second.
"Josh, the trade agreement!"
He takes a huge gulp of air, cries, "We've got an hour," and captures my mouth in his. It's too much to resist. I throw my leg over his hip and roll on to him, my hands pulling at the lapels of his jacket. I've almost got it off, when he pulls away.
"Wait."
"What?"
"It can't be like this!"
"What?"
"An hour is not enough. Donna, I've wanted this for six years. I need better.circumstances!"
"Josh, I need you!"
We're kissing again. His hand is reaching for the buttons on my blouse and I'm going to faint, I'm so turned on, but.
"No. You're right."
Did I just say that?
"You're right. I want it to be.perfect too. Leo could call any minute."
"You have the most beautiful neck in the world."
He lands the most amazing feather kisses on my jaw-line.
"Josh! I'm right. I mean, you're right. I mean, where did you learn to.?"
My resolve is slipping. His hand is reaching for the hem of my skirt and I begin to rock my hips in anticipation.
The phone rings.
"Nooooooo!!!!!!" cries Josh, sitting up.
"Ignore it!" I plead.
He turns, and I feel his gaze trail over my hips and up my body. My skirt is hiked up almost to my waist, and my blouse is nearly open. Josh gasps helplessly.
"OK."
He tears my blouse from my shoulders and presses his lips to mine. It's totally perfect, except..
"I can't!" I groan.
My last shred of professionalism tears me away from him. I dive for the phone.
"This is Donna Moss."
"Mr. McGarry for Mr. Lyman."
Shit. I pass Josh the phone. He whimpers slightly and takes it from me.
"Lyman here. Yeah. I'm on my way back."
He hangs up the phone, and sighs. His shoulders fall, and all of our shared exhaustion sinks back in.
"We need to go back."
"I know."
"The sooner it's over, the sooner we can.."
I smile.
"Yeah."
His expression is totally open. I feel all of his longing and frustration and excitement.
"Help me find my shoes," I say.
"Can you walk?"
"Yeah. It really doesn't hurt very much."
He helps me into my shoes while I button my blouse and smooth my skirt. I take a long deep breath and stand up. Josh offers his arm, and I take it.
"One more hour, at most" he murmurs.
"Josh, when we get down to that conference room."
"Yeah?"
"Let's talk really fast."
PART V
I've just finished my sixth coca-cola of the day, but I can barely keep my eyes open. The laptop in front of me displays statistics on the French film industry. Three and half hours ago, the Trade Agreement was proofed, printed and ready for signature. Then the Minster of Culture arrived. Now, the agreement is lying in a jumbled heap on the conference room table-- it's spine broken. A slew of angry French politicians are passing pages 411 through 421, "Motion Picture Distribution Protections," around the room.
Josh, who hasn't been to a movie theatre since Bartlett was elected, is embroiled in a nasty debate over Hollywood's attempts to: "Undermine and destroy" French cinema. He's holding on pretty well, but he's going to need some back up in about five seconds.
Oh Shit. One of the ministers is starting to tear up pages. Josh looks like he's going to either cry or clock this guy. I jump out of my chair, grab some pages off the printer, and dash to his side.
"Here are those projections you wanted," I say, flashing what I hope is a reassuring smile.
"Thank you. Excuse me, gentlemen."
Josh strides out of the room, intent on the pages, and I follow. In the hall, he nearly trips into a dessert cart.
"God damnit!"
He pushes the cart, and it careens away. Before it can crash into a window, I manage to catch it. Josh throws his weight against a wall and slides to the floor.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
I examine the dessert cart for damage. Sixteen little flan cups have capsized into an apple tarte. I back away.
"Thank you for getting me out of there," says Josh.
"I hope you weren't looking forward to dessert," I comment.
When I turn, I see his eyes. They've got a hungry-bear look that's directed straight at me.
"We've probably had too much. flan lately anyway," I stutter.
"Come here." Growls Josh.
"You need to look at those pages I printed for you. The Minister has been quoting 2001 numbers, but the latest reports are much more optimistic."
"I want to kiss you."
Oh God.
"Josh, I.think I'd better stay on my side of this.dessert cart. Just for now."
I never imagined that anything French could actually interfere with my love life.
Josh drops his head.
"I promised you an hour," he laments.
He looks so sweet and sad that I let myself walk towards him.
"It's not your fault. We didn't know that the Minister would ambush us this way."
He holds out his hand. I go to help him up, but he pulls me down instead, and I end up in his lap.
"Josh!"
"I'm crazy about you."
"Anyone could come by here!"
"Fuck 'em"
"Josh. You're not sane. You haven't slept in three days."
"But I'm like Napoleon, remember?"
"You are a much much better stronger.taller man than Napoleon, Josh, and you are going to get up, march back into that conference room and whip some French butts, OK? You got that?"
He's smiling at me. His eyes are all crinkly and warm. Just one kiss wouldn't hurt anything, would it?
I hear a door handle turn and I bolt out of his lap. My research pages fly into the air, and Josh scrambles to catch them. Alaine steps out and clears her throat.
"We have some new language for you to review."
Josh is on all fours, reaching for the last research page. In his best very-powerful-man voice, he thunders, "Excellent. I'll be right with you."
She surveys the battered dessert cart, and turns to me.
"You have a bit of cream in your hair," she notices.
"Yes. Yes I do," I counter, staring right back at her.
She looks a little rattled. I smile pleasantly.
"Nous donne un instant s'il vous plaît?" I purr.
If I threw one of the little flan cups at her designer suit, I don't think she would look more shocked and disturbed than she does now. I know what's she's thinking. She's thinking about every last diplomatic secret she has revealed in the past three days to the Deputy Chief of Staff's "charming little playmate."
"Bien sûr." she manages.
As soon as she's gone, Josh pounces on me. He takes my face in both hands and plants a huge deep kiss on my mouth. When he finally comes up for air, he breathes, "I am going to go in there and whip every French butt in sight, and, in less than 30 minutes, I'm going to drag your sexy French- speaking-ass to bed for about a month."
"Ummm.. OK!"
And he's off. I may faint. My knees are buckling. How on earth will I last thirty minutes?
PART VI
I.must.stay.focused. If we can just get the final language of this Trade Agreement proofread, we'll be finished. Josh took half the pages, and I've got the rest. This shouldn't take long, but neither one of us has slept in.I'm not sure? I can't remember when I last slept. I can barely remember that I'm in Paris.
Josh is in the chair next to mine. His tie is loose at his neck. There's a small coffee stain on his lapel. His hair is all rumpled and.. I MUST NOT look at Josh. I must finish proofreading this paragraph.
His ankle is touching mine. His ankle is actually curled around my ankle so that our feet are touching too, and he may be looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but I'm not going to pay attention because If I don't finish checking this damn agreement in the next ten minutes, I will pass out on the floor of the Paris Hilton in front of all these French Ministers, their assistants, and God.
This shouldn't be. This should have been over with hours ago.
Two Hours ago. Two hours ago, was supposed to be thirty minutes ago. Four Hours before the two-hours-ago, was supposed to be one hour ago. I think. I think the last six hours should have been an hour and a half. Somewhere in that last six-hours-ago that should have been an hour-and-a- half ago, my boss finally kissed me, after six years of not kissing me that should have been six weeks, tops. Make that six minutes. Josh Lyman should have kissed me six-years-minus-six-minutes-ago, but instead, he kissed me six hours ago, and for some horrible and distinctly French reason, I'm now proofreading a trade agreement. Time is not my friend.
"Donna?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't care anymore."
"You don't care about being a diplomatic genius, anymore?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"I'm too sleepy for deception."
"I only have one more page."
"I...I have three."
"So give me one of yours, and.then, we'll both have. we'll both have...?"
"Two. I have three and you have one. If I give you one, we'll both have two. Can you still read?"
"I'm.great, just great," I slur.
That gets him.
"Donna, these pages need to be perfect!"
"See, I caught you! You really do care about being a diplomatic genius!"
"Shut up!"
"Give me a page!"
He hands it over. Thank god for conflict. I feel much more alert now.
PART VII
The Ministers are all smiling at us. They shake our hands and kiss the air next to our cheeks. Someone hands me a glass of champagne. We have a Trade Agreement.
We have a Trade Agreement. Or, rather, France and the United States have a Trade Agreement. Josh and I have.a hotel room. Make that two adjoining hotel rooms, but who's counting?
The French Minister of Trade is inviting Josh and I to a special dinner downstairs. Is he serious? Can these people be serious?
I have never experienced sleep deprivation on this level before in my entire life. I can't remember (and don't care) when I last slept, what time zone I'm in, or where I left my purse. I do remember though, that some seven hours ago, I made out with my boss. And I'll be damned if I am going to wait through a seven-course French meal before I make out with him again.
The resilient Alaine is standing right behind her boss. She smiles, siren- like, at Josh.
"We absolutely insist that you join us. We made special arrangements to keep the kitchen open."
Josh is sort of frozen. Is he actually considering this invitation?
I panic.
Is he stalling? What if Josh feels weird about kissing me? What if, now that we're finally free of all these dreadful French Ministers and their dreadful assistants, he's having second thoughts? What if he isn't crazy about me after all?
I down my glass of champagne in one terrified gulp.
He catches my eye.
"I'm sorry." I hear him say.
My heart breaks.
".but Donna and I are really beat. Perhaps, we could postpone dinner until we meet in Washington?"
Oh, Thank God.
We say a final good-bye, and back out of the conference room. When the door is closed behind us, we stop for a moment. I hear him take a deep breath.
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah. Are you OK?"
He's smiling. I'm smiling too. I'm smiling, and kind of.drifting. He reaches for my waist.
"How's your ankle?"
"It's not so bad, but I just drank that champagne, and."
Oh boy. My head is really swimming now.
".I may be a little drunk."
"I've got you."
He puts his arm around me and guides me to the elevator.
"Are you still crazy about me?" I mumble.
Did I just say that? Oh dear. I look up at him. There had better not be a smirk on his face, or I am going to slap him.
There's a smirk.
I go in for the slap.
He catches my arm.
"Hey, watch it!"
I grab his ear and pull hard.
"Admit that you're crazy about me."
"I'm crazy about you! I'm madly passionately violently crazy about you! Now, let go of my ear!"
I let go, and suddenly, he's got my ribs, and I'm being tickled.
"Admit that you're crazy about me!" he demands.
"Oh god, you bastard. Yes! Yes, I'm crazy about you."
I stop him with my mouth. I don't realize how much force I've put into this kiss until he returns it. Josh clutches my body and pulls me into him; our weight crashes against the walls of the elevator.
My breath must taste like a weird combination of champagne, coca-cola and Nutella crepes, but Josh doesn't seem to mind. His mouth is hard and eager and kind of minty (he must have planned on this).
When we reach our floor, we have a hard time exiting the elevator, because Josh is reluctant to stop kissing me. We manage to stumble out just before the doors close. In the hall, our bodies careen towards the room (which room? It doesn't matter!). We narrowly avoid crashing into a housekeeping cart. We're both so exhausted and desperate and clumsy that we may capsize. At the door, we break away for air.
"Do you have a key? Where's my key?" begs Josh.
I panic. My key is in my purse, and my purse is not here.
"You don't have your key?" I cry.
"I might have my key. I'm not sure."
I frantically search Josh's pockets. He doesn't have a key.
"I'm gonna break down the door!" Josh insists.
I yield to reality.
"Josh, we have to call the concierge."
Ten long minutes later, the concierge appears. He's wearing a stoic expression and holding a familiar looking object.
"I believe this is your purse, Mademoiselle?"
I'm too exhausted to thank him in French. Josh is too exhausted to pretend that we're not sharing a room. We make our excuses and bolt the door behind us. Josh collapses on the bed.
"We're free," I proclaim.
Josh struggles to sit up and face me.
"I think you're so beautiful," he murmurs.
I move to the window, and pull the shades back. The lights from the Eiffel Tower illuminate his face.
"I can't believe we're finally going to do this," I say.
He follows me with his eyes, as I open the door to the balcony and let a cool breeze float into the room.
"Come here," says Josh.
The atmosphere could not be more romantic. If only, we both weren't so.. sleepy.
I walk towards the bed. Josh catches my arm and pulls me down into his lap. We share a slow deliberate kiss. I lean into him, and our bodies sink into the bed. Josh's hand reaches under the fabric of my blouse and strokes the small of my back.
"This is perfect," I whisper.
"I love you." Says Josh.
And then we both pass out.
PART VIII
Mmmm.it's a beautiful spring morning along the Seine. I'm sitting on a bench, watching riverboats go by. In the distance, someone is singing:
The man who only lives for making money Lives a life that isn't necessarily sunny Likewise the man who works for fame
There's no guarantee that time won't erase his name
The fact is, the only work that really brings enjoyment Is the kind that is for girl and boy meant Fall in love and you won't regret it That's the best work of all, if you can get it
Something heavy is sitting in my lap. It's the Trade Agreement. It looks perfect--crisp and white and ready for press.
A soft morning breeze blows through my hair and. catches the cover page! It twists away from me towards the Seine. I jump up to catch it, and all the other pages scatter. Black and white sheets of trade resolutions churn in the air around me like a flock of angry pigeons. I grab at them frantically, but not one page comes back to me.
The voice in the distance grows louder.
Holding hands at midnight 'Neath a starry sky Nice work if you can get it And you can get it if you try
The Trade Agreement floats higher and higher. I strain to catch sight of the pages, but they've all turned into birds! A "v" forms in the distant sky and disappears slowly.
Strolling with the one girl Sighing sigh after sigh Nice work if you can get it And you can get it if you try
I look for the singer and spot him under an archway. He's wearing a perfect 1950s suit and hat, just like the one Gene Kelly wears in that movie. His feet tap gracefully down a staircase, and he turns around to face me. It's.
"Josh?"
I wake up.
Josh is propped up on one elbow, staring at me. He's still wearing his clothes from last night. They look pretty rumpled. He reaches out and fingers a lock of my hair.
"Nice work if you can get it," he whispers.
"Were you singing just now?" I ask.
"No, you were singing in your sleep, 'Nice work if you can get it'.
He's smiling. I let myself absorb the light in his beautiful brown eyes.
"I'm sorry that I woke you up," I murmur.
"I'm sorry that I fell asleep."
His hand drifts to my cheek.
"Is there anything special you want to see in Paris?" he asks, as his fingers trace a line to my lips.
"I. I wanted to take a walk by the Seine."
"We could do that."
"And get my picture taken in front of the Arc de Triomphe."
"We could do that too."
I rest my hand on his chest.
"And go to the top of the Eiffel Tower?"
"Sure."
I finger the buttons on his shirt. He slides his hand down my throat to my collarbone.
"Maybe stroll around Monmartre."
"Absolutely."
He leans in and rests his lips gently on mine. I wrap my arms around him.
"But what I'd like to do most of all."
"Yeah?"
"Is never leave this bed until the cab comes to take us to the airport."
"That sounds heavenly," he murmurs.
Josh leans over and pulls the phone off the hook.
I love Paris.
The End.
"Nice Work if You Can Get It" by George Gershwin All film references are to "An American In Paris" starring Gene Kelly.
Author: Celia Category: J/D fluff Rating: PG-13 (for language and sexual implications) Disclaimers: Stolen Characters. All language translations are courtesy of a free and probably unreliable online site. My sincere apologies to French speakers everywhere.
Feedback? I'm at celia1972@yahoo.com
PROLOGUE
On the fashionable avenue de Suffren, the Hilton Paris is located only steps from the Eiffel Tower and Trocadero Gardens, a block from the River Seine, and close to the Palais de Chaillot and the Porte de Versailles Exhibition Centre. Located in a refined and quiet area, this elegant property is an ideal location for both business and vacation travellers. - Hilton Paris brochure
I picture Gene Kelly crooning to me as I stroll casually along the Seine, the lights of Paris reflected in the dark water of the river. My simple black sheath dress and elegant chignon will blend into the Parisian landscape almost as well as my perfect French accent.
"Je préférerais un rouleau grille--I would prefer a toasted roll" says the voice on the Berlitz tape. I press rewind. I'm working on my "r"s (French "r"s are very tough for a person accustomed to Midwestern "r"s).
Ever since Josh put the "Paris Trade Trip" on his schedule, I've been working on my French. I ordered a whole bunch of language tapes and kept them in a regular rotation on my car radio. I took a weekend-intensive conversational workshop. I book-marked Le Monde online. I rented Amelie about 30 times. This last minute work on my "r" s is just for polish. I am prepared to be a Gallic sensation.
In the seat next to me, Josh is reviewing a fax from the French Minister of Trade. He doesn't seem happy about it.
"This isn't what we discussed last week. They're changing all their demands."
The new French parliament wants a revised Trade agreement with the U.S. They want tariff adjustments, price protections, lower import duties, and about a thousand different kinds of guarantees. Josh wants to export more American cars to France, protect the California wine industry, and uphold a strong tradition of US/French cooperation and friendship. I want all that too, but I also want my walk on the Seine.
"I'm missing a page. Where is page eleven? Donna, where is page eleven?"
I unhook an earphone.
"Let me see. Maybe it didn't come through."
The fax machines on commercial airlines are pretty unreliable. Josh has been thoroughly spoiled by Air Force One. I wave to a flight attendant.
"M'excuser, mon ami n'a pas reçu toutes les pages sur son fax."
She answers me in English.
"I'm sorry, but your boyfriend will have to wait until we reach Paris. The fax machine has been turned off now that we've begun our descent."
"Did I say boyfriend? I meant to say boss!"
"No, you said 'ami,' your boyfriend, or lover, Boss is 'patron'."
I don't like her tone.
"Of course. Thank you."
Beside me, Josh is wearing his patented smirk.
"Do me a favor," says Josh.
"What?"
"Speak English at the meetings."
"It was a little slip. I'm ready."
"I can't have you telling the Minister of Trade that we're lovers."
"Oh, you would just love that, wouldn't you?"
"I would. But, it might undermine your credibility."
"It wouldn't undermine yours?"
"In France? I don't think so."
"You think you're so suave."
"I'm not wrong."
"Maybe not, but I'm pretty sure that you're sitting on page eleven."
He stands up.
"Damn, how did that get there?"
PART I
A limousine whisks us through Paris. I'm prepping Josh for the initial press conference, so I barely get a chance to look out the window. I get a vague impression of cheese markets and cobblestones. It's so exciting and tempting! The negotiations should only last two days. That leaves a whole day on Sunday to explore. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the Arc de Triomphe and make a mental note to get my picture taken in front of it.
The hotel is disappointingly modern (I was hoping for a Belle Epoque feel), but it's fabulously luxurious. There's a pillow menu. I yelp when I see the bidet in my bathroom.
Josh and I have adjoining rooms, as is our habit. He's already hollering from his.
"Donna, where is my Blackberry?"
"You gave it to me at the airport, remember?"
"I need it back!"
"I'm coming, are you ready?"
I walk into his room. He's wearing a new suit. Wow.
Josh's handsomeness can be distracting. It catches me at off moments, like now.
"Well? Let's go!" he says.
"Right. You need to."
His tie is perfectly straight, but I exercise one of my executive privileges and go to adjust it.
"What are you wearing?" he murmurs.
"A suit."
"No. I mean, what is that perfume?"
I smile.
"It's French. I got it for the trip. L'heure Bleu"
"That's good stuff. I mean you smell really good."
I love having this effect on him.
"You're perfect," I whisper.
"I am?"
"I mean your tie's perfect, silly. Let's go."
Downstairs, a pack of reporters, translators, Ministers and assistants are gathering in the lobby. A tall sleek brunette corners us as soon as we get off the elevator.
"Mr. Lyman?"
"Yes," says Josh.
"I'm Alaine Michel from the Trade Minister's office. The Minister wishes to welcome you to Paris."
"Thank you."
"If there's anything I can assist you with while you are here, please let me know."
"That's great. Thank you. This is my assistant, Donna Moss."
She glances for a moment in my direction.
"Donna will take care of all of the logistical stuff. She'll let you know what we need during the negotiations."
"Of course," purrs Alaine.
"Right now, we need directions to the banquet room," I offer.
"Right this way."
Alaine leads us to another elevator. I notice that she's wearing Dior. How does she afford that suit on a government salary?
We enter the banquet room, and I gasp. The entire back wall of the room is a panoramic window facing the Eiffel Tower. My breath gets a little shallow.
"This is incredible," I whisper.
Josh is all business.
"Try to case the place for me, would you? Find out where all the copy machines are."
"Josh, we are in the presence of architectural greatness. Do you think I could have a moment?"
"Right, architectural greatness."
He takes a deep breath and lets it out.
"That felt great, can we move on now?"
I sigh. Even in Paris, Josh will never be Gene Kelly. Not even for a moment.
PART II
Day two of our big Paris Trade Trip is a little disappointing. First of all, we were up most of the night on the phone with Washington, so both of us are cranky and tired. Second, the hotel has this absurd lay-out with the copy and fax machines on the eighth floor and the conference center on the tenth floor, so I'm constantly running up and down the stairs. Supposedly, a hotel employee is supposed to do all of that for me, but Josh is worried about confidentiality issues, so I'm managing all of our paper myself. My feet hurt.
The negotiations are a little tense. Most of this meeting was supposed to be taken care of before we got here. Drafts of the trade agreement have been crossing the Atlantic for months now. But new elections in France have changed the majority in the National Assembly, and the Trade Minister seems to have a new agenda. He's fighting Josh on absolutely everything.
I'm standing outside the banquet room with Alaine, my impossibly elegant French counterpart. Her suit today is Chanel. If Alaine sold that suit at retail, she could buy a new Honda.
"Do you enjoy working for Mr. Lyman?"
This is suspicious. She doesn't seem like the small-talk type.
"Most of the time, yes."
She looks me up and down and smiles. What is she implying?
"How long have you worked with him?"
"About six years now. Since before the President was elected."
"Ahh. You were very fortunate to find yourself in the White House, then?"
Now, I'm annoyed.
"What do you mean?"
"You are so young, that's all."
Oh, well, it's always nice for someone to notice that I look young, I mean, I get a real kick every time I get carded in a bar (yes, it still happens!) But, this woman seems to be implying that I'm inexperienced or.
Wait a minute. A strategic advantage suddenly occurs to me. I put on my best mid-western twang.
"I just feel so lucky to be working at the White House. How about you? How did you get your job?"
"I have a. what would you call it in the U.S.? A Masters? In diplomacy from the Sorbonne."
Well, gee wiz.
"That's terrific. It's just such a pleasure to work with you!" I gush.
Alaine smiles graciously. She thinks she's got me pegged. We'll see about that.
My Blackberry starts to hum.
"Excuse me for a moment?" I say, and make my way into the banquet room.
I slip up behind Josh.
"Leo needs you to call him," I whisper into his ear.
Josh makes his excuses and gets up from the table. I follow him out. He's in a terrible mood.
"This is ridiculous. They've reversed their position on almost every count. Have you seen the twenty new pages on tariffs?"
"Alaine handed me a copy twenty minutes ago. What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing, for now. We're not agreeing to anything. Has Leo seen the pages?"
"I think that's why he wants you to call."
"OK. I'm on it. Wait a minute. Where's my phone?"
"It's in your other hand."
"Right."
He starts to dial.
"Hey, see if you can get an electronic copy of all this new stuff, would you?" he asks.
"Won't that imply that we'll agree to the new stuff?"
"Maybe. But I can't afford to waste time if we change our minds later."
I wander off to look for Alaine. She's down on eight by the fax machine.
"Alaine, I wonder if."
Before I can finish, Alaine stops a passing secretary.
"See if you can get an electronic copy of the new pages emailed to Miss Moss?" she says in French.
An idea occurs to me. Alaine doesn't know if I speak French or not, does she?
She turns to me.
"What was it you needed?"
This is too easy.
"I was wondering if I could get an electronic copy of the new pages."
A hungry-vulture gleam appears in her eyes.
"Of course, I'll let someone know right away."
Her phone rings. Instead of excusing herself, she takes the call right in front of me.
"Alaine Michel. Oui. Oui, je 'tenir de m avec son aide, et elle vient de demander pour les pages. Il'le s D'ACCORD. Elle peut't comprend un mot de Français."
I turn and pretend to study the copy machine. Alaine is clearly talking to her boss, and her tone is, well, a little flirtatious. I get the distinct impression that Alaine is sleeping with the French Minister of Trade. It's all very amusing, until she lets something slip.
"Les Américains ne voudront pas vouloir gaspiller plus de temps sur cet article. Donc donner il un autre couple d'heures."
I get it. The minister is playing an endurance game. He's got Josh on his turf, jet-lagged and over-worked, and he's testing him. He figures if he wears us out on the little issues, Josh will be more cooperative on the big ones.
I wait around until Alaine gets off the phone. Then I dash back to Josh.
He's on his way back to the Banquet room. I grab him by the arm and pull him into an empty conference room.
"I'm going to tell you something, and when I'm done, you're going to want to give me a raise, a promotion, and a big wet French kiss."
That gets his attention.
I relate the information that I've obtained from Alaine. Josh's mind starts working immediately.
"Start drinking coffee right now," he orders. "This is going to last all night. And change our return flight plans. We're going to smoke these frogs."
"Do I get my raise?"
"We can talk about that we when we get back to D.C."
"What about my promotion?" I remind him.
He grins. One corner of his eyebrow shoots up.
"What about your kiss?"
Ummm. Is he serious? My face gets hot.
"I'm ready to negotiate on that count," offers Josh.
Wow. My eyes drop to the floor He takes the tiniest step towards me, and I look up again. His brown eyes are searching mine, for.what? I'm not sure.
"Josh, what are you."
Both of our Blackberries begin to buzz simultaneously.
"Leo," says Josh.
"I'll go.see what's happening in the next room," is my lame reply.
For the next few hours, that last moment plays over and over again in my head. What almost happened? Could Paris actually be having an effect on Josh?
PART III
It's 5am Paris time, and we're all still playing Trade-Agreement-Chicken. It's getting ugly. At midnight, the Trade Minister ordered a really extravagant meal for everyone. We're talking heavy sauces, fois gras, Bordeaux, the works. He was sure he could get Josh to fall asleep and sign off on lower automotive import fees. Didn't happen. Josh sat right across the table from the Minister, downed two servings of filet mignon, a big glass of seltzer and smiled. He didn't even touch the cheese plate.
I wasn't quite as strong. I held out through the first five courses, but when I saw the dessert: strawberry mousse cake in a puddle of chocolate liqueur, I gave in. Also, Alaine talked me into a glass of Bordeaux (it was difficult to restrain myself when I found out the bottle had cost 600 euros). Later I may have let a shot of Grand Marnier find it's way into my coffee.
Alaine and I have really hit it off. She condescends at every opportunity, and I eavesdrop at every opportunity. Most of the time, I just get personal stuff. The Trade Minister is a very generous boyfriend. Alaine is pressuring him to buy her a house in Switzerland. They argue about which town it will be in. The Trade Minister wants something near Luzerne. Alaine prefers the Italian Alps.
They seem to work pretty well together, though. I make a mental note of that.
Come to think of it, where is Alaine? Has she gone home? That cheater! I check the Banquet room. Josh and the Trade Minister are deeply engrossed in a conference call with the Prime Minister. No Alaine.
I climb down the stairs to the fax room. It's silent. I check the extra conference rooms, the lobby and the restrooms. No sign of her.
If Alaine can go home and rest, why shouldn't I? Josh's conference call will go on for hours. I'm all caught up on my proofreading. Now may be my only chance.
I make my escape stealthily. The elevator takes an eternity to arrive. Just as the little bell goes off, I hear a voice behind me.
"Mademoiselle Moss?"
Damn. Who is it?
The Concierge catches up with me. I pray silently, "please don't say that Leo's on the phone, or that a new fax has arrived, or that you need my attention for any reason whatsoever."
"I just wanted to make sure things are going smoothly," he says.
"Things are great. Thanks!"
I dash on to the elevator. Thank goodness that was nothing.
In my room, I get a good look at myself in the mirror. It isn't pretty. My hair is a little greasy; my makeup is smudged. I feel dirty. My gaze drifts to the huge marble tub. Mmmmmm..
I turn on the faucet, pour a huge glob of shampoo into the tub (most designer shampoos double brilliantly as bubble bath), and settle in.
Things are going splendidly. Josh has nailed most of his important items on the Trade Agreement, I'm re-inventing myself as an American Mata Hari with my Alaine surveillance, and I've just pushed our flight back a day. Even though the negotiations are going on longer than expected, I will still get ten hours on Monday to stroll by the Seine.
I try to imagine Gene Kelly singing to me, but he doesn't materialize. Instead, I picture Josh. He's not singing (that would be impossible, even in my imagination), but he does kind of hum, and look at me softly, kind of the way he looked at me last night in that conference room.
The tub fills up and I start to feel a wonderful warm relaxation that 's only broken when I hear.
"DONNA!"
Oh god, where am I? I'm drowning! Where did all this water come from?
"Donna, are you all right in there?" It's Josh.
"What happened?" I try to scream, but I end up kind of choking.
Oh no, I fell asleep with the faucet still running! The bathroom is completely flooded!
"Help! I mean, don't come in here!" I scream.
But it's too late, he opens the door and comes barreling in. I reach for a towel to cover myself, but it doesn't matter, because Josh immediately slips on the water and crashes to the ground.
"Oh! Oh no! Are you OK?"
I manage to turn the water off, and I'm throwing towels in every direction.
Josh looks up, completely dazed and soaking wet.
"Close your eyes!" I insist.
He covers his eyes with his hands.
"Donna, what the hell?"
"I. I must have fallen asleep with the water running. Oh, Josh, I'm so sorry."
"I'm.wet!" he moans pathetically.
Someone is knocking on the door.
"Excuse me, this is the Concierge! We have a report of a leak below you!"
I hold a towel around my body with my left hand, and reach to help Josh up with my right.
"I thought you were on a conference call?" I ask.
He rubs the back of his head where it landed.
"Alaine told me you were missing. I got concerned."
That bitch! I thought she went home! The concierge is still knocking on the door.
I dash out into the room and open it.
"I am so so sorry!"
The concierge turns his gaze to the floor. Why didn't I put a robe on? He manages to say, in perfectly accented English, "This lady reports that water is seeping into her bathroom?"
I look behind him. It's Alaine.
Josh stumbles out of the bathroom.
"We've got it under control! Everything's under control!"
Alaine is wearing a huge evil grin. I can only imagine how this will play to the Trade Minister.
Josh spots Alaine, and his mouth drops.
I turn to the Concierge weakly.
"Do you think we could get some more towels?"
PART IV
Do the French sleep? I can't be sure. I've spent three days locked up in the Hilton Paris with an entire legion of French politicians, and not one of them has ever gone home. Their assistants leave occasionally to put on more perfume, but..
Josh looks up at me from across the long conference room. His eyes are starting to swim. I'm going to get up and help him with whatever he needs, but first I need to take a long deep breath. Do my legs still work?
We've been hammering out the new trade resolutions for 72 hours. Ten hours ago, I managed to embarrass us both royally by falling asleep in the tub, and causing a near flood of the Hilton Paris. I'm lucky I didn't drown.
Josh is still staring at me. He must need something. I groan and pitch my weight forward. Why am I still wearing heels? Every part of my body is sore, but my feet are in particularly bad shape. I hobble over to his side of the table and brace myself. If he needs anything from his room, I'm doomed. I don't think that I can walk as far as the elevator.
"You look tired."
Well no, shit.
Oh God, did I say that out-loud? Maybe not. French politicians 1, 2 and 3 do not look up. Josh is grinning in a kind of pained way.
"Go upstairs and take a nap," he whispers.
"I'm OK. Do you need something?"
"Not for at least an hour. We're waiting to get the proofs back."
"You should get some rest too."
"We're still waiting for Leo to call."
"Then I should wait until."
"I'm OK. Really, You look beat."
"What if I can't wake up in an hour?"
"I'll come find you. Just go, while you have a chance. Don't turn on any faucets."
I'm torn. I desperately need a nap, but Josh looks so forlorn. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue hits me, and I sway slightly. Josh leaps out of his chair to steady me.
"I'll walk you up."
His hand settles warmly on the small of my back. One of the French Ministers snorts slightly.
"Josh, I'm fine."
"C'mon."
His other hand takes my forearm, and the next thing I know, we're gliding out of the room.
Alone, in the hallway, I have the urge to lean on his shoulder, but I shake my head in resistance.
"Josh, it's OK. Everyone will think something funny if.."
"No one in that room has ever thought anything funny in their entire lives."
"They must all be robots. When does anyone sleep in this country?"
"On their month long government subsidized vacation."
Three days of near-round-the-clock-negotiations, plus jet lag, and Josh still has a comeback ready.
"You're like Napoleon."
"I'm six feet tall!"
"No. You're like Napoleon in that you don't need to sleep like an ordinary person."
"Napoleon never slept?"
"Not more than two or three hours a night."
"I didn't know that. That's interesting"
The elevator door opens and we're moving towards it, when Josh stumbles slightly. I'm able to catch him, but we both pitch forward in a dangerous way. My heel turns and I twist my ankle.
"Ouch!"
"Are you OK?"
"I.I.seem to have."
Josh has both arms around my waist, and I'm suddenly conscious of his breathing. I gulp slightly and look up to meet his gaze.
".twisted my ankle."
His brow has a deep wrinkle in it.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
The elevator lurches upward, and I can't help leaning into him for support. Our thighs meet. Oh god! He smells good. This is absurd.
"Christ, Josh, we are a mess."
He laughs, pulls me into a hug, and whispers in my ear.
"We're doing great. We've got over 90% of our agenda locked in. The final agreement will be ready for press in 2 hours. Leo will sign off on it, and we will be crowned diplomatic geniuses."
I smile and bury my head in his shoulder.
"You will be crowned a diplomatic genius.I will just be the girl who flooded her bathroom."
" You are my devious French-speaking secret-weapon!"
I take a moment to consider my recent foray into the world of espionage. Since my little accident, the unsuspecting Alaine has given away at least a dozen strategy secrets. Why does everyone here assume that I can't understand French?
"You're right, I have been pretty devious," I allow.
"How's your ankle?"
"Not too bad."
"I could carry you?"
I giggle. It's tempting.
"Josh. It'll be OK. Just, let me lean a little."
"Lean all you want."
My hips settle unconsciously on his thigh. I may fall asleep right here, on Josh's body. I'm so tired and warm and tired and..
The elevator dings and I lurch forward.
"I'm awake!"
Josh steps back slightly and looks me in the eye.
"Really, I'm fine," I insist.
Josh swoops down, and suddenly, I'm air-born.
"JOSH! Put me down.Oh my god! You'll hurt yourself"
No one has actually picked me up since I was eight. I'm shocked, and kind of.thrilled.
"I've got you."
He's completely calm. Where did he get all this strength?
An elderly couple passes us in the hall, smiling. The wife leans into her husband and says," La mariée quel charmante." I can't help it. I'm laughing.
"What did she say?"
"She thinks we're on our honeymoon," I whisper.
Josh takes a moment to sort that out. He turns us around to face the couple. They're beaming at us.
"Félicitations!" calls the husband.
Josh breaks into a wide grin. He squeezes me slightly and calls out in a truly terrible accent, "Merci!"
It's very sweet; I wish it were true.
"Where's your room key?" Josh asks.
"You have to put me down, so I can."
"Forget it, we'll use my room."
"What???
"I'm gonna carry you over the threshold!'
"Josh, it's OK, we can just wait until they get on the elevator, and they'll never know that we're not on our honey."
"Put your hand in my jacket pocket."
"Excuse me?"
"My room key is in my jacket pocket."
I give him a good hard look. He growls at me, "Before I drop you, get that key."
I reach for his pocket.
In a low voice, Josh corrects me, "Not that one. The inside one."
My breath stops. This is too intimate. I look into his eyes for confirmation and see a flash of fear, like he hopes I won't fly away. For the first time, I let myself relax in his arms. He notices the shift and smiles. My hand tucks itself into his jacket, and lingers a moment before retrieving the key.
Josh hauls me through the door. For a second, I think he might pitch me on the bed, but he manages to put me down semi-gracefully. I clutch my hands around his neck while he supports my back and .Oh wow. I'm leaning back onto a pile of perfect down pillows and Josh is hovering over me, his left hand resting on the bed behind me.
Are my arms still around his neck? I can't move. Our eyes have met, and I'm feeling a huge wave of pre-kiss wonder crashing towards me. I move my hand gently to his cheek, and he catches his breath.
"I'm going to do this, Donna."
And his lips are on mine. I'm wide-awake now. For six years of my life, every nerve in my body has been wiring itself in anticipation of this moment.
I don't ever want this kiss to end. Josh's hands find my waist and we roll into a tight embrace. Our tongues and lips and teeth are desperately pulling at one another.
Wait a second.
"Josh, the trade agreement!"
He takes a huge gulp of air, cries, "We've got an hour," and captures my mouth in his. It's too much to resist. I throw my leg over his hip and roll on to him, my hands pulling at the lapels of his jacket. I've almost got it off, when he pulls away.
"Wait."
"What?"
"It can't be like this!"
"What?"
"An hour is not enough. Donna, I've wanted this for six years. I need better.circumstances!"
"Josh, I need you!"
We're kissing again. His hand is reaching for the buttons on my blouse and I'm going to faint, I'm so turned on, but.
"No. You're right."
Did I just say that?
"You're right. I want it to be.perfect too. Leo could call any minute."
"You have the most beautiful neck in the world."
He lands the most amazing feather kisses on my jaw-line.
"Josh! I'm right. I mean, you're right. I mean, where did you learn to.?"
My resolve is slipping. His hand is reaching for the hem of my skirt and I begin to rock my hips in anticipation.
The phone rings.
"Nooooooo!!!!!!" cries Josh, sitting up.
"Ignore it!" I plead.
He turns, and I feel his gaze trail over my hips and up my body. My skirt is hiked up almost to my waist, and my blouse is nearly open. Josh gasps helplessly.
"OK."
He tears my blouse from my shoulders and presses his lips to mine. It's totally perfect, except..
"I can't!" I groan.
My last shred of professionalism tears me away from him. I dive for the phone.
"This is Donna Moss."
"Mr. McGarry for Mr. Lyman."
Shit. I pass Josh the phone. He whimpers slightly and takes it from me.
"Lyman here. Yeah. I'm on my way back."
He hangs up the phone, and sighs. His shoulders fall, and all of our shared exhaustion sinks back in.
"We need to go back."
"I know."
"The sooner it's over, the sooner we can.."
I smile.
"Yeah."
His expression is totally open. I feel all of his longing and frustration and excitement.
"Help me find my shoes," I say.
"Can you walk?"
"Yeah. It really doesn't hurt very much."
He helps me into my shoes while I button my blouse and smooth my skirt. I take a long deep breath and stand up. Josh offers his arm, and I take it.
"One more hour, at most" he murmurs.
"Josh, when we get down to that conference room."
"Yeah?"
"Let's talk really fast."
PART V
I've just finished my sixth coca-cola of the day, but I can barely keep my eyes open. The laptop in front of me displays statistics on the French film industry. Three and half hours ago, the Trade Agreement was proofed, printed and ready for signature. Then the Minster of Culture arrived. Now, the agreement is lying in a jumbled heap on the conference room table-- it's spine broken. A slew of angry French politicians are passing pages 411 through 421, "Motion Picture Distribution Protections," around the room.
Josh, who hasn't been to a movie theatre since Bartlett was elected, is embroiled in a nasty debate over Hollywood's attempts to: "Undermine and destroy" French cinema. He's holding on pretty well, but he's going to need some back up in about five seconds.
Oh Shit. One of the ministers is starting to tear up pages. Josh looks like he's going to either cry or clock this guy. I jump out of my chair, grab some pages off the printer, and dash to his side.
"Here are those projections you wanted," I say, flashing what I hope is a reassuring smile.
"Thank you. Excuse me, gentlemen."
Josh strides out of the room, intent on the pages, and I follow. In the hall, he nearly trips into a dessert cart.
"God damnit!"
He pushes the cart, and it careens away. Before it can crash into a window, I manage to catch it. Josh throws his weight against a wall and slides to the floor.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
I examine the dessert cart for damage. Sixteen little flan cups have capsized into an apple tarte. I back away.
"Thank you for getting me out of there," says Josh.
"I hope you weren't looking forward to dessert," I comment.
When I turn, I see his eyes. They've got a hungry-bear look that's directed straight at me.
"We've probably had too much. flan lately anyway," I stutter.
"Come here." Growls Josh.
"You need to look at those pages I printed for you. The Minister has been quoting 2001 numbers, but the latest reports are much more optimistic."
"I want to kiss you."
Oh God.
"Josh, I.think I'd better stay on my side of this.dessert cart. Just for now."
I never imagined that anything French could actually interfere with my love life.
Josh drops his head.
"I promised you an hour," he laments.
He looks so sweet and sad that I let myself walk towards him.
"It's not your fault. We didn't know that the Minister would ambush us this way."
He holds out his hand. I go to help him up, but he pulls me down instead, and I end up in his lap.
"Josh!"
"I'm crazy about you."
"Anyone could come by here!"
"Fuck 'em"
"Josh. You're not sane. You haven't slept in three days."
"But I'm like Napoleon, remember?"
"You are a much much better stronger.taller man than Napoleon, Josh, and you are going to get up, march back into that conference room and whip some French butts, OK? You got that?"
He's smiling at me. His eyes are all crinkly and warm. Just one kiss wouldn't hurt anything, would it?
I hear a door handle turn and I bolt out of his lap. My research pages fly into the air, and Josh scrambles to catch them. Alaine steps out and clears her throat.
"We have some new language for you to review."
Josh is on all fours, reaching for the last research page. In his best very-powerful-man voice, he thunders, "Excellent. I'll be right with you."
She surveys the battered dessert cart, and turns to me.
"You have a bit of cream in your hair," she notices.
"Yes. Yes I do," I counter, staring right back at her.
She looks a little rattled. I smile pleasantly.
"Nous donne un instant s'il vous plaît?" I purr.
If I threw one of the little flan cups at her designer suit, I don't think she would look more shocked and disturbed than she does now. I know what's she's thinking. She's thinking about every last diplomatic secret she has revealed in the past three days to the Deputy Chief of Staff's "charming little playmate."
"Bien sûr." she manages.
As soon as she's gone, Josh pounces on me. He takes my face in both hands and plants a huge deep kiss on my mouth. When he finally comes up for air, he breathes, "I am going to go in there and whip every French butt in sight, and, in less than 30 minutes, I'm going to drag your sexy French- speaking-ass to bed for about a month."
"Ummm.. OK!"
And he's off. I may faint. My knees are buckling. How on earth will I last thirty minutes?
PART VI
I.must.stay.focused. If we can just get the final language of this Trade Agreement proofread, we'll be finished. Josh took half the pages, and I've got the rest. This shouldn't take long, but neither one of us has slept in.I'm not sure? I can't remember when I last slept. I can barely remember that I'm in Paris.
Josh is in the chair next to mine. His tie is loose at his neck. There's a small coffee stain on his lapel. His hair is all rumpled and.. I MUST NOT look at Josh. I must finish proofreading this paragraph.
His ankle is touching mine. His ankle is actually curled around my ankle so that our feet are touching too, and he may be looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but I'm not going to pay attention because If I don't finish checking this damn agreement in the next ten minutes, I will pass out on the floor of the Paris Hilton in front of all these French Ministers, their assistants, and God.
This shouldn't be. This should have been over with hours ago.
Two Hours ago. Two hours ago, was supposed to be thirty minutes ago. Four Hours before the two-hours-ago, was supposed to be one hour ago. I think. I think the last six hours should have been an hour and a half. Somewhere in that last six-hours-ago that should have been an hour-and-a- half ago, my boss finally kissed me, after six years of not kissing me that should have been six weeks, tops. Make that six minutes. Josh Lyman should have kissed me six-years-minus-six-minutes-ago, but instead, he kissed me six hours ago, and for some horrible and distinctly French reason, I'm now proofreading a trade agreement. Time is not my friend.
"Donna?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't care anymore."
"You don't care about being a diplomatic genius, anymore?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"I'm too sleepy for deception."
"I only have one more page."
"I...I have three."
"So give me one of yours, and.then, we'll both have. we'll both have...?"
"Two. I have three and you have one. If I give you one, we'll both have two. Can you still read?"
"I'm.great, just great," I slur.
That gets him.
"Donna, these pages need to be perfect!"
"See, I caught you! You really do care about being a diplomatic genius!"
"Shut up!"
"Give me a page!"
He hands it over. Thank god for conflict. I feel much more alert now.
PART VII
The Ministers are all smiling at us. They shake our hands and kiss the air next to our cheeks. Someone hands me a glass of champagne. We have a Trade Agreement.
We have a Trade Agreement. Or, rather, France and the United States have a Trade Agreement. Josh and I have.a hotel room. Make that two adjoining hotel rooms, but who's counting?
The French Minister of Trade is inviting Josh and I to a special dinner downstairs. Is he serious? Can these people be serious?
I have never experienced sleep deprivation on this level before in my entire life. I can't remember (and don't care) when I last slept, what time zone I'm in, or where I left my purse. I do remember though, that some seven hours ago, I made out with my boss. And I'll be damned if I am going to wait through a seven-course French meal before I make out with him again.
The resilient Alaine is standing right behind her boss. She smiles, siren- like, at Josh.
"We absolutely insist that you join us. We made special arrangements to keep the kitchen open."
Josh is sort of frozen. Is he actually considering this invitation?
I panic.
Is he stalling? What if Josh feels weird about kissing me? What if, now that we're finally free of all these dreadful French Ministers and their dreadful assistants, he's having second thoughts? What if he isn't crazy about me after all?
I down my glass of champagne in one terrified gulp.
He catches my eye.
"I'm sorry." I hear him say.
My heart breaks.
".but Donna and I are really beat. Perhaps, we could postpone dinner until we meet in Washington?"
Oh, Thank God.
We say a final good-bye, and back out of the conference room. When the door is closed behind us, we stop for a moment. I hear him take a deep breath.
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah. Are you OK?"
He's smiling. I'm smiling too. I'm smiling, and kind of.drifting. He reaches for my waist.
"How's your ankle?"
"It's not so bad, but I just drank that champagne, and."
Oh boy. My head is really swimming now.
".I may be a little drunk."
"I've got you."
He puts his arm around me and guides me to the elevator.
"Are you still crazy about me?" I mumble.
Did I just say that? Oh dear. I look up at him. There had better not be a smirk on his face, or I am going to slap him.
There's a smirk.
I go in for the slap.
He catches my arm.
"Hey, watch it!"
I grab his ear and pull hard.
"Admit that you're crazy about me."
"I'm crazy about you! I'm madly passionately violently crazy about you! Now, let go of my ear!"
I let go, and suddenly, he's got my ribs, and I'm being tickled.
"Admit that you're crazy about me!" he demands.
"Oh god, you bastard. Yes! Yes, I'm crazy about you."
I stop him with my mouth. I don't realize how much force I've put into this kiss until he returns it. Josh clutches my body and pulls me into him; our weight crashes against the walls of the elevator.
My breath must taste like a weird combination of champagne, coca-cola and Nutella crepes, but Josh doesn't seem to mind. His mouth is hard and eager and kind of minty (he must have planned on this).
When we reach our floor, we have a hard time exiting the elevator, because Josh is reluctant to stop kissing me. We manage to stumble out just before the doors close. In the hall, our bodies careen towards the room (which room? It doesn't matter!). We narrowly avoid crashing into a housekeeping cart. We're both so exhausted and desperate and clumsy that we may capsize. At the door, we break away for air.
"Do you have a key? Where's my key?" begs Josh.
I panic. My key is in my purse, and my purse is not here.
"You don't have your key?" I cry.
"I might have my key. I'm not sure."
I frantically search Josh's pockets. He doesn't have a key.
"I'm gonna break down the door!" Josh insists.
I yield to reality.
"Josh, we have to call the concierge."
Ten long minutes later, the concierge appears. He's wearing a stoic expression and holding a familiar looking object.
"I believe this is your purse, Mademoiselle?"
I'm too exhausted to thank him in French. Josh is too exhausted to pretend that we're not sharing a room. We make our excuses and bolt the door behind us. Josh collapses on the bed.
"We're free," I proclaim.
Josh struggles to sit up and face me.
"I think you're so beautiful," he murmurs.
I move to the window, and pull the shades back. The lights from the Eiffel Tower illuminate his face.
"I can't believe we're finally going to do this," I say.
He follows me with his eyes, as I open the door to the balcony and let a cool breeze float into the room.
"Come here," says Josh.
The atmosphere could not be more romantic. If only, we both weren't so.. sleepy.
I walk towards the bed. Josh catches my arm and pulls me down into his lap. We share a slow deliberate kiss. I lean into him, and our bodies sink into the bed. Josh's hand reaches under the fabric of my blouse and strokes the small of my back.
"This is perfect," I whisper.
"I love you." Says Josh.
And then we both pass out.
PART VIII
Mmmm.it's a beautiful spring morning along the Seine. I'm sitting on a bench, watching riverboats go by. In the distance, someone is singing:
The man who only lives for making money Lives a life that isn't necessarily sunny Likewise the man who works for fame
There's no guarantee that time won't erase his name
The fact is, the only work that really brings enjoyment Is the kind that is for girl and boy meant Fall in love and you won't regret it That's the best work of all, if you can get it
Something heavy is sitting in my lap. It's the Trade Agreement. It looks perfect--crisp and white and ready for press.
A soft morning breeze blows through my hair and. catches the cover page! It twists away from me towards the Seine. I jump up to catch it, and all the other pages scatter. Black and white sheets of trade resolutions churn in the air around me like a flock of angry pigeons. I grab at them frantically, but not one page comes back to me.
The voice in the distance grows louder.
Holding hands at midnight 'Neath a starry sky Nice work if you can get it And you can get it if you try
The Trade Agreement floats higher and higher. I strain to catch sight of the pages, but they've all turned into birds! A "v" forms in the distant sky and disappears slowly.
Strolling with the one girl Sighing sigh after sigh Nice work if you can get it And you can get it if you try
I look for the singer and spot him under an archway. He's wearing a perfect 1950s suit and hat, just like the one Gene Kelly wears in that movie. His feet tap gracefully down a staircase, and he turns around to face me. It's.
"Josh?"
I wake up.
Josh is propped up on one elbow, staring at me. He's still wearing his clothes from last night. They look pretty rumpled. He reaches out and fingers a lock of my hair.
"Nice work if you can get it," he whispers.
"Were you singing just now?" I ask.
"No, you were singing in your sleep, 'Nice work if you can get it'.
He's smiling. I let myself absorb the light in his beautiful brown eyes.
"I'm sorry that I woke you up," I murmur.
"I'm sorry that I fell asleep."
His hand drifts to my cheek.
"Is there anything special you want to see in Paris?" he asks, as his fingers trace a line to my lips.
"I. I wanted to take a walk by the Seine."
"We could do that."
"And get my picture taken in front of the Arc de Triomphe."
"We could do that too."
I rest my hand on his chest.
"And go to the top of the Eiffel Tower?"
"Sure."
I finger the buttons on his shirt. He slides his hand down my throat to my collarbone.
"Maybe stroll around Monmartre."
"Absolutely."
He leans in and rests his lips gently on mine. I wrap my arms around him.
"But what I'd like to do most of all."
"Yeah?"
"Is never leave this bed until the cab comes to take us to the airport."
"That sounds heavenly," he murmurs.
Josh leans over and pulls the phone off the hook.
I love Paris.
The End.
"Nice Work if You Can Get It" by George Gershwin All film references are to "An American In Paris" starring Gene Kelly.