They were speaking French. Bill heard it immediately. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could recognize words and understood the words he recognized, at least for the most part. He had studied French in junior high and high school, his mother’s choice, one of the few she’d made for him before she’d died.
Hearing the language had caused him to look, not just glance which he had done when Nora was over at the buffet table. He looked long as he could from where he was working and as often as he could while they spoke.
Nora was a petite, middle-aged woman, small, slight but not slim, almost manly in a way, at least in the tuxedo she wore as her uniform. Then she had the page boy – she always wore that page boy. She showed no breasts to speak of and no real shape, at least not in that monkey suit.
Her biggest claims to fame were the page boy and the dark red lips. She always had dark red lips. And she was droll. She never smiled, never seemed happy, never seemed perturbed. She had a deep voice that carried well, a voice Bill, when he thought about it, considered sexy.
Before now Bill had never heard her talk much. Except the general hellos and how-you-doing chatter, there was just about nothing. But now, she stood at that table talking in French to a youngish woman.
The woman was slender, had straight black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was shapely and loose, free in her posture and the way she moved within the space she occupied.
She was simple and plain in her appearance, Bill noted. She did not wear any jewelry except a pair of diamond stud earrings. No rings, no bracelets, no necklaces. She wore a tan dress, not prudish but not exposing anything. It was, Bill judged, not cheap. He judged this not by his personal expertise, but simply by the way it fit her and the way it hung on her form.
As he looked over, Bill saw that she was watching him from time to time while she spoke to Nora. She watched him, he watched her. He wondered what she was thinking and maybe what she was thinking about what she was seeing.
Bill was loose and easy himself. Like her, he was fluid in his motions, kind of lanky and free-flowing.
The chicken done, when they moved on to roll the filet of sole into paupiettes, Bill noted that the woman left off speaking with Nora and went into the chef’s office. Seeing her not hesitate and not even knock – she just walked into the open door – confirmed who he thought she was, Millie’s boss.
Maybe.
She might be the chef’s daughter, Bill thought. The chef was Scandinavian and he spoke French often. It made sense that his daughter would speak French too, and it also made sense that she might enjoy speaking the language when she had a chance to do so.
But as they worked, the banquet chef made a comment to Bill.
“Pretty, huh?” he said.
“Who?” Bill asked.
“Chloe.”
“Who is Chloe?”
“That one you were looking at. The one who was talking to Nora.”
“I didn’t notice,” Bill said. “Who is she?”
“Yeah, you noticed,” Jimmy Banquet Chef said. “You were sure looking. I think she was looking at you too.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Cause I was watching. I have good eyesight and I know what I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you looking her way. I saw her looking your way. I know your eyes met at least once, but I couldn’t say that for sure.”
“So who is she?”
“My cousin is in love with her. He thinks she’s beautiful.”
“You don’t?”
“Too skinny for me. Too flat-chested too.”
“Yeah, so who is she?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the banquet chef said.
