“I can’t afford to pay you more,” he snaps, cutting me off again.
I glance at Roxanne, and from the mixture of concern and alarm on her face, I’m sure my eyes must be bugging out of my head.
Is that seriously what he thinks I was asking? That I just want to bepaidmore?
If all I cared about was pay, I would have left Taverne Toulouse a long, long time ago. I’m half-temped to tell him just that, but he’s already threatened to fire me once in this conversation.
“We’ll talk more about this later. The real reason I called is because I just got word that the place next door has been sold.”
I hold back on replying and wait for him to continue. He’s obviously not in the mood to let me get a full sentence out. He rarely is.
“Some construction company is in there today doing measurements. They must be remodelling. If they put a restaurant or bar in there and this trend in our sales continues,la tavernewill not survive. I need to prepare for that.”
Ohheneeds to prepare for that.
“I know you’re not in today, but I need you to go over there and check it out.”
“Check it out?” I repeat, not sure I’ve understood correctly.
“Yes. Go see what they’re up to. We can find out who the owner is and see if they’re willing to buy us out. If they’re remodelling for a restaurant, they’ll already be dumping a fortune into renovations. Might be cheaper just to knock a wall down and use our kitchen as well. They’d get the extra space too.”
Félix Fournier sounds more and more excited as he goes on, like the idea is winning him over the longer he thinks about it. We don’t even know what’s going in next door, but he’s already imagining giving up two decades’ worth of ownership and forcing almost a dozen people out of jobs they love. A few of the staff have been there even longer thanme. We don’t just work at a sloppy student bar together; we’re family.
The Fourniers bought the bar back when it was still possible for somewhat normal people to afford property on Avenue Mont-Royal. It was an office space for decades before Félix Fournier inherited the place at the turn of the millennium and had it remodelled into a bar. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been grumbling about the property value and how much he’s missing out on by refusing to sell, but his comments have always been just that—grumbling. He’s never sounded this serious before.
I’m about to remind him that he knows most of the landlords on the street and could ask around instead of sending me on a reconnaissance mission, but for some reason, I stop myself. Félix Fournier is the sin of sloth personified, so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s asked me to do something he could accomplish much more efficiently himself. Normally I’d at least try to stand my ground on this, but I’ve realized that I don’t want him to know who the buyer is.
Not until I do.
Not until I’ve decided what to do with that information.
If the business next door is going to affect us, I want to know about it first. My staff has just been threatened, and my Mamma Bear instinct are out in full force.
“I’ll head over there in a few minutes,” I reply, “see what I can find out.”
Cut it on the scheming voice,I urge myself.Be subtle. You. Are. Subtle.
“Bon.À la prochaine.”
And without even a thank you to go along with his ‘until next time,’ he hangs up.
“Fucking Félix Fournier!” I exclaim, resisting the urge to slam my phone down on the counter.
I cannot afford a new phone.
“I hear you, my sister!” Roxanne agrees with a raised fist. “What did he want?”
“Fuck what he wants.” I come around the kitchen counter and grab my purse from off the floor. “How do you feel about doing a little espionage today, Roxanne?”
* * *
As the twoof us descend the snow-covered stairway of my walk-up apartment, the contrast between Roxanne and I strikes me the same way it always does. She’s got several inches of height on me—but then again, most people do—and her fondness for slimming black clothing just makes the difference between our body types all the more apparent.
I’ve never been thin. I’ve also never actually been overweight, so I feel bad for complaining about the healthy body I’m lucky enough to live in, but it’s hard not to draw comparisons when you’re walking down the street with a girl who always looks like she’s fit to strut up a runway. Roxanne has this subtle style that’s all clean cut lines and drapey black fabric. Her clothes manage to scream, ‘Pay attention to me!’ without even raising their voice above a whisper.
Whereas my clothes cheerfully announce, ‘I bought this for nine dollars off the Wal-Mart sales rack the other day!’ for all to hear. I’m not ashamed of my curves, but I know the world of haute couture wasn’t built for girls like me. Plus, Wal-Mart clothes are comfier, and I don’t exactly live a life that necessitates dressing up.
“When was the last time you salted these steps?” Roxanne complains, gripping the banister for dear life as she steps her heeled boots off the final stair.
