Page 7 - 3FrenchHens

Raspberry Macarons with Rose Buttercream 7

into the bath Margot thought about the fortuitous day where she would get to tell her
demeaning boss at the magazine that she quits, that she is marrying a Guillory, and that she
would be taken care of in the lap of luxury for the rest of her life. Margot allowed herself to
slip deeper beneath the bubbles, in no hurry to get to her job at the gossip column, hoping
to hear the knock on the door from the deliveryman with her roses and shoes any minute.
Ten, twenty, twenty-five minutes passed and Margot’s fingers began to look like the face
of her elderly neighbor. “Time to get out,” she whispered to herself, her cat now pawing at
the door no longer asking, but demanding, to be fed. Margot slipped on her robe and fed
her cat, which, considering her tiny paycheck and the returning fashion of exposed midriffs,
would most likely eat more than Margot herself today.
Dressed in a just-above-the-knee pencil skirt and polka-dot silk blouse that buttoned down
the back, Margot slipped on her heels, grabbed her phone and keys, and headed out the
door for her short walk to work, nearly three hours after the majority of Paris left that
morning. As she opened the door she was surprised to see a small white envelope drop to
the floor. Figuring it was a message from the deliveryman and deciding she could wait until
tomorrow for her latest Louboutins, Margot shoved the letter in her crowded leather purse
and hurried down the stairs.
It wasn’t until four that afternoon when Margot decided to check her phone for texts that
she decided to open the letter out of sheer boredom. The handwriting indicated that this
was not just a casual letter, but rather one of apparent urgency, scribbled hastily on the
Guillory family’s stationary by Aubin.

My place at five tonight – we need to talk. Can you bring food?

Wanting time to go home and change before seeing her boyfriend, Margot feigned illness
and rushed home. In the mood for Indian, Margot called her favorite restaurant near
Aubin’s place, the aptly named India Palace, ordering more than she typically would have
knowing that he would foot the bill. She then proceeded to strategically plan her outfit,
each layer with its own seductive purpose, the boots to be unzipped by Aubin on the sofa,
the coat to be shrugged off her shoulders upon entering, the buttons on her shirt opening
one at a time coyly while they ate, and the black gilded lace romper, which with one pull
of the string in the back, would gracefully fall to her ankles to the delight of her rich and
handsome boyfriend’s awaiting hands.
“I’m not happy,” Aubin says at the sight of Margot in his foyer, hands filled with food.
Thinking he was angry that she brought the food up herself rather than allowing it to be
delivered Margot replied, “The delivery man was out and I thought you might be hungry
sooner. I don’t mind at all.” Looking at his face it was clear that the food is not what Aubin
was referring to. “What’s wrong?” she asked, setting the bags down and touching his arm.
“It’s not going to work, me and you, if you don’t do something that my family can be proud