Page 8 - 3FrenchHens

8 three french hens, two macarons, and lovers in a bakery

of. These days, women are expected to do more than dress well and stay thin. Women can
run businesses and make money. Why can’t you do something like that?”
Margot didn’t know what to say. Aubin had never mentioned that he wasn’t anything but
pleased with her. Last night, in fact, while she was giving him head he sang her praises like
never before. “Why do I need to make money when…” “When I have so much?” Aubin
interrupted. “No, that’s not what I meant,” Margot said, frustrated because that is exactly
what she meant. “My dad met a woman last night, two years younger than you, that opened
a clothing store right beneath the Eiffel Tower. She made over a million last year. You
could at least do that Margot.” “But I don’t know the first thing about running a business.
I write a gossip column.” Aubin was silent. Margot could tell that he had gotten into an
argument with his father. That’s the only reason for all of this business talk out of left field.
Margot sat down next to Aubin who was now rubbing his temples on his leather sofa.
“Don’t worry about your father,” she whispered into his ear. “My father?” Aubin stood up.
“You think I’m saying this because of him? Fuck, Margot. When are you going to get it?
I can’t marry you if you’re not successful. I wouldn’t want to. Right now, I don’t want to.”
Margot felt like all of the life her father had breathed into her as a young girl left her body
at once. If Aubin didn’t marry her all of her plans were ruined, not to mention, she really
did love him. Scared, Margot did the one thing she knew might make things better. She
took off her dress herself, slid off her boyfriend’s pants, and began to suck his penis. The
harder she sucked the better she felt. She could figure something out. She would do
anything necessary to keep Aubin and convince him that she was worthy of the Guillory
name.
The next morning Margot signed the papers on a lease for a small space at the foot of the
Eiffel Tower. Immediately she found Zenna, who was presently walking down a set of
invisible stairs, her face painted white and her long red hair tucked away under a black
hat. “I’m opening a flower shop,” she announced to her friend. “Flowers?” Zenna said.
“What the fuck am I going to do at a flower shop?” Of course, thought Margot, she would
get Zenna to help her run the business. It would give her friend a job and give herself a
perfect partner in crime, someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who could show up if she
had a late night. “Did I say flower shop? I meant bakery?” Zenna’s eyes lit up, apparently
unconcerned about the quick change of plans from her friend. “Bakery? That I can do,”
Zenna smiled devilishly. “Coty,” Zenna called to her son, “We’re going with Aunt Margot.
We’re going to open a bakery.”
A quick four weeks past and in that time the space Margot leased transformed into a
delightful little bakery. Margot quit her job at the magazine, a few months earlier than she
had planned but convinced it would help secure a ring around her finger, so totally worth
it. Zenna officially finished her courses at the local pastry school, speeding up the process
by several months by sleeping with one of the instructors. Her instructor gave her an “A+”
on her final exam, which involved perfecting the art of filling éclairs with cream, citing that