the time.â
âSo no move back to your beloved France planned?â
Anne-Sophie shook her head.
âNot like the Latina prima donna going back to hernative Sicily, then?â Mary-Whitney pulled a sad face. No more horse-like laugh.
âNo.â
Mary-Whitney seemed to be thinking. She had tried to warn off the little French lady, but that was clearly not going to work since the fault was all her Spauldingâs. When she spoke again, I realised that sheâd decided to work with the situation.
âFine! What should I do now then? Have a French haircut, wear French clothes? Buy some healthy French food â if such a thing exists?â
âOf course it exists,â Anne-Sophie and I chimed in unison, both of us surely thinking about the fabulous French caterer that had opened the previous year in Central Square.
âBut no takeout food â youâll have to cook yourself!â
And hopefully far more interesting stuff than tofu casseroles! Oh, please!
âBut I donât have time to cook! I work late almost every night!â
Do you want to rescue your relationship or not? Weâre giving you good advice here, so take it or leave it!
The balance of power had shifted and now I was really starting to have some fun.
âBut I always buy healthy takeout food, most of it made from whole grains and veggies. Thatâs why we stay so thin in our family.â
But youâre hardly the picture of health , I wanted to tell her, observing Mary-Whitneyâs uneven sallow complexion.
Mary-Whitney scrutinised Anne-Sophieâs figure suspiciously. âLook at you â even with all your scrumptiouscooking, young French lady, youâre still quite slim.â
Anne-Sophie smiled enigmatically once again, feeling a twinge of pride at being French.
âThe French donât eat foie gras, meat and heavy dishes with sauce every day, you know,â I couldnât help telling Mary-Whitney.
I was tired of hearing my fellow Americans say they didnât understand how the French stayed so slim in spite of their rich, fatty diets. They didnât eat rich, fatty food all the time; they consumed a lot of fruit and vegetables, and they didnât eat constantly, either! But when they did, they sat down and ate slowly to appreciate what they had on their plates. I wanted to scream this vital piece of information at her, but managed to restrain myself.
âReally?â sighed Mary-Whitney.
Mary-Whitneyâs sighs had now taken the place of her strange smile and laugh. Since learning that Anne-Sophie intended to stay in Boston, Mary-Whitneyâs fighting spirit appeared to have waned considerably, maybe because she knew she was really going to need help to save her marriage.
âThen itâs ⦠er, well, Iâm sure youâve heard of the French red wine paradox,â Mary-Whitney ventured in a subdued voice.
âYes, there was a show on TV about it a few weeks ago. Pretty funny, actually, donât you think?â I said, looking at Anne-Sophie.
Her brief fierce glance reminded me of a witch considering what kind of potion to prepare in order to poison the asparagus-shaped superwoman.
Mary-Whitney continued, âEr, I donât know. I worked in France for six months, tried their food, drank red wineevery day at lunch and dinner, like them, and gained around twenty pounds. Of course, I lost it all when I came back, thanks to the Slender Quick diet, and ifââ
âItâs in the genes,â Anne-Sophie declared, smiling. âItâs in the genes. And thereâs nothing you can do about it!â
âOf course! I donât see any other explanation,â Mary-Whitney agreed, letting out yet another big sigh.
âThere is a further explanation,â I offered. âItâs not only genetic, itâs what is actually consumed, and how the eating rituals are followed, so itâs also cultural.â
âOf course.
Learning to Kill: Stories