Entente Cordial

Jacqueline Poiret stared again at the piece of paper she had printed out; this was the address. She hadn't expected such a nice place, she thought to herself with a smile. This guy was probably a good tipper, thank God.

Her high heels clacking as she gracefully walked up the steps, she rang the doorbell and waited, automatically striking an elegant pose. She pulled out her compact and checked her hair and makeup once more; she had dressed especially for the occasion, after all, and she wasn't about to let smudged lipgloss or a stray hair ruin her perfectly polished appearance.

She wore a navy knee-length skirt with a matching jacket over a black blouse and black stockings; around her neck was a short red scarf to add flair to the outfit, and she wore a pair of professional-looking black heels to complete the look.

Satisfied with her reflection, she put away her compact and practiced her fake smile; now to rob this stupid Brit blind.

Inside was sitting said stupid Brit. He had dozed off, but upon hearing the doorbell he woke up, covered in his own drool. With his one good hand, he hastily tried to wipe it off his expensive blouse. When that didn't work, he somehow tried to remove his shirt by getting it around the cast. But with only one good hand, that was harder than he thought it would be. Half shirtless, he decided to just answer the door.

He ignored the musical that was playing loudly on his TV and hobbled to the door, falling not once but three times in total, before he made it there.

Frazzled and exhausted, he opened the door looking like the complete mess he had become.

With his dominant arm broken, his left, and his right leg broken, he was in quite bad shape.

"H-hello." He greeted her, trying to smile.

He barely hid a grimace; this man looked absolutely repulsive. Had he just been sitting around in his own waste all day? Then again, he was British--they weren't the prettiest of people.

Doing her best to smile, she stepped inside.

"Hello," she said slowly, her accent obvious but her words understandable. "I am ze helper you hired...are you in need of assistance, Mister Datta?"

"Are you French?" He asked, eying her with a strange look on his face. "Because I hired someone to help me while me arm and leg are broken, not a prostitute."

Despite the accusation, he was smiling with a semi-oblivious look on his face.

Without thinking, she slapped him across the face.

"I never!" she exclaimed hotly. "Here I am, come to help you in your time of need and you insult my people, ze greatest nation on Earth! So vat if I am French, Mister Datta?! I am French and proud, and I will do zis job better zan any other slob you could find in Britain."

He rubbed his cheek with his right hand, which felt so very strange for him.

"What? But I thought all French women were prostitutes. Did papa lie to me?" He looked slightly sad just thinking about that fact. "Besides, I'm positive it's quite obvious that Britain is the greatest nation in the world. You must agree, you're standing in my house right now."

"Your papa was a lying--person," she said, not wanting to be fired on the first day. She really needed this money. "Which is to say, no, not all French women are ze prostitute. I never do zat--neither does any French woman I know." She adjusted her hair, sighing. "Sorry I slapped you," she continued, ignoring his comment about Britain being the best nation in the world.

Benji leaned heavily against the wall, trying to hide how much effort it took to keep himself standing like that.

"I don't believe you, papa never lied to me." He said stubbornly, smiling again. "In any case, can you help me sit down again...?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Oui--I mean, yes, Mister Datta..." She delicately helped him into a chair, complicating the process by trying to not mess up her nails.

"Augh, you are heavy--but, in any case, I am not ze prostitute. I hope you are not expecting zat kind of service from me."

He smiled at her, sinking into his chair happily.

"Ahh, but it's nothing to be ashamed of." He insisted. "Once, I played prostitute in the fantastic musical number, 'Do or Die'. It was smashing."

She raised an eyebrow.

"...But I wouldn't know whether or not it is shameful, because I am not one. I am, as one might say, a fashionista."

"I didn't know prostitutes could be so classy." He remarked.

She barely restrained herself from smacking him again.

"Zey are not classy, but I am, because I am no prostitute."

"So you aren't French?" He asked, confused.

She sighed, face-palming.

"How to put zis...I am French, I am classy, but I am not a prostitute, because not all French women are prostitute. Understand, Mister Datta?"

He shook his head.

"That would mean papa would have lied, so that's impossible."

She sighed deeply.

"...Will you believe I'm ze only non-prostitute in France?"

"Wow, you must be famous!" He exclaimed.

"Actually, it's a secret--otherwise the other French women would be angry. Eu...promise not to tell?" she said, quickly fabricating bullshit as she went along.

He giggled, looking highly amused.

"O-okay, I'll never tell anyone!" He giggled more.

"...Vat is so funny?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"I-I'm really bad at keeping secrets." He said, giggling like a little kid.

She sighed deeply.

"...Vatever. Just try, oui?"

He nodded, promising.

She smiled, patting him on the shoulder.

"Sank you. Now, is zere anything I can get you...?"