The Wank Manager (aka the Farming Banker): Cheap, Snowy Harvest II

It was snowing. And snowing, and snowing some more. That year, the winter was a dreadfully cold and persistent. Not really ideal for hot romantic vibes, but would those ever flow between the Farming Banker and me (if you didn’t read the first part of the story, start with it – it’s here). The Farming Banker canceled twice because of the ‘bad’ weather. This time he decided to brave coming into Paris. Would he be as brave with his credit card when the dinner bill came . . .?

First of all, he was late. Not just a few minutes, I’d even arrived a reasonable 10 minutes after our appointed time (as girls are supposed to). I sat down at a quiet table in the bustling restaurant I’d chosen near Les Halles (neutral territory). I defied all logic and refused the waitresses offer for an apéro drink, I figured he would be arriving shortly and we would get one then. I waited, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes and still no Farming Banker. Jeez, was he driving his tracker into town?

He finally showed up, not very apologetically, around 45 minutes late. Oh la la—la neige! Sure, sure, the snow had held him up. Wasn’t he a tough Normand farm boy? His ever-present attractiveness helped me shrug off his tardiness—also assisted by my newly acquired glass of wine.

Before coming to meet him, the Countess had given me some coaching. After some specific recent romantic disasters (remember this dates a few years, though the disasters continued…), I’d realized my niceness was at the root of many of these woes. The Countess was especially good at roping in men and having them at her beck and call, French girls tend to be good at this, I was sure being a little mean was what did the trick. Therefore, she was going to help me “evil-girl” up and agreeing to see the Farming Banker was part of our experiment. There was no question of me paying for anything that night. I’d also chosen a mid-range priced restaurant, just in case I did have to fork out for my share.

Conversation over dinner was pleasant enough, though while he was cute, we didn’t have all that much in common. He’d worked his way up in the ranks and was now the manager of a bank branch. I also learnt about his plas to buy his parents farm and about his hopes to organize a trip to see farmer friends in the US, but alas his English was so bad, he was concerned about being able to communicate with them. Was that the reason he’d contacted me? Was he hoping for free language lessons?

Then the ill-fated moment came, or rather appeared on our table. There it was: l’addition, the bill. Curled up in a cute little tin, beckoning the Farming Banker’s wallet. When the waitress set it down on the table, I intentionally darted my eyes in the complete opposite direction. What bill? Well, the Farming Banker mimicked the exact same maneuver! We sat there in this awkward state, me trying not to smirk, making some last minute small talk while the check sat rejected. The Farming Banker, gave it a discrete glance now and then – yep still there, untouched! This game went on for a good fifteen minutes or so before the waitress reappeared at our table with the credit card machine and motioned “are you ready to pay?” To which Mr Cheapo looking at me and I gave in, pulling out my wallet, suggesting we split the bill.

Normandy Cow in the SnowSeriously? He was now a manger of a bank and couldn’t afford to splurge on this not so cher dinner?? I should have gone out with the Countess instead! She was probably having a grand time, on to her fourth mojito for the price I’d just dished out to have dinner with the cheapest guy out there. Fuming in my mind, I was barely listening to his blah blah and we entered the large Les Halles subway. Luckily we were far, far away from place and so there was no chance of him trying to insinuate heading that way. Besides, he wanted to get back to Versailles relatively early to avoid more “issues” with the snow.

I said good bye politely, hoping that that would be an adieu (forever) and not just au revoir, see you soon. As soon as we’d spilt ways, I whipped out my phone and frantically texted the Countess to alert her of my failure.

What a wanker and cheapskate!! I typed and firmly pressed send. Lifting up my finger I saw the little envelop flying across the tiny phone screen SENDING TO … FARMING BANKER. Oh my god, oh my god! I frantically pressed all the buttons I could, trying to cancel the message. I was about to desperately resort to taking out the battery, when the SENT message popped up on the screen. Merde! I quickly type a new message to the F.B. saying something like: opps that message was meant for a friend, at the same time receiving a message from him saying: I don’t understand? (a useful English expression for him to know!). In a panic I quickly responded making up a story that a friend was having trouble with her boyfriend and that it was great to see him take care etc. and typed off another message to the Countess explaining what I’d just done. I rerouted my path from going home, to meeting her and the others, did I ever need a stiff remedy to calm myself down!

Yes, I’d wanted to learn how to be meaner to men, well this was certainly one (terrible) way of going about it! Sharing my blunder with the gang, we all figured that he would obviously look up the works in the dictionary the next day and realize that I was referring to him. Yet, everyone agreed that he probably deserved to be told the truth, he really was a cheapskate and it wasn’t surprising that he was still single if he was so stinging with girls. I still felt bad about it, I didn’t think I would ever develop true meanness.

Monday rolled around and I checked my personal emails at lunch. Scanning the list of new messages, I froze dead in my visual tracks. A subjectless message from the Farming Banker. Yikes! That was surely an email telling me off for being so rude. I couldn’t open it alone, so I called the Countess, no answer. It sat there in my inbox the whole afternoon. I had eventually regained my composure and was going to click into it when the Countess called back, my moral support in place.

When the new email page loaded, it didn’t open with “dear stupid evil girl.” It was rather a friendly message asking me to translate an email to his American farmer friends! So, he couldn’t have looked up the definitions of those words . . . he really was sort of clueless because even if he had, he obviously didn’t realize I’d been referring to him. My guilt-ridden conscious rapidly translated the letter and clicked send—to the right person.

This was how the Wank Manager earned his new nickname . . . but had I learn anything from this episode? Besides being cautious before hitting send and giving losers a second, third or fourth case? Hmmm, the jury’s still out on that one 😉

Note Painting Credits:

Vincent Van Gogh, Two Peasant Women Digging in a Snow-Covered Field at Sunset, (1890, Foundation E.G. Bührle Collection, Zurich, Switzerland)

Claude Monet, Haystack, Morning Snow Effects, (1891 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston)

Vincent Van Gogh, La méridienne or the Siesta, (1889-90 Musée dOrsay, Paris)

No Comments

  • Karin P says:

    I’m loving the irony of a bank manager being a cheapskate. Although…… maybe it is not so ironic after all! I guess a good bank manager has to count centimes, eh?

    And I love the evolution of the nickname to Wank Manager. Too funny you sent him that text! Hee hee hee! 😀

    xx
    Karin

    • La Tigresse says:

      I know Karin, is it irony or too real? He never paid for anything, I think even the one time I invited him over for dinner (years and years ago!) he didn’t bring anything . . . he really was brought up in a barn!

      I was mortified when I sent the message, but it was the fate of my crazy romantic misadventures. in the end it’s just plain hilarious 🙂

      I can’t take credit for his new nickname, it was my friend Dave, from Book #1!!

  • bronvoyage says:

    I love that other people can’t open some emails alone! Great story! I have only just found your blog but I will definitely be a reader of your book.

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