“Earth to daughter,” said Marlow.
“I took Sabine to the Parc des Roches,” said Aubin, taking over. “It’s a park behind Bourmont. A romantic place made by a builder many years ago.”
Did he just use the word romantic? Now she was cooked. Cover. Saysomething.
“What do you mean, romantic?” Marlow asked, on alert. Sabine’s insides were melting. This guy was going to be the death of her.
“The man who created it wanted it to be a place to get lost and commune with nature,” said Aubin. “You can discover something new at every turn of the path.”
“He means in the poetic sense,” said Sabine. “Weren’t they all into nature and poetry and emotion?”
“Exactly,” said Aubin.
“We just walked around,” said Sabine, trying to act casual. She could feel her mum scanning her face for signs of deception. “It was basically a park.”
“What did you think,” asked Aubin, “I’d take you to a local Pont des Arts?”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Sabine.
“In Paris, there is a famous bridge called the Pont des Arts. Couples kiss and attach a lock to symbolize their love. The authorities say not to do this, it destroys the integrity of the bridge, but people have read about it online, so like sheep they go.” He put on a girly voice. “Ah, I am in Paris, the city of love … I must attach this lock to this bridge and put it on my social network so my friends can feel jealous.” He scoffed. “It is stupid.”
“That’s what you thought I wanted?” Sabine’s cheeks were burning. She dug her fingernails into her thighs.
“I don’t know what you wanted.”
Sabine could see that her mum knew something was up, but she couldn’t help herself. “You don’t know anything about me,” she said, standing suddenly. Her chair scraped the floor. “You just told a stupid story in some fake girl’s voice, making it sound like she has an IQ of four. As if that’s me. That’s not me.” She turned to Guillaume. “Thank you for dinner. Do you mind if I go to bed? I’m still kind of jet lagged.”
“Mais bien sûr,” said Guillaume, eyeing his nephew, eyebrow raised.
She left, mortified at how rude she’d been. That was dumb. Aubin was dumb. Everything was dumb. She hit the stairs to the second floor, but Aubin caught up, and without a word put his hand over hers on the banister. They stood like that for a moment. She willed herself not to cry.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I said that stuff.”
“I don’t know why I said what I did either.”
“I have more respect for the Pont des Arts than that, even though I’ve never been. I would not want to contribute to its—you know—literal downfall.” And she looked at him.
He smiled, sliding his hand off hers so it wouldn’t be awkward. “Thank you for your concern for French civil engineering. And I’m sorry if what happened in the park today was not—”
“It was great,” she said. “I just didn’t think I’d have to see you again. And now we might be here all summer, so it’s weird. I’m weird.”
“I’m weird, too, so we’re even. How is this: I won’t tell anyone. We don’t even have to talk about it again. We can just pretend it never happened.”
“OK,” said Sabine. But she didn’t want to pretend it never happened. She looked at his lips, and remembered kissing them, his hand on her neck, and felt a little lightheaded. “Night.”
“Bonne soirée.”
She felt him watch her go up the stairs and, with every step, resisted turning around to look back.
Marlow refreshed her email again to see if Oscar had responded to her remote working pitch, but he hadn’t. All she could think about was Sabine and Aubin anyway. It was gnawing away at her insides. On impulse, she dialed Violet, who picked up after the first ring.
“So?” said Violet, “do you still own a house in France?”
“I do,” said Marlow. “Got two secs for some advice?”
“I’m a lawyer,” said Violet. “Advice is my profession. Speaking of which, am I billing for this? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m seven hundred an hour.”
“Seriously? That’s gone up. And no, you’re not billing.”
