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“Hi, Sophie,” I said, and we kissed cheek to cheek. “Good to see you again.”
The crowd of girls noticed my approach and I felt their attention on my back.
“I’m so happy you came to see Adrien play,” Sophie said. “He’s so fast, and can run with the ball like no other. Did you see him?”
“She has eyes, dear.”
The middle-aged woman, her dark hair in a perfect bouffant, rose to her feet. A cloud of expensive-smelling perfume around her warred with the scents of cut grass, cigarette smoke, and the sausage sandwiches the crowd favored at half time. Her blue dress looked like a throwback to the 50’s, flaring at her knees and fitted at the waist. But like her house, her clothing looked a little frayed around the edges.
“And who is your new friend, Sophie?” A tight smile touched the woman’s lips as she regarded me. “Or is she one of Adrien’s women? And an American, no? This is new.”
One of Adrien?
??s women.
My hackles went up, and if I hadn’t just been fantasizing about him kissing me. Adrien left me confused and flustered; I’d always prided myself on never being the kind of girl who got boy crazy.
Forget it. I’m not going to let him.
“This is Janey Martin,” Sophie was saying. “She’s a journalist doing a story on Adrien for the university. Janey, this is my mother.”
Madame Rousseau’s entire expression brightened with the news that I was there to write about her son.
“How marvelous,” she said. “I’m Nathalia Rousseau.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Mme. Rousseau’s handshake was tight and dry and I instantly wanted my hand back. She held on, pulled me a step closer.
“I do hope it will be a flattering article? What am I saying?” she laughed. “What could anyone say against our dear Adrien? He is a pride and a joy.” She glanced at her daughter, her lips turning down in a frown. “Sophie, you must’ve tired yourself. You should sit.”
“I’m fine, Maman…”
“Sit.”
Sophie looked as if she were about to protest, but smiled tightly at me, and eased herself back down to the bench.
Mme. Rousseau’s gaze flitted to the camera around my neck. “And did you take many photos of Adrien?” She laughed again, too hard—a cocktail party laugh—with her head thrown back. “He’s so fast, your photos might turn out a blur.”
I smiled faintly. “Yes, maybe so.” I glanced over my shoulder to see some of the soccer girls watching. One—a pretty brunette with a sweet face—was biting back a smile. She shot me a commiserating look.
“I do hope your article is flattering to my Adrien,” Mme. Rousseau was saying. “Scouts are constantly trying to talk to him but he keeps pushing them off until the end of the season.” She smiled tightly. “Perhaps in the course of your interview, you might convince Adrien to take a meeting?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered.
The rest of the fans were filing out of the small stadium, and I wished I could go with them.
“Hey,” said the brunette from behind me. “Hi, I’m Brigitte.”
“Janey Martin.”
“I heard. You’re interviewing Adrien?”
“For the Sorbonne paper.”
“Then we’re classmates,” Brigitte said, indicating her group of eight friends. Her smile was genuine and friendly, and I liked her immediately.
“Come with us to La Cloche,” said a pretty blonde in a colorful beaded blouse. “It’s a club we hang out in…basically all the time.”
