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Ronan was testing the taps in the adjoining bathroom, turning them on and off again. He flushed the toilet twice and emerged.
‘Plumbing up to scratch?’
‘Do you want to get in there?’
In the bathroom, she moved a basket of cleaning products from the narrow windowsill to the floor and replaced them with her wash bag. She lined up her new make-up palette, her comb, her travel-size deodorant, and a tube of frizz-tamer. She washed her hands with soap that smelled of lime and dried them in a white waffle towel.
‘I love those waffle towels,’ she said, reversing out of the bathroom to sit on the edge of the bed.
Ronan was lying on top of the covers on the other side.
‘Oh and look, they have square pillows – I love square pillows.’ She tipped sideways and laid her head down, facing the wall. ‘I read somewhere that the English try to make their days comfortable, whereas the French take their comfort at night.’
She felt the mattress dip as Ronan edged closer, felt his hand warm on her hip. ‘And the Irish?’
‘It was an English book.’ She paused to think. ‘I think we like to make other people comfortable.’
‘Not me.’
‘That’s not true. Look how you took the side nearest the door, like you always do, to protect me.’
‘To protect you or to make you feel protected?’
‘Both, I hope.’
‘I’m only making sure you don’t run off on me.’ He rubbed his hand from her hip to her knee and back again.
She held her breath and didn’t flinch.
‘I might take a shower before dinner.’ His voice was low and loaded. ‘Fancy joining me?’
Her breath escaped in a half laugh. ‘I’d never fit.’
His hand gripped tighter on her hip bone, ready to turn her.
‘And anyway,’ she said for good measure, ‘I’d only ruin my hair.’
‘Alright.’ He rolled away and disappeared into the bathroom.
Chez Michel
On the porch of Chez Michel, Harry’s path was blocked by a Maîtresse D’ of the no-nonsense variety. She was young and petite, with hair that was black to her ears and blue to her shoulders. She wore a plain navy T-shirt and dark, unflattering jeans with the ends turned up above shabby sneakers. As though by way of a joke, her outfit was completed by a white, lace-trimmed apron tied around her waist.
‘You have not a reservation?’ Funny how the French could ask you a simple question and simultaneously imply your idiocy.
‘Dan said to tell you he sent me.’
‘Ah, bon.’
As if he’d provided a password, she stepped back to allow Harry through the doorway. With an economical gesture of her hand, she directed him to a small table, one of three lined up inside the wide front window. He took the corner seat so that his view to one side was of a quiet street and the back of the church of St Vincent de Paul, and to the other the rapidly filling restaurant. A larger room was visible through an arch behind the bar, but this front section held only five tables, crammed close enough that he could, if he fixed his concentration, catch snatches of every conversation.
An English couple seated in the centre of the window were discussing a certain William and Harry and their respective wives in a manner that suggested the princes were the errant sons of bothersome neighbours. To his right, in the corner closest to the bar, a rowdy group of six Parisians were making loud and emotional toasts – to each other, it seemed. At a table in the centre of the floor, a girl of no more than twelve chatted happily with an elderly man. Beyond the horseshoe-shaped bar, a long table was set, and a party was gathering. A long mirror on the back wall allowed Harry a peek into the furthest corners of the room and a reflected view of himself, sitting in the window of a homely restaurant, alone.
The waitress returned with a bottle of water and a chalkboard menu, which she propped on the edge of his table. Balancing the board with one hand, she poured a glass of water with the other, then stood waiting for his order. Harry hadn’t eaten much other than Blended Kermits in weeks. The movie had sapped his energy, and the near constant pain had dulled his appetite. He took one look at the incomprehensible squiggles and moved to pull his glasses from his inside pocket. Acknowledging to himself that his glasses weren’t going to make the slightest difference to his comprehension of the French language, Harry adjusted his facial expression to Charming American.
‘What’s your name, honey?’
‘Noémie Gabrielle Fournier-Laurent,’ she said, without cracking a smile. ‘And yours?’
