Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,24
people. Auguste wasn’t a bad person. Not really. But they are. He said so. If you’re innocent, go to the police. Quickly.”
Without making eye contact, she pushed her way through the tables and chairs to the street, and disappeared in the crowds.
Chapter 12
Piers led the way out of the café and scanned the road for Little and Large. “At least we shook them off.”
Sidney sniffed her hands for the umpteenth time. “I have got to wash.”
Piers agreed. He stank. They wouldn’t give anyone the slip smelling as they did.
Sidney led them through intersections and office buildings until they reached the Seine.
“Are we going to jump in?” he said.
Sidney looked at him as if he had grown antlers. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Okaaay, sorry.”
“There’s a shower station along here somewhere.”
“Really?”
“No, I just made it up, for fun. What do you think?”
Piers looked at the dirty patches on the knees of his jeans. “You realize our clothes will still smell.”
Sidney rolled her eyes. “I can’t fix all your problems at once. Clothes will have to be next.”
She turned left and threaded her way down a footpath to the road that ran alongside the river. A few minutes later they saw a squat, circular metallic building by the side of the road.
“Why do they have these things here?” said Piers.
“Why not?”
“But who walks around and suddenly decides they need a shower?”
“We need one.”
“Okay, but we’re an exception. How many people escape via a trash chute?”
“I’ve done it before.”
Piers laughed. “Bad date?”
“From hell.”
His laughter stopped and he followed her, not quite able to work out if she was serious.
They arrived at the shower station. “It takes four euros,” she said, her hand held out.
Piers sighed, rummaged in his pocket, and found four coins. She shoved them into a small slot and a metallic door slid back, revealing a tiny bathroom.
She stepped in. “I won’t be long.”
He grunted. The door clunked, a brake being released to allow the door to close. She forced a brief smile. The door started moving.
“It’s four euros each,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
The door was halfway closed. He tapped his pockets, but nothing rattled. With a cry he threw himself into the gap. The door thumped against his chest, pinning his arms by his sides.
“What are you doing?” she said, trying to push him back out.
He shoved inward harder. “Stop it, stop it.”
“I need a shower,” she said.
“I need one, too.”
“You can’t be in here while I’m having a shower.”
“I don’t have any more coins.”
“So? Get some more.”
“No! We need to keep a low profile, not advertise ourselves to every shopkeeper in Paris.”
“And this is keeping a low profile?” she said.
The metallic door hissed and released the pressure for a moment, hoping to relieve the obstruction. He rotated his body and slipped into the cubicle as the door thumped closed behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief.
She punched him in the chest. “Now what, Einstein?”
He looked at the small space. The shower, sink, and toilet were made of a single continuous piece of plastic. The whole room could be washed down. There was a sign on the wall with instructions and a single mirror. He turned around. “I’ll just look away.”
She punched him in the back. “You better had.”
He looked at her in the mirror.
“And not that way. Face the corner, away from the mirror.”
He turned again. He could still see the mirror from the corner of his eye. She noticed him looking and slapped him over the head.
“Owww, sorry. I was just—”
“Just nothing.”
She pulled off her jacket and threw it over his head. “You can hold my clothes.”
He left the jacket on his head, and held his hands out. She piled her clothes into his arms. “Don’t drop them.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“You better bloody not. And no moving that jacket either.”
He hummed his agreement.
The shower started and a fan above his head roared into life. The humidity rose and he was hot under her jacket. He flapped the edges to cool himself.
“You better not be thinking of shaking that jacket off.”
“I’m hot.”
“You’re the one who pushed his way in here. Besides, you’re going to have a shower in a minute, so stop complaining.”
He heard water splashing and forced himself to think of anything but foaming lather draped over her smooth, wet skin. It didn’t work.
“So, what are you doing in Paris?” she said.
“I had to update some software in a crane, but now I can’t do it until Saturday. I thought I was going to be able to do some