Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,25
sightseeing.”
“That sightseeing better not include me. You keep that jacket where it is.”
“I am. I mean, I didn’t, or wasn’t, I—never mind. What about you?”
“What about me, what?”
“What are you doing in Paris?”
“Long story. Where I lived things were getting worse. Then this guy got all mad with me.”
“Imagine that.”
Her voice raised an octave. “I know. Like, what’s all that about? I’m the most easy person to get along with ever, right?”
His jaw froze up with his mouth half open. His mind raced through answers.
“Right?” she said, stretching out the word.
He nodded, trying not to make the jacket fall from his head. “Right, right. I mean, how could that happen?”
“Yeah, serves him right. Then, afterward, I find out he’s married. His wife just about killed him.”
Piers hummed his dubious agreement. “Yeah, certainly. Yeah. Serves him right. What was he thinking?”
“What about you? What about your mummy problem?”
Piers screwed up his face. “What mummy problem!”
“Your mum. The woman on the phone. Sounds like she could be trouble.”
“I don’t have a mummy problem, and she’s not trouble.”
“Well, sounded like it. She didn’t want to take no for an answer.”
“She was worried.”
“We were busy.”
“I was hardly going to tell her I was too busy with a girl to talk to her, was I?”
“Could have.”
“No, I couldn’t.” He put on a falsetto accent, “Hi mum, it’s me, your son. I met this girl in a taxi while this guy died at our feet, and now a bunch of people are going to kill us if we don’t find their painting. Have a nice day.”
“Well, you don’t have to be stupid about it. Surely, you can tell her you’re talking to a girl without going all weird on her.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You have had a girlfriend before, haven’t you?”
“W—”
“Oh, don’t answer that. I’m done with sob stories for a while.”
He huffed. “Yeah. This day hasn’t exactly been much fun for some people.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I meant for Auguste. He got shot, remember?”
She clicked her tongue. “Yeah. Okay. Right … April, too.”
“Yeah. I wish she had told us more, like where he lived.”
“You don’t know?”
“No? You know?”
“It was on that paper.”
“What paper?”
“In his wallet.”
“I went through his wallet. It was just credit card receipts.”
“There was a piece of paper, too.”
“You’ve been keeping stuff from me?”
“No! We’ve been busy, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“For Christ’s sake, you have to tell me everything if we’re going to sort this out.”
“I have to tell you everything.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
There was a long pause.
Piers sighed. “So, where’s the piece of paper from his wallet?”
“In one of my pockets. You want to see it?”
“I’m stuck in a shower cubicle, holding your clothes with a jacket on my head.”
“So, you want to check it later?”
He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Yes.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
He took another breath. And another. And another. “How much longer?”
“I’ve got to get clean.”
He heard her hair slapping against her skin and swallowed. Foaming lather worked its way back into his imagination.
A couple of minutes later the shower stopped. “Don’t take that jacket off.”
“I won’t,” he said, slowly, hoping he masked his regret.
A hairdryer ran, blasting air through the cubicle. It was incredibly powerful for a hairdryer.
“Are there towels?” he said.
“No, you just dry yourself with this big blower thing.”
He closed his eyes, hoping to block out the image of warm air blowing over her body. It didn’t help.
After a few moments the dryer stopped. She rummaged in the pockets of her jacket without taking it off Piers’ head, and pulled something out. He heard hair being combed until she said, “That’ll have to do.”
“Good. Can I take the jacket—”
“No!”
He felt her lift her clothes from his hands, one by one, then she pulled the jacket from his head. She looked fabulous. Her long curls coiled over her shoulders with devil-may-care abandon. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips bright pink from the heat of the shower.
Her smile hit him full on. It broadened slowly, growing in intensity, spreading outward, lifting the corners of her mouth, pronouncing her dimples, framing the glint in her sparkling eyes. She patted him on the arm. “Thanks.”
He gulped before speaking. “Nits nar nat problem.”
“Huh?”
He gulped again. “Nits not a problem.”
She frowned. “Right.”
He stood awkward for a few moments.
“Well?” she said.
“Well what?”
“A shower. Are you going to have a shower?”
“Yes, right.” He turned to the shower. “Are you going to—”
“Look away? Ewww, yes. Of course.” She turned around to face the same corner as he had. “I’ve