Preface It had been raining all day. It was a grey, steady, depressing rain that seemed to wash all the colours from the city, reminding you just how much of the city was built of stone, solid gray and unyielding. Paris had survived the rule of Louis XIV, had watched her citizens rebel in the French Revolution. She had been witness to the German tanks on the Champs Elysées, the very same streets that Napoleon had marched on. But today she was shrouded in rain, bearing witness to beginnings and endings. The Seine, seen from the Pont Neuf was black and heavy as if oil rather than water were flowing through its course. Tonight, everything seemed depressed, or maybe that was just their mood. Paris, the City of Lights. Gay Paris. People fell in love in Paris. Tonight there was very little happiness, despite the romantic setting. It was their last night together; she was flying out in the morning. He had to be in London by lunchtime which meant he had to be on the morning TGV. They had promised no regrets, only fun, but as the reality of the end loomed closer, the weather only helped accentuate their inevitable feelings.
The cafes and bistros, normally boisterous cauldrons of frenetic energy, tonight were deflated and almost tranquil. They were finishing their wine, the dinner long since cleared but the small dessert plates still in front of them. The cafe was only steps from his Paris apartment but neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave, content to sit and sip their wine, forestalling the inevitable separation. The remaining patrons were all local and the patois rolled over and around them and like the background music it was one more memory to cherish and remember as the minutes ticked by. He poured the last few drops of merlot from the carafe into their glasses.
"Une autre carafe, chérie?" He asked quietly, the empty carafe in his hand by way of enquiry.
"Non, merci," she said, shaking her head, almost sadly thinking how much her limited French had improved over the past week almost entirely through exposure to him and his friends.
They had met in a café like this almost a week ago. The meeting had been much less harmonious....
Chapter 1
"Sapristi! Tabarnac!" he spat as the hot coffee splashed over his front and hands, the mug that had contained it was sent tumbling to the floor along with the plate and croissant that was supposed to have been his breakfast. A couple of the patrons in the cafe looked up at his outburst but quickly returned to reading their papers leaving him to look at the woman who had blundered into him.
"Stupid French dolt," she spat, her American accent jarring to ears used to British enunciations and French. "Can't carry a muffin and coffee without fucking it up." She started flicking at the stain that was rapidly soaking into her cotton t-shirt, the result of the collision now reflected there.
"Madam," he said, adopting his cultured British speech, "I am neither French, nor a dolt, and if you had not been walking backwards, while yakking into your cell phone and instead actually looking where you were going, you would not be wearing my coffee, nor the raspberry preserves that I was going to put on my croissant. Besides, they do not serve muffins here." He was impressed that he had managed to keep a straight face and his temper as he said that. He watched her go through several emotions. There was rage, certainly, almost an entitlement he had grown used to witnessing among Americans abroad especially in France, then embarrassment. "Perhaps I can offer you a napkin?" he suggested, handing her the paper napkin, all that remained of his breakfast. "Or would you prefer to put that in a washing machine before the stain sets?"
That was enough to set her off again. "Listen you...pig," she said, bitterly, "I was perfectly aware of where I was and what I was doing before you slammed into me and ruined my shirt. Do you have any idea how much this cost?" She was indignant, infuriated and if she admitted it to herself, embarrassed.
"I would say it cost 20 Euros at Benetton, but you can get them for as little as 5 Euros a pair at a little shop I know around the corner. And they come in a variety of colours too if you would prefer something other than white. Or you could go the other direction to my apartment where I have a washing machine and I won't even charge you a buck. That is, unless you have figured out where you are and think you have any chance of making your meeting on time, which, by the way you won't make because you are in the wrong part of the city."
"How do you know I am late?" she asked startled. "Are you following me?"
