I’m really sorry about the police station. . .
We should split that fine.
Absolutely not—you were my guest.
Will you take me to see the Catacombs
next week?
Depends. Would that count or not?
Definitely wouldn’t count.
Why not?
Because!
Can’t argue with that.
So we’re on?
Wouldn’t you prefer an exhibition
at the Grand Palais? Not so many
dead people.
What exhibition?
Hang on, I’ll check.
Okay.
The Tudors.
Oh no, I’ve had my fill of the
Tudors.
Musée d’Orsay?
Jardin du Luxembourg?
Sold. You’re on.
Are you working?
Trying to.
In that case, I’ll let you go. Day aftertomorrow, 3pm?
Done. Outside the entrance, on
Rue Guynemer.
The screen went black, and Paul returned to his novel. His singer was about to start her walk across the rooftop when his phone lit up again.
I’m starving.
