‘But it’s Saturday!’ He sounded a little like a petulant child.
‘Yes. But you know I have this important presentation coming up. I have to put in some extra hours.’
He groaned. ‘I feel like I never see you.’
‘I know,’ she said, softening. ‘We’re like’ – she lapsed into English, unable to find a suitable French saying – ‘ships passing in the night?’
Henri lifted himself up on his elbows. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘It’s an English saying. You know, that we don’t see each other properly.’
‘You English are strange,’ he said. ‘Why would you want to compare us to excrement?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, shits passing in the night. It is not very romantic,n’est-ce pas?’
‘Not shits! Ships!’ she said, ‘like with a “p”.’
‘A pee? So we are piss and shit?’ he said, confused. ‘It is not very romantic to say that.’
‘No, ships,’ she said, half laughing, half frustrated. ‘Like, boats!’
‘Oh!’ He was silent for a moment. ‘So we pass each other but we do not meet.’
‘Exactly.’ She grinned.
‘And nobody is going to flush us away?’ He was grinning too now.
‘We can only hope.’
They smiled at each other and she realised, despite finding him a bit frustrating at times, that she really did like Henri. He was cute; easy-going. She leant down and gave him a kiss on the forehead, and he grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Stay with me. I am sorry for what I did.’
‘I really can’t. I’m sorry.’
He narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. ‘OK, but tell your boss if she makes you work too hard, I will hunt her down like a dog.’
She smiled. ‘Yes. I’d expect nothing less. Although probably not at 7a.m. on a Saturday?’
‘Non. I keep my vengeance for the afternoons. You don’t get to be as good-looking as me without beauty sleep.’
* * *
Brad was waiting when she came down the stairs, standing by the front door, his arms folded in front of him, looking up as she descended. It was like a low-budget version of a grand ‘prom’ entrance: he, the nervous date, she, the beauty, gliding down in her best gown.
Except, obviously, they were both dressed casually, there were no parents waiting expectantly to see them off. And of course this wasn’t a date.
‘Thanks for this,’ she said in a near-whisper, not wanting to wake Odette.
‘Pleasure.’
They walked the short distance to what Brad told her was his favourite Versailles café, a small, single-windowed building with a wooden door and window surround. Italic letters spelled out ‘Café’ across the wood, faded with age. It was quaint, albeit a little run-down.
‘This looks nice,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, the coffee here is amazing, even if the place looks a bit… crappy. I used to come here when I was a kid with my grandmother, and the signage was exactly the same. The proprietor too, only he was younger back then, obviously.’
‘You went for coffee as a kid?’
