“But what if we—”
Étienne laughs dryly and shakes his head, once more rendering Jackson silent.
“I think the man has spoken,” I interrupt awkwardly, patting one of Jackson’s pecs. “Looks like your mum might have to take no for an answer on this one.”
Jackson looks a bit put out, but it’s true: Sandrine will just have to find another venue for her yoga studio and café.
“You can’t blame him for trying though,” I say to Étienne as lightly as I can, hoping to smooth things over. “This place is incredible. Have you owned it long?”
“A few months,” Étienne replies as I look around.
Dozens of tools arranged in a pleasing orderly fashion hang on the walls: diagonal lines of wrenches and hammers of various lengths, as well as several neat straight rows of wheel nuts and screwdriver fittings. Two other cars are being worked on in the large open-plan space, and in the corner near to where we’re standing is a spiral staircase that must lead down to the lower-ground floor that we saw from the outside. Morning sunlight spills in through the multi-paned glass, which is so dirty that the light appears extra hazy.
“So you’re the one who’s responsible for all these wild parties we’ve been hearing about,” I say teasingly.
“They’re notthatwild,” he replies.
The bite has disappeared from his tone, and when I glance over my shoulder at him, I see a smile tugging the edges of his lips.
“The next one’s on Saturday night. You’re welcome to come,” he offers casually.
Beside me, Jackson stiffens. I’m pretty sure Étienne notices, because when his eyes land on mine, I detect a flicker of amusement.
We stare at each other for a moment, and he slowly raises an eyebrow. A challenge.
Are you playing along?
“What time?” I ask.
“Anytime after nine. It’s an open house,” he adds, glancing at Jackson.
“We’ll see you then,” I reply.
Challenge accepted.
9
It’s Saturday, getting on for10 p.m., and Jackson and I are on our way to Garage du Rallye, having just come from dinners with our respective grandparents. Mellie and Albert have now retired to bed.
I had to convince Jackson to come. “You really want to go to a garage party?” he’d asked dubiously as we walked away after Étienne’s invite on Thursday afternoon.
“Ha! Yes. It isliterallya garage party,” I replied with amusement. “I’m curious to see what it’ll be like, aren’t you?”
“Not really. That place is a dump.”
“You reckon? I liked it.”
He cast me a look of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. It hasn’t seen a lick of paint in decades.”
“That’s the point. You can’t paint over the old advertisements; they’re vintage. As are the 1950s petrol pumps.”
“What, you reckon they left those old pumps out there on purpose and not out of sheer laziness?”
“That’s my guess, but we won’t know for sure unless we ask.”
“Mymotherwould rip them out in a heartbeat,” he said darkly. “Andshe’d paint over the signs.”
“Oh, your mother would strip the place bare.” I felt morose at the thought.
