“So what’s the plan?” Jackson asks now as I dust a baguette crumb off my top.
He’s wearing a light blue polo shirt and pale gray chinos—classic Jackson—but I’ve gone for a more casual look for the party: denim shorts and a faded black Japanese graphic T-shirt that has gold cranes flying across a big red sun. Mellie gave it to me and it’s one of my favorites.
“No plan,” I reply. “Let’s just have fun.”
“What about Mom’s evil plot to buy the place? Maybeyoucan convince him to sell. He seems to like you a whole lot more than he likes me,” he adds sardonically.
“Yeah, I think your mum might need to let this one go—it sounds like a lost cause to me.”
I’m not sure why the hotel’s guests have mentioned the noise: we only start to hear the party at the last bend in the road. About a dozen cars sit on the forecourt with many more parked along the verge. The second set of garage doors is open and colored lights spill out along with French hip-hop.
A giant speaker has been set up inside, beside a retro-looking DJ booth where a guy wearing black headphones is on the decks. The tools and metal cabinets lining the walls are hidden behind dark green canvas sheets and there are no rusty car parts in sight, so all that remains in this large open-plan space are the three cars that we saw the other day, plus one more, which has its trunk popped open and is filled with ice and drinks. There are a few groups of people standing around shout-talking over themusic, but no one gives us a second glance and there’s no sign of Étienne.
Jackson grabs my hand and tugs me toward the car bar. The ease with which he touches me is maddening, as is the heat that shoots up my arm. He lets me go to crack open the bottle we brought with us, and I fish out some plastic glasses from the ice and hold them. I’m still a little rattled as he sloshes in rum and tops it up with Coke.
“Cheers.” He bumps his glass against mine and meets my eyes, knocking back a mouthful.
There are people coming up and going down the spiral staircase—the age range of the crowd is twenties to fifties, maybe older. As the French hip-hop morphs into American indie rock, I suggest we explore downstairs.
The room we come out into is spacious and brightly lit and in its center is a white Peugeot 205 GTi. I don’t know much about cars, but this one looks like it dates back to the 1980s or early ’90s with a classic hatchback shape, sharp angles, and a stylish red line set within the black bumper trim that runs around the exterior.
At the back of the room is a wall of shelves, each holding a row of small white plastic Michelin Man dolls—at least a hundred of them. The walls, floor, and ceiling are made of raw concrete and there are big garage doors with square window panels that face the mountains, although currently it’s too dark outside to see the view.
We wander through to the next room, where there’s another car: a Renault 5 Turbo 2, according to its silver badges, with flared wheel arches, huge cooling vents, and yellow fog lights that stand out against the dark blue paintwork. The back wall of this room is plastered with vintage cigarette posters advertising the likes ofGitanes, Royale, and Camel. There are cigarette sponsorship posters for motorsports too, including a Rothmans white, navy, and red rally car withTOUR DE CORSEprinted in large lettering along the bottom.
“Cruel Summer” by Bananarama starts blaring out of the speakers. The music is eclectic, as are the guests. Is everyone here a friend of Étienne’s? What do they all have in common? Are they here to look at the cars? Are the cars for sale? It’s like a showroom on this level, but it’s…surprising. I wouldn’t have guessed that such a cool space would exist inside a building that looks so shabby from the outside.
The third and last room contains an actual rally car—a red Citroën Xsara—with white wheels, a big black rear wing, and its sponsorship stickers still in place. Hanging on the back wall are dozens of old tin and ceramic signs, some rusty with peeling paint and some pristine, but that’s all I notice because Étienne is leaning his shoulder against the side wall, his feet crossed at the ankles and a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s wearing baggy denim jeans and a loose black T-shirt and he’s talking to a stocky older guy with heavy stubble.
Étienne glances our way and clocks us. His eyes rest on mine for a long beat before shifting to Jackson. I feel weirdly edgy as he, in seemingly no hurry, turns back to the man, leisurely places his hand on his shoulder and leans in to say something. Then he pushes off from the wall and comes our way. We meet at the back of the rally car.
“You came.” He stares down at me, dark wavy curls narrowly escaping his wolf-gray eyes.
“You said it was an open house.”
“I did,” he confirms, his lips quirking at the corners. He lifts his chin at Jackson who nods in return.
“Are all these cars for sale?” Jackson asks, looking around.
“Except for this one,” Étienne replies, indicating the rally car. “It’s just sold.”
“I like the Renault 5.” Jackson jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the next room.
“For a hundred and fifteen thousand euros, you can have it.”
Jackson and I gape at him. “A hundred and fifteen thousand euros?” Jackson splutters.
“It’s a good price,” Étienne replies with a shrug, raising his hand in a casual wave at someone behind me.
He takes a sideways step to extricate himself from our little group and exchanges air kisses with a dark-haired girl wearing a black lace top and heavy eye makeup. As he leans in to say something in her ear, I realize from her sleeve of tattoos that she’s his replacement bartender from last Friday night.
A moment later, he brings her over.
“This is Lise,” Étienne says. “Grace, Jackson,” he introduces us.
“You were at La Terrasse recently,” she says in a broad Scottish accent.
“You’re Scottish!” I exclaim, stating the blatantly obvious.
