Two days passand I don’t hear from Étienne. I keep reminding myself in a singsong voice that we’re keeping itcasual,casual,casual, but my thoughts are rarely on anything else.
On Thursday morning, I crack and text him to ask if he had any luck with the cars he was going to see.
He replies after a couple of hours and attaches a bunch of pictures.
Another Renault 5 Turbo 2!I tap out.
I sold the other one to Gio on Saturday night, he responds immediately.
Cool!That’s impressive—it was on the market for one hundred fifteen thousand euros.What’s the other one?
It’s white, kind of low to the ground, long at the front and sloping at the back with a black rear wing. It also has black bumper trim that reminds me of his 205 GTis, minus their classic red stripe.
After watchingQueen of Speed, I have a new appreciation for cars from the 1980s.
1987 Citroën CX 25 GTi Turbo 2, he replies.
I don’t know why it turns me on to see that he’s typed out the full model and make, including the year.
But it does.
On Friday afternoon,after spending the morning supervising the cleaning of Estelle’s artwork in the pavilion—a job I won’t entrust to anyone else—I decide to take Étienne a coffee at work. I remember Léo and buy him one too.
The Renault 5 is the first thing I see when I arrive at the open garage door—it’s hard to miss, with it being tomato red.
Étienne and Léo are around the back, hunched over. I watch as Étienne lifts a bright red bumper away from the car, while Léo looks on, and then they both glance over and clock me in the doorway.
Étienne seems taken aback, but when I hold up the takeaway cups, he smiles and passes the bumper to Léo, coming over.
“Salut, Léo,” I call, offering up the second cup.
“Ah,merci!” he enthuses, safely stashing the bumper and bounding over.
My fingers brush Étienne’s as he takes his. He looks over the rim at me as he sips.
“How did you know how I like my coffee?” he asks with surprise, pulling it away from his mouth.
Black, one sugar.
“Lise. I got them from La Terrasse.”
“Thank you,” he says warmly.
He’s wearing black work trousers and a snug black T-shirt. His hands are filthy and his tanned, toned, leanly muscled arms are glistening with sweat and smeared with grease. I’ve never seen a sexier sight in my whole life. I think of Jackson and his bulging biceps and feel something akin to an ick.
“I won’t kiss you, I’ll get you dirty,” he says.
Please get me dirty.
Maybe he can read what just went through my mind because his gaze gets a little heated.
I remember that we have company and allow my attention to drift to a green Clio next to the Renault.
“Madame Joubert’s?” I ask.
He laughs and nods. “Oil leak.”
He told me something would go wrong with it before long, but the woman is sentimental.
