“I thought you were going to work?” I said. “Anyway, no. I’m worried about Claire. I shouldn’t even have left last night.”

“She was happy and sleeping,” argued Laurent. “Anyway,” he smiled, “didn’t you enjoy what we did instead?”

I smiled back, feeling myself flush again. He cupped his hand to my cheek. “I like it when you turn red,” he said.

“Shut up,” I said.

I grabbed my clothes—it felt odd to think I had put them on in Kidinsborough; I desperately needed a bath—and went to leave. I didn’t want to. I felt like I was coasting along on a sea of happiness.

“Oh God, I don’t know how I’m going to open the shop today,” I giggled. “It’ll be worse than normal.”

“Just concentrate. You’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” I said. I looked at him. “One thing you haven’t told me about,” I said.

“There are a million things I haven’t told you about,” he said, smiling. “Now I think we will have the time to get to know each other.”

I smiled. “Yes, please. But Laurent, what about your mum? Wouldn’t she like to know about Thierry? Wouldn’t she like to see him?”

I knew the second it came out of my mouth what a dreadful mistake I had made; the shutters dropped down almost immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Another time?”

“This is…”

I thought of the Laurent I’d seen around town, handsome, charming, keeping everything light.

“Am I moving too fast?” I said. He said immediately non, non, non, but I left anyway. After I let myself out, when I passed his scooter, I wanted to kick it.

Claire was dreaming. She was dreaming she was in Paris and the light reflecting off the rocks onto her face was the one that only came when she was there. She felt lighter than air; in her dreams, she could move as freely as she liked. Why had she thought she was sick? She wasn’t sick at all, she was fine; the doctors had gotten it all wrong. Silly doctors, she was so fine she could fly, look.

Suddenly, even in her dream, she realized that of course, she couldn’t fly, and little by little she started to float, her disappointment as bitter as ashes in her mouth, to the surface, still caught, still trapped in her body riddled with blackness, useless and shaming. All her mornings felt like this; beached from morning dreams into the harshness of another daily struggle through reality.

She blinked twice. One thing was different though. It was that rock. It was that light. With a burst of pure happiness, she remembered. She was in Paris. They had made it. She was here.

There was a knock at the door, and Anna entered, carrying two small cups of coffee she’d brought up from the lobby and a bag of fresh, flaky, still-warm croissants between her teeth. She did a smiling grimace—she looked exhausted, Claire noted, but rather well—and went over to the window where she pulled open the thick curtain to reveal a window box filled with white roses and a view all the way to the Eiffel Tower. It was enchanting.

“Not bad, eh?” said Anna, putting the coffee down and kissing her on the cheek. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Claire shrugged.

“Actually,” she said, sounding surprised, “I didn’t have a bad night.”

Normally she woke three or four times, often feeling as if she would choke.

Anna helped her to the toilet and to get dressed, then apologized for the hour and disappeared to open up the shop. Claire watched her go with a smile on her face. She was dedicated that girl. She’d been right about her. She’d do well.

Then she sat back with the complimentary copy of Paris Match by the window Anna had opened and listened, for the first time in forty years, to the noises of Paris waking itself up, as she sipped the strong sweet coffee and nibbled at the croissant and felt the sun warm her aching bones.

- - -

I was earlier than Frédéric or Benoît this morning, which was a first. Mind you, they’d probably gotten some sleep, which was better going than me. I hovered around on my own—Frédéric had the keys—wishing I had something to do with my hands, like smoke.

The van pulled up first. My heart sank and I cursed. Now I was going to have to deal with Alice all by myself.

She was alone and almost fell out of the driver’s seat. For once, her face wasn’t immaculately painted. She was wearing yesterday’s clothes, and her hair was scraped back in a ponytail. She looked nothing like herself at all. I barely recognized her.

“Alice?” I said.

She looked up at me. Yesterday’s mascara was running down her face. She was in a terrible state.

“Are you all right?” I asked in alarm.

“No-o-o,” she said in a long shudder, launching herself across the cobbles and sitting down on the step. Then she burst into huge sobs.

“What’s the matter?” I said, fear gripping me. “Is Thierry all right? Was the trip too much for him?”

Unable to speak, she shook her head.

“No, it’s not that…he’s better,” she said bitterly, almost spitting the words out. She looked up at me in undisguised hatred.

“How can you…how can you take him away from me?” she said, then burst into fresh floods of tears.

“What do you mean?” I said, genuinely confused. She couldn’t be talking about Laurent, could she? No, surely not. No, that would be absurd. Nonetheless, I found a blush covering my face. My face. Oh God, that stupid arsehole, I hated the effect he had on me.

“My Thierry,” she said, as if I was a total idiot. “You take my man, my partner, and you behave as if I don’t even bloody exist, and you set him up with some fantasy from his past…I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to compete with that?”

She sounded funny in English, not nearly so posh, more Essex if anything. She rubbed fiercely at her eyes.

“Well, thanks very fucking much. I’m only the one that’s kept everything going, kept the books, kept the suppliers happy, kept everyone away from him so he could concentrate on doing what he does best…and this is the thanks I get.”

I blinked several times. It was true; she was completely right. I hadn’t given her feelings a second thought, except to try to stay out of her way. But of course I wasn’t trying to usurp her. I was trying to help someone else. I didn’t know how to explain it.