“I’m Lucy Stone,” said Lucy, noticing that Sylvie was a very attractive, petite blonde with flawless skin, delicately arched brows, and a self-satisfied smile. Like Elizabeth, she was wearing a black coat, black tights, little boots with heels, and a chunky scarf.

“And I’m Sylvie, Sylvie Seydoux.” She extended her chin, and Lucy realized it was the bisous thing, requiring two kisses, and cooperated in the exchange.

“Shall we go for café?” suggested Sylvie. “It’s not so nice here.”

Lucy would have been perfectly happy to remain sitting on the saggy, musty futon, but it seemed there was to be no rest for her. She put on her coat and followed the girls down the four flights of stairs and through the courtyard and down the street to the corner café. Cafés, it seemed, were everywhere.

“Inside or out?” asked Sylvie, and they decided to sit outside, in the weak Parisian sunshine.

Coffee wasn’t served in the big cardboard container Lucy was used to getting at the Quik-Stop. It was a tiny china cup of black sludge, which Sylvie and Elizabeth tossed back in one gulp. Lucy sipped hers, grateful for the caffeine jolt, even though she suspected it would keep her up half the night.

“So what are your plans while you are in Paris?” asked Sylvie, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m here with friends, so I guess I’ll go along with whatever they want to do. And we’re all signed up for cooking classes.”

“That should be interesting,” said Sylvie, blowing smoke. “But what do you like to do? Les musées? Les jardins? Shopping at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette?”

“I’m on a bit of a budget,” admitted Lucy, finishing her coffee. “No, you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to go to the flea market. I’ve always heard about how wonderful it is.”

“Les Puces!” exclaimed Sylvie. “Of course! We must all go next weekend. I will show you, okay?”

“That would be great. Thanks,” said Lucy.

“Great,” grumbled Elizabeth.

“Well, I have to go,” said Sylvie, glancing at the smartphone that was permanently fixed to her hand and stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. She rose and distributed bisous to Lucy and Elizabeth, then trotted off down the street, attracting admiring glances from every man she passed.

“She attracts them. I don’t know how she does it,” said Elizabeth, watching her make her way down the street. “She’s got a man in her room every night, a different man. It’s disgusting.”

“She seems nice enough,” said Lucy.

“You try living with her,” advised Elizabeth. “Sometimes I’d just like to kill her.”

“Don’t say things like that,” said Lucy, spying a florist shop across the way. “Come on,” she said, standing up. “I’ll buy you some flowers to brighten up that apartment.”

“It’ll take more than flowers,” said Elizabeth.