Marc remembered how beautiful Sabine’s painted nails were and her bright, lipsticked smile when she gave him the tissue to wipe his eyes. He pulled his legs off the sofa, put his foot down on something soft and shiny and realised to his horror that it was a bra.

He flicked it away with his big toe as he looked across the little bed-sit room and saw that Sabine wasn’t in her bed. But her belongings were scattered everywhere: a dressing gown thrown down, a newspaper covered with bright red toenail clippings, a rug dusted with talcum powder.

Whichever way you cut it, Sabine was a slob. Marc stood up and looked around to make sure that his boots, clothes and money were present, then stepped warily across the wooden floor, both intrigued and horrified by Sabine’s dirty underwear.

‘Morning, skipper,’ Sabine said, making Marc jump as she slid back the door of her tiny bathroom.

She wore only a lacy red bra and knickers and Marc was overpowered by a shot of lust, mangled with embarrassment. The only youngish women he knew were the nuns at the orphanage and even if one of them had ever appeared without her habit, he very much doubted that they wore underwear like that.

‘Would you like your gown?’ Marc spluttered as he pulled it off the floor, toppling a half-filled mug of mildewing coffee and cigarette ash.

‘Aren’t you a gentleman,’ she said, as Marc rescued the cup.

When Sabine stepped up close to grab the gown her breasts were dead level with Marc’s face. He didn’t know where to look and he was so red he felt like his head was going to melt.

‘You’re the first person ever to call me a gentleman,’ Marc said.

‘And you’re the first man who’s ever encouraged me to put clothes on,’ Sabine laughed. ‘How’s your knee?’

‘OK, I think,’ he said, grinning with relief as she covered up with the gown. ‘You did a nice job with the bandage.’

‘You think?’ she said. ‘I’ve never done one before. We can go downstairs and get some breakfast from the bar in a minute. Then I’ll try sorting you out some transport so that you can get to your … who was it you said?’

‘My uncle,’ Marc lied. ‘I need to get to Paris to see my uncle. Maybe I can go back to the station and see if there’s a train.’

Marc cringed again as Sabine sat on the edge of her single bed and pulled a stocking up her leg.

‘You won’t need a train,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There’s always soldiers and truck drivers coming through the bar. I’ll tell them you’re my little nephew and get one of them to give you a lift.’

‘I’ve got money,’ Marc said.