The Paris Affair

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For the lovers, the dreamers and the Murderinos

Chapitre un

I met Thomas three days ago in the laundromat. Romantic, I know. I was bored, I saw him checking me out, I liked the look of him, and so I asked him a question in my broken, shitty French. But he’s not French. He’s British. He has big, rough fingers, and right now those fingers are interlaced with mine.

We’re lying in his bed, on the border of the 7th arrondissement and the air smells of candle wax and his cologne. My gaze is on an oil painting circa 1750: a man in a high, frilly neckline. He has no chin and a stern expression on his face. It’s valuable. I know quite a lot about art, so I can tell these things from the subject, the craquelure and the grandiose gold frame. But even without all that, I could guess. Nobody keeps an ugly painting like that unless money is involved.

‘My parents are in town this weekend,’ I whisper, my eyes now on our clasped hands.

‘Already?’ he says. ‘That’s nice.’

By ‘already’ he’s referring to the fact that I only moved to Paris five weeks ago.

I look over my shoulder at him, my blonde hair catching the light. He has blond hair too, but his is caramel and has a deep side part. It’s the exact same colour as the tan on his forearms that hasn’t faded from the summer yet. His eyes are that kind of brown that flecks orange in the right sort of light, his eyelashes are long and pale at the tips, and his body is lean and healthy looking.

‘Yeah, they want to meet you,’ I say with a small, coy smile. And then I watch for his reaction.

Is that a minute clench of the jaw I see? A bob of the Adam’s apple? The usual signs of panic? He’s wondering how I went from cool girl to stage-five clinger so quickly. Now he’s thinking, It’s the sex. That’s what did it to her. The sex was clearly that good.

I let a moment pass. Let the anxiety settle in nicely.

‘You don’t have to,’ I say, breaking eye contact and looking back at the man on the wall. Guy on the wall does not approve of the stunt I’m pulling at all. He can see straight through my little game. But guy on the wall was from another era. He wouldn’t understand. ‘I just know Mum would love to meet you,’ I add. ‘She thinks you’re super handsome.’