She laughed. ‘They must be dazzled by the light. You should provide sunglasses.’
‘Actually,’ he flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. ‘I like to repair things in my spare time.’
‘Really?’ She was relieved the subject had changed. ‘Like what?’
‘Bicycles, toys, clocks. I managed to fix a revolver once but nearly blew my ear off in the process.’ He made a whistling noise. ‘It went right past. Gave me the shock of my life. I have a garage behind my building. There’s a work table, tools, all manner of spare parts hanging from the ceiling.’ Looking down, he smiled to himself. ‘I’m very popular with the children on my street. Also, I play the guitar.’
‘Are you any good?’
He picked up another oyster. ‘I’m an exceptional artist. Trapped in the body of man with no musical ability.’ He tilted his head back and swallowed. ‘But I don’t let that stop me.’
‘I don’t envy your neighbours,’ she smiled
‘Neither do I. And you, do you have children, madam?’
Grace shook her head. ‘No. No I don’t.’
A barely perceptible shadow passed across her eyes. Taking another drag, she looked away, into the busy avenue crowded with traffic and passersby. He could sense, by her silence, this wasn’t a topic she wanted to continue.
‘The description of your workshop reminds me of my father,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘He loved making things.’
‘Making requires more vision. I’m a fixer. For me the challenge comes in spotting the flaw and eliminating it.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘Is your father still alive?’
‘No, he died of a heart attack when I was very young.’
‘I’m sorry.’
There was a low growl of thunder, a flash of lightning and the skies erupted in a sudden downpour, emptying the streets of people; sending them scattering. Beyond the shelter of the awning, pedestrians rushed past, heads bowed, ducking into doorways and crowding onto the front steps of buildings for refuge. Most of the café customers moved to tables inside.
They alone remained.
Grace leaned forward, resting her chin in her elbow, watching the rain pour from the red awning in a sheer, translucent veil. On the other side, Paris became a distant, muted place. ‘It’s kind of you to bring me here. I’m very grateful for your consideration.’
It wasn’t often that he was accused of being thoughtful.
‘My pleasure, madam. Your business is nearly at a conclusion. And you’ve had the best possible results,’ he reminded her gently.
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed.
‘When you’ve signed all the papers, we can begin marketing the apartment. Then you’re free to return to England.’
‘Yes.’
Closing her eyes, Grace breathed in. The air was a delicate cocktail of things foreign and familiar; both damply green and faintly musty; as sea-soaked as the oysters, as crisply refreshing as the champagne. She took another drag. ‘Do you mind very much if we just sit here for a while?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I don’t know why,’ she confessed, ‘but I’ve always loved the smell of rain.’
‘Bonjour, madame.’
‘Bonjour,’ Grace nodded to the doorman standing at attention as she passed into the lobby.
She stopped by the concierge’s desk. ‘Excuse me, are there any messages for Madame Munroe?’
‘Ah, let me see,’ the concierge riffled through the papers in front of him. ‘There it is!’ He held up a telegram triumphantly and then presented it to her with a little bow. ‘For you, madame.’
Grace could feel her mouth go dry with nerves. At last. ‘Thank you.’
On her way to the lift, she eagerly tore open the envelope: DARLING STOP WHAT NEWS STOP MALLORY.
Her heart sank.
Mallory had the decency to contact her before her own husband did.
It had been at least a week now since she’d informed him, with perfunctory politeness, of her planned trip to Paris. A week without so much as a letter or a phone call.
Wadding the telegram up, Grace went to shove it into her coat pocket but there was something already in there. She took it out. It was the card she’d found on the floor of the shop when she and Monsieur Tissot were startled by the old woman. She must’ve put it in her pocket by accident, without thinking.
Grace examined it for the first time.
It was written in stylized, energetic script and the card itself was watermarked and yellowed with age. She turned it over; it was covered on both sides by dense writing. Ma chérie, Quelle idée merveilleuse pour un parfum! the correspondence began, but beyond that her French failed and she needed help.