‘Why are you happy to dress in a suit for business and wear a DJ for a party, but refuse to make an effort for your own niece’s christening?’ she asked, blurting out one of the many questions that played on her mind.
‘I wasn’t aware I hadn’t made an effort for it,’ he answered coolly.
She shrugged. Pepe’s choice of attire was none of her business. ‘So where is this party?’
‘In Montmartre.’
Now he mentioned it, the lights of the sprawling hill that comprised Montmartre gleamed before them, the white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur sitting atop, almost surveying all beneath it. As they drove into the bustling arrondissement, she pressed her face to the window to take in the beautiful architecture, ambling tourists and nonchalant locals.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Any nausea?’
‘So far so good,’ she confirmed.
‘That is good.’ Not trusting the casual tone to his voice, she looked at him and found him holding a paper bag aloft. He winked. ‘Just in case.’
Despite herself, she laughed, the action loosening a little of the angst in her chest.
He moved closer to her and pointed out of the window. ‘Through those gardens is the Musée de Montmartre. It is reputed to be the oldest house in Montmartre.’
‘Didn’t Renoir live in it?’ she asked, wholly aware of his thigh now pressed against hers.
‘Not quite—there is a mansion behind it that he lived in for a while. Maurice Utrillo lived there though.’
As they snaked their way through the cobbled streets, he pointed out more features of interest, his words breathing life into the ancient buildings, especially from the Impressionist era. He knew so much about the district, had such lively knowledge, his heavy Sicilian accent so lyrical it was a joy to listen to him.
Cara hid her disappointment when the driver came to a stop in a narrow street lined by a terrace of whitewashed five-storey homes, cafés and shops. She could have happily continued with their tour.
To her surprise, they went into a packed poky café that smelt strongly of coffee, body odour and illicit cigarettes. Pepe greeted the staff personally with his usual enthusiasm, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, before leading her through the back and out into a small courtyard.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, waving his hand at a flimsy-looking iron staircase that led all the way to the top floor. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, clearly reading her mind. ‘I assure you it is safe.’
‘Aren’t there indoor stairs?’ She was in no way mollified by his assurance.
‘There are, but as you have seen, the café is busy, and if all tonight’s guests were to use them, we would get in the way of the staff.’
‘So why go through the front entrance? Why not get your driver to drop us off at the back?’
‘Because the staff would be most put out if they knew I had been here and hadn’t dropped in to say hello.’
‘You do have a high opinion of yourself,’ she muttered.
His smile dropped a wattage before the teeth flashed. ‘Forgive my modesty but I am a good employer.’