One Summer in Paris

Even in her dazed state, she imagined the headline.

Body of jilted wife found in Paris.

A tug on her shoulder brought her back to the present and she realized the man had snatched her bag.

“No!” All her valuables were in her bag. Passport. Money. ID. A photo of Sophie smiling on a trip to the beach.

The man was already sprinting away.

“Stop!”

A few tourists turned their heads, but this wasn’t Woodbrook, where the man’s identity would have been known to all. No one knew who he was and no one cared. Grace had craved the anonymity of a big city, but right now the big city wasn’t her friend.

Someone streaked past her. She heard the rhythmic thump of boots on cobbles and then a girl launched herself at the man, the weight of her and the surprise of the assault making him stagger. He collapsed onto the cobbles, howling and swearing. Grace watched in horror as he took a swing at the girl, but she grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and sat on him hard.

“Merde…” She fired off a volley of words, most of which Grace didn’t understand.

She’d thought her French was fluent, but it seemed she still had a few curses to learn.

The girl glared down at him. She reminded Grace of a very angry tiger cub.

“You think you’re so tough? Remember which one of us is lying facedown on the floor right now.”

Grace struggled to a sitting position feeling bruised and inadequate. Here she was wondering if she had what it took to spend a month alone in Paris, and there was this girl who looked barely older than Sophie chasing down a criminal.

“Is this all he took?” The girl waved the bag at Grace and in doing so lost her balance.

The man took instant advantage, twisted away from underneath her and sprinted away before she could grab him again.

“Well, shit—” The girl clambered to her feet. “I should have punched him and had done with it. There’s the proof that nonviolent solutions never work.” Her eyes were fierce and her mouth set in a determined line. Her hair was a vibrant red and tumbled past her shoulders in crazy curls. She had to keep scooping it back to stop it falling over her eyes. Her skirt was the shortest Grace had ever seen, her legs were bare and she was wearing a pair of heavy boots.

“Lowlife.” Scowling, the girl dusted off her legs and handed the bag to Grace. “You’d better check everything is there.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Grace checked her bag, relieved to have it safely returned. She stood up, trying to assess the damage. Her head hurt and her shoulder hurt, but the worst damage was to her pride. “Are you injured?”

“Me? Nah. I landed on him. He’ll probably feel it for a while, though.” That thought obviously gave her satisfaction and it gave Grace satisfaction, too.

“I don’t know how to thank you. I arrived in Paris today. Everything important is in my bag. If I’d lost it—”

The girl shrugged. “You didn’t, so no biggie.”

“We should probably find a gendarme and report it.”

“Why? The police have bigger things to deal with. And anyway, I don’t know enough French to report a crime. I can say my name, and I can say I don’t understand. I have no idea what the French for this asshole stole a bag is. Do you?”

“I’d probably find a different way of saying it. My French is pretty good.”

“Lucky for you. And if you don’t hang on to your bag, you’re going to need that French.” The girl straightened her strap top. “Your head is bleeding. You’d better come into the shop. You can clean up inside and then get a cab back to wherever it is you’re staying.”

Her head was throbbing and so was her ankle.

“You’ve been kind. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Audrey.”

“I’m Grace. You’re British? Are you on holiday? Working in Paris for the summer?”

“Yeah. I live over the bookshop.” The girl gestured along the street. “I was on my way home when I saw him grab your bag. You don’t look good. Are you going to faint?”