One Summer in Paris

“Waitressing?”

Clearly he’d never seen Audrey trying to read a menu. “I’m a hairdresser.” Technically she wasn’t actually a hairdresser, but she might as well give herself a promotion as no one else was going to do it.

He looked bemused. “If you’re holding down two jobs, how are you going to learn French?”

“Evenings?”

“I could help you with that, too, if you like.”

She imagined the two of them sprawled across her bed in her attic room. He’d be trying to improve her pronunciation and his mouth would drift toward hers—

Unfortunately, for that scenario to become reality she’d actually have to learn French and that was never going to happen.

“Let’s see how it goes, but thanks.” She stood up. “As you’re here now, I presume I can go?”

“Of course. I will see you tomorrow. I look forward to it.” He gave her a long look that made her knees quiver.

“Me, too.”

Pathetic. She could at least have thought of something funny to say. All she had going for her was her sense of humor and that seemed to have deserted her.

She ran up the stairs to her room and spent five minutes on her hair and makeup. The first thing people did when they walked into a salon was look at the hair of the people who worked there so she needed to make a good first impression. She needed a job, and she needed it fast.

She knew she was good with hair. To her it was an art form, although not the sort of art they displayed in the Louvre.

She picked up a hairbrush and some product, and then spritzed, sprayed and twisted until she achieved a look she was satisfied with. Then she rummaged through her clothes. In the end she grabbed an oversize T-shirt she’d stolen from Ron. She belted it around the middle and stared at herself in the mirror.

It worked, even if she did look a little like a Roman centurion.

She locked the door and headed downstairs into the sunshine.

She walked past the posh salon and paused.

Oh, hell, why not? They could only tell her to get lost.

She pushed open the door, braced for rejection.

The owner’s name was Sylvie and she spoke reasonable English. Instead of an interview, she asked Audrey to wash her hair.

For once, Audrey was able to demonstrate her skills. She’d smoothed, stroked, massaged and rinsed and tried not to think about the salon at home and what everyone was doing there.

Sylvie hired her on the spot.

Audrey was stunned. It was too good to be true. “But—I can’t chat in French.” She felt compelled to point that out in case the woman hadn’t understood her deficiencies in that area.

Sylvie shrugged. “Sometimes they prefer silence. A head massage is a good time to be quiet with your thoughts, no? More important, you have gentle hands and you pay attention.”

Audrey couldn’t believe it. She’d got the job. She’d got the job! She was so pathetically grateful and relieved that she wanted to hug Sylvie and dance around the sleek, elegant salon, but she managed to contain herself and simply muttered her thanks in both languages.

Something had gone her way at last.

Having signed some forms and firmed up details, she left the salon and punched the air.

When would Sylvie pay her? Did she have enough money to stretch that long?

She was in the mood for celebrating and headed to Grace’s hotel.

Grace had written down details of her suite, so Audrey slipped on a pair of oversize sunglasses, hoisted her bag over her shoulder and strode across the marble lobby as if she knew where she was going and had every right to be there.