Perfect Strangers

‘I know this is hard for you,’ he said quietly.

‘Thank you,’ she conceded.

There was a few seconds’ pause.

‘Were you in love with him?’

Sophie gave a half-laugh.

‘Can you really be in love with someone after a few days? I liked Nick a lot, I know that much. I liked being with him. I liked the way he made me feel. Happy, special, worthwhile. I hadn’t felt that in some time.’

She looked back at Josh.

‘But now I know that’s what he did. He made women feel special, that was his job. So now I feel pretty shitty and stupid.’

She saw the cab driver glance at them in his rear-view mirror. Did he speak English? Was he listening to them? Sophie found she didn’t really care; she wanted to know everything, however idiotic it made her look.

‘So what about this countess?’

‘She let Nick live in her apartment in Paris. I don’t think she’s been here for years.’

‘That was nice of her,’ Sophie said tartly.

‘Don’t be like that, Sophie.’

‘How am I supposed to be, Josh? Am I supposed to accept all this? Just shrug and think, “Ah well, so I’ve been taken in by a con man, c’est la vie”? Well I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.’

She turned back to the passing scenery, watching through misty eyes the crowds milling around the Louvre’s glass pyramid, the Seine with its long black barges and the island in the middle of the river. From a distance it looked like a fortress rearing up from the water with steep walls that plunged into the Seine.

‘Look at that,’ she said, her mood mellowing.

‘That’s where we’re going,’ replied Josh.

On the island itself, it was like stepping back in time. She saw a juggler and a mime artist, fishmongers serving crabs on beds of ice, cafés advertising chocolat et digestifs, bakeries displaying pastries and tarts loaded with redcurrants and blackberries, each shop window making her drool more than the one before.

‘This is fantastic,’ she said, desperate to step out of the cab and soak it all in.

‘This is Île Saint-Louis,’ said Josh. ‘Not many tourists come here; they all pile on to the Île de la Cité and Notre-Dame cathedral instead.’

He signalled to the driver to pull over at the kerb.

‘Final stop,’ he said, as the car moved away. It was a small, traditional-looking café restaurant with a zinc-topped counter and bare floorboards. They took a table on the pavement, sitting in rickety rattan chairs, and Josh ordered ‘deux cafés’ while Sophie nervously glanced at the other patrons of the café. There was a couple hunched together, both wearing matching Ray-Bans, and a young man with uncombed hair scribbling into a notebook.

> ‘We’re surrounded by poets,’ whispered Sophie.

‘We’re surrounded by people who look like poets,’ corrected Josh as the waiter brought their drinks.

‘So what are we doing here?’ said Sophie, wincing at the strength of her espresso.

‘We’re looking for Nick’s apartment.’

‘The countess’s apartment, you mean.’

Josh ignored her.

‘When I was in Paris, Nick and I agreed to meet at this café because it was across the road from la comtesse’s place.’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sophie looked up at the smart grey building in front of them. It had a long row of balconies and shutters at the windows.