Perfect Strangers

He had already stepped away from her and she did not take her eyes off him; the last thing she wanted to do was lose him.

‘Let’s go,’ he said when he returned a few minutes later. Taking her elbow, he steered her through the high stone arch and out on to the bustling street.

‘Everyone’s so well dressed,’ she whispered as a woman brushed past in a Missoni knitted dress, a Goyard vanity case in one hand, a miniature poodle in the other.

‘Welcome to Paris,’ smiled Josh, leading her towards the taxi queue. At the front was a red-faced gent in a crumpled suit, and Josh went straight up to him and began talking to him in French.

Sophie listened to his fluency in astonishment. Josh McCormack seemed rough around the edges, street-smart for sure but not a cosmopolitan sophisticate.

She felt faint embarrassment that her own French wasn’t better, especially compared to Josh’s linguistic skills. Then she had to admit she hadn’t been the greatest student, being more interested in what parties there were to go to rather than revision to be done. The only teacher who had made any impression on her was Mr Damon, her sixth-form English teacher, who had recognised a creative flair in her and encouraged her to write short stories and poems. Not that she could ever tell Francesca or any of the other girls about it, but secretly she had harboured a desire to become a journalist or a writer. I’d certainly have some material now, she thought.

The ruddy-faced gentleman gestured towards the white Lada pulling up next to them.

‘Bien sûr. Please take it,’ he said, stepping forward to open the door for Sophie. She gave him a wan smile as Josh spoke to the driver and they clambered inside.

‘Merci beaucoup,’ she managed before they pulled away.

‘What did you say to that man?’ she asked, turning to Josh as they moved into traffic. Her French was rusty, but she was fairly sure he’d said something untrue. Josh tapped one finger against his lips and looked meaningfully at the driver, an overweight Middle Eastern man in a flat cap.

‘I told him you were ill and pregnant,’ said Josh.

‘But that’s a lie.’

‘So? I’m glad we didn’t have to stand around in that busy street, aren’t you?’

‘But you . . .’

Josh tapped her leg and she fell silent.

‘Just watch Paris,’ he ordered.

She did as he said and was glad of it, wondering why she had never been to the French capital before. It had always been so close, yet she had somehow never made it to this icon of chic. Unless you were connected enough to attend the fashion shows, Paris wasn’t on the Chelsea-girl list of places to go: Sardinia, Switzerland, Barbados, New York. Besides, when she had travelled with Will, it was always to destination hotels rather than cities or places – in their two years together, they had chalked up stays at Leading Hotels of the World like notches on a bedpost. But this? She took a deep breath, as if to soak up the essence of Paris in one gulp. It was all just as she had pictured: the elegant grey stone buildings, the roaring traffic; even the light seemed different here.

Parked on a street corner was a black van. Standing around it were three gendarmes, machine guns strapped to their chests, and Sophie’s buoyant feeling immediately left her. However inviting Paris looked, she wasn’t on holiday, she wasn’t here to soak up the culture and visit the Louvre. Suddenly all of the things that had seemed exotic only a moment ago became sinister and loaded with negative possibilities. The elegant women with their high heels and paper shopping bags, the news vendor in his funny little orange castle covered with foreign magazines – they were all alien, they all spoke a different language, they could all be watching, passing on information.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ she said.

‘Un petit peu,’ said Josh. ‘I had a French girlfriend once. I just picked it up.’

She wanted to ask him about her. Not because she was interested in what Josh McCormack’s girlfriends were like, but because he intrigued her, because here she was, on the run with him, and yet she knew almost nothing about him.

‘Nous sommes ici, monsieur.’

Sophie had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that the taxi had stopped outside a grand white building with wrought-iron balconies at every window. She almost gasped as she clambered out of the taxi and saw the hotel’s facade.

‘Where are we?’

‘Le Bristol,’ said Josh. ‘The best hotel in Paris.’ Then added in a whispered aside, ‘Although don’t tell that to the Ritz and the Four Seasons.’

‘We can’t afford this, Josh,’ hissed Sophie. She had about sixty pounds in her purse – probably still damp from their dip in the Thames – and had no in

tention of using her credit card.

‘We need to stay somewhere good with a helpful concierge,’ said Josh, nodding to the doorman as they pushed through the doors. ‘We’re not going to find that in some fleapit in the Bastille, are we?’

‘And we don’t even have reservations.’

‘Yes we do, Miss Aniston,’ he smiled.