Page 70 of Perfect Strangers

‘You don’t know which one? That’s an awful lot of apartments over there,’ she said.

‘Île Saint-Louis is like a little village. We might have some luck,’ said Josh, waving the waiter over. He was a short man, perhaps in his sixties, with grey hair and a white apron.

‘L’addition,’ said Josh, handing him a twenty euro note and waving away the change. ‘Puis-je vous poser une question?’

‘Of course. I speak English, monsieur.’

‘Excellent,’ said Josh, smiling, ‘I wonder if you know my friend, la comtesse. I know she used to come to this café; she said it was her favourite.’

The man’s chest visibly puffed out.

‘Oui, la comtesse, she lives across the street there,’ he said, pointing up to the corner balcony on the top floor of the building. ‘She would wave to me in the mornings. Always the same order: tart tatin et chocolat chaud, even in summer.’

His smile dimmed a little.

‘But she has not been to visit for many years. She is not ill, I hope?’

‘No, she is in fine health,’ said Josh. ‘And she asked me to send her regards.’

They finished their coffee and crossed the street.

‘I think you made his day,’ said Sophie, waving to the waiter.

‘I do try,’ said Josh. ‘I’m all about the public relations.’

‘But how are we going to get . . .’ she began, but Josh made a silencing motion as he craned his neck to look up at the building’s balconies.

‘Shh!’ he said. ‘I’m counting.’

He stopped at the building’s wooden door, where there was a line of buzzers. ‘Now, if I’ve got this right . . .’ he said, pressing the intercom button for apartment 3. They waited, but there was no reply. He tried again: still nothing.

‘No one’s home.’ He smiled.

‘What did you expect?’ said Sophie cynically. ‘We know where Nick is.’

‘Yes, but who knows if la comtesse has other gentlemen friends?’

Just then, the door opened and a well-dressed woman stepped out of the building. Josh didn’t hesitate.

‘Oh, scusi moi,’ he said to the woman in terrible French. ‘Is this Le Juno apartments? Nous . . . erm, we rent an apartment here?’ He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and waved it at her. ‘Pour les vacances?’

The woman was about forty, with glossy brown hair streaked with blonde, and she wore a plain blue shirt in the way only a stylish French woman can.

‘No,’ she said, slightly bemused. ‘There is no rental apartment in this building,’ she added in perfect English.

Josh pretended to consult his paper.

Sophie looked at him in bewilderment. What was he playing at? Where had his fluent French gone?

‘But this is Avenue Michel?’ he said, holding up a hand.

‘No, Avenue Michel is two streets that way,’ said the woman patiently.

‘Ah, bien sûr, merci beaucoup,’ said Josh. Sophie noticed the little smile the woman flashed him as she walked off. Did every woman in the world fall under his spell, even the terribly chic Parisian ones who really ought to know better? Then she noticed that Josh hadn’t moved and realised what his lost tourist act had been for.

‘Is your foot keeping the door open?’

‘Not big, not clever, but it works.’ He smiled.