Page 93 of Pretty Mess

“Thank you,” he says gravely.

“Would you put bits of me in a bag?”

“Everything except your jawbone. There isn’t a bag in the world big enough for that.”

I snort and then note a man wearing overalls and a trilby walking past. “Him next. It’s your turn to go first.”

As Mac guides me through the neighbourhood, our guessing game keeps us amused and grows increasingly wild with each new person.

“You seem very at home here,” I observe as we cross a small square. A playful wind snaps at our clothes and rustles the branches of the cherry trees. They lost their blossoms in last night’s storm, and now the delicate petals lie on the ground like a pink carpet for us to walk on.

“I should be. I lived here from the age of ten and went to university here.”

I stop walking.

He gives me a curious glance. “What’s the matter? Has your battery run down? Please allow me to savour this peace for what will be an all-too-brief second.”

“Y-You lived here?” I stammer in my haste to get the questions out. “Oh my god, does that make you French? Wheredid you live? Where did you go when you left Paris? Which university did you go to?”

“Damnation,” he says sadly. “Your mouth is still working.”

I give him a ferocious scowl.

He chuckles. “Let me see if I can remember your many questions. Yes, I lived in the city. I have dual nationality because my father was French and my mother English. I can naturally therefore speak fluent French. And I did go to university here.”

“And you ended up selling houses?”

He chuckles. “I’m not an estate agent. I own a very large international company that buys and rents out properties all over the world, including the very nice one in London you’re currently living in.”

I hide my wince at the word “currently.” I can’t imagine being anywhere other than with him. “So how did you end up doing that?”

He looks suddenly wary. “Ah, that’s far too long and boring a story. Suffice to say, my parents died when I was young, and I went to live with my godfather, who was French and also my father’s best friend. He came from a very wealthy family, and his business had been family-owned for over a hundred years. He died when I was twenty and left it all to me.”

I think back to the house in Shepperton. Why didn’t he live with his grandparents? I have so many questions, but his voice has a very final tone, indicating he’s shared enough.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say.

He steers me around a couple who are standing in the middle of the pavement talking and laughing. “For what?” he asks in a surprised voice.

“That your dad died.” I lick my lips. “My mum died, so I sort of know how it feels.”

“I didn’t know that. Is that the lady in the photograph?”

“What photograph?” Realisation dawns that he must have seen the photo in the lounge back at the flat. “Oh yes. Sorry about that.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, because I’m pretty sure that personal photographs aren’t allowed, according to Julian.”

“Well, he does seem to be the expert on what’s allowed and what isn’t.”

“He’s an expert in most subjects, according to him.”

He chuckles, and silence falls again. I look around with interest as we step onto what looks like a very posh shopping street.

Huge shop windows displaying expensive goods line both sides of the street, and designer names abound. Even the pavements are gleaming and shiny, as though they would never dare be dirty.

Expensive cars pass us, disgorging well-to-do customers. I shake my head at the store employees standing guard at the shops’ doors, scrutinizing people and acting like bouncers deciding whether to let a drunk stag party into a club for a late drink.