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out
onto the balcony, Jack was hit with the smell of baking bread. His
stomach growled. When had he last eaten? He remembered having
breakfast at an airport, but he couldn't be sure which one.
    Slipping into his jeans, he pulled a
warm sweater and a hat out of his suitcase. It was bound to be chilly
at this time of the morning. In the hotel elevator, an elderly french
couple eyed him suspiciously. For a moment he thought they might have
recognized him, but he suspected they were judging his scruffy
appearance. Even at 5.30 am, they were both impeccably dressed. With
a sigh, Jack ventured out into the streets of Paris.
    Ten minutes and several identical
looking side streets later, Jack was lost. All he wanted was some
food and a packet of cigarettes. He stomped over the cobbles with
growing irritation. Why were there no street signs anywhere? He tried
to ask an old lady, who rounded the corner with her shopping bag, but
she just gave him a confused look and scuttled away. Finally, taking
a left that he hoped would take him back to the main street, he
spotted a little red sign that read 'Tabac.' This looked promising.
He pushed open the small door and heard a doorbell jingle. The
shopkeeper, a stout, middle-aged man with an impressive moustache,
gave him a hard look before returning his eyes to his newspaper. Jack
scanned the small store. He picked up a tempting looking chocolate
bar; one thing he was enjoying about Europe was the chocolate,
especially the Belgian stuff. He could see why that was famous. He
spotted the cigarettes in a small locked case behind the counter, and
approached the shopkeeper with what he hoped was a friendly smile.
    “Er...bonjour....um,
j'aime...cigarettes?” Jack murmured hopefully. All he received
in return was a withering stare, followed by a barrage of
incomprehensible french.
    “Um...non francais...cigarettes,
s'il vous plait?” Jack tried, pointing at the locked case. The
shopkeeper rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket for the key.
Swinging the case open, he grabbed a box of some brand that Jack had
never heard of and plonked them on the counter. Jack thought about
arguing, but he didn't have the energy. He just set his chocolate
down next to them and held out a twenty euro note. The shopkeeper
took it wordlessly, dispensed a tiny amount of change on the counter,
and went back to reading the newspaper. Charming.
    “Merci beacoup,” Jack
muttered, and the little man grunted in return. Jack left the store,
taking care to slam the door behind him. Jerk. Would it kill people
to be a little friendly?
    Jack leaned against the wall of the
store, next to a battered old magazine rack, and tore the cellophane
from the packet of cigarettes. Jack
lit his cigarette and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. He had
given up, almost...but some days, he just really needed a cigarette.
For a moment, he felt at peace. Then out of the corner of his eye, a
familiar face jumped out at him, and he froze. Jack had become used
to seeing his face in print. Compass had done a few magazine covers
in their time, and there were always the paparazzi shots. Jack,
bleary eyed, stumbling out of a nightclub with his buddies. Chatting
to an old friend over coffee, who the tabloids would transform into
his 'secret lover.' Making out with a daytime TV star at some award
show or other...that was not one of his finest moments. But this
picture was different. Jack felt like he'd been slapped in the face.
His cigarette had lost all flavour, and he threw it onto the cobbles
and ground it out with his foot. Then he snatched every visible copy
of the magazine from the rack, marched back up to the counter and
slammed down a fifty euro note. The shopkeeper began to say
something, but Jack was already storming off down the street.  

***

    Sara
groaned as the irritating buzzing sound penetrated her consciousness.
She had been in the middle of a good dream. She stretched out her
hand and fumbled on her bedside table until she