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the day I walked downstairs into the shop groggy with sleep and saw Charlotte standing there. She carried a rucksack and a wide-brimmed straw hat and looked hot from walking. Her smile was hesitant.
    â€œHello, you,” she said. “We were getting worried.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI phone but you’re never here. And your mum and dad …” She broke off. “Well, do I get a hug?”
    I stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, my lips brushing against her damp red hair.
    â€œBloody hell, Ronnie, look at the state of you. When did you last eat?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYou’re really not. Your friend Mike …”
    â€œMike?”
    â€œHe answered the phone yesterday.”
    â€œAnd told you to come running? Probably just wanted to size you up as another notch on his bed-post.”
    â€œHe was right though; you look ill. Have you seen a doctor?”
    â€œI don’t need a doctor. What I need is for everyone to stop bothering me.”
    She was silent for a moment, glaring at me. Then she turned her eyes away. “A lovely warm welcome for your girlfriend,” she muttered, pretending to study one of the shelves.
    I ran a hand through my matted hair. “Look, I had a bit to drink last night. And the shock of seeing you here …” I broke off. I’d been about to say that I was sorry, but part of me resisted. “What time is it?”
    â€œNearly one.”
    â€œI’ll buy you something at the café.” I opened the till and lifted out a few notes.
    â€œIs that allowed?” Charlotte asked as I stuffed the money into my pocket.
    â€œI’ll put it back later,” I lied.
    When we stepped outside there was—for once—no sign of Alice, but Maryse was setting out boxes of cheap paperbacks on the pavement.
    â€œTell Mike I’ll be having a word with him later,” I said, my face set like stone. Then I led Charlotte a few meters along the road, entering the café and taking up position by the counter. Charlotte slid the rucksack from her shoulders.
    â€œThinking of staying?” I inquired.
    â€œI wasn’t about to do Paris and back in a day. Since when did you smoke?”
    I looked down at the cigarette I was rolling.
    â€œNot sure,” I admitted. Which was the truth—I had no memory of buying either the pouch of Drum tobacco or the packet of tissue-thin papers. All I knew was that Alice obviously didn’t mind. The look on Charlotte’s face was properly small-minded and Presbyterian. I could imagine her sitting primly in my parents’ drawing-room, holding cup and saucer and allowing herself “one small slice of cake.” Home baking? Naturally. The conversation stilted and bourgeois and safe. Everything so fucking safe .
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” she asked as I lit the slender cigarette.
    â€œI’m thinking you shouldn’t have come.”
    Was she really becoming tearful, or merely putting on a show in the hope of sympathy? My espresso had arrived, along with her Perrier. The barman waved a bottle of red in my direction but I shook my head and he seemed to understand.
    Pas devant les enfants …
    â€œI wanted to see you,” Charlotte persisted. “This is Paris, after all. Everyone says it’s a romantic city and I’ve been missing you, Ronnie. I thought maybe this would be the place for us to …”
    â€œWhat?”
    She lowered her eyes and her voice. “Don’t make me say it.”
    â€œFuck our brains out?”
    Her eyes and mouth widened. She glanced at the barman.
    â€œHe doesn’t have any English,” I reassured her, knowing Francois would actually have understood every word. He was polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. All of a sudden I craved something alcoholic, so ordered a pression . When it arrived, I demolished it in two gulps, and nodded for a refill while Charlotte stared at