Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,1
“Bonjour.”
“Monsieur Chapman?”
“Oui.”
“You are ready to update the software in our cranes, yes?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Bon. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”
“But I’m supposed to do it today.”
“Non. This is not possible. I have a schedule.”
Piers looked up at the vista of Notre Dame. “So do I. I have a ticket home tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”
“Monsieur, if Waterloo Large Construction had brought the correct equipment, no software update would be required.”
Piers sighed. “I can’t change my plans, and the update will only take a minute.”
“Then I shall talk to your superiors, and see you tomorrow. Good day, monsieur.” There was a click and the phone went dead.
He sighed. Waterloo Large didn’t like upsetting the people who paid for their services. He made a bet with himself that the project office would call within two minutes. But two minutes was two minutes, so he crossed the river and joined the line for Notre Dame tours.
On the far bank, he could see the pair of cranes he was to update was stationary. As he debated sneaking onto the building site and updating them without permission, his phone rang. It wasn’t the office number he expected but, then again, it was the number he always expected. He took a deep breath and pressed talk. “Hi, mum.”
“Piers, you didn’t answer.”
“Didn’t answer when?”
“Three hours ago, when I called.”
“I must have been in the Chunnel. Out of range.”
“Well you need to keep in touch, dear. You know how your father worries about you when you travel.”
Piers gave a wry smile. “If he’s that worried, get him to send a text next time.”
“Oh, no, dear. Your father and I aren’t teenagers.”
“Mum, it’s just a way to communicate.”
“I don’t want to communicate. I want to talk to you.”
“Right. Look, I’ve got to go. Work and all that.”
“Of course. But you will keep in touch, won’t you? You’re not staying long, are you? Over there, I mean. Course you aren’t. I’m sure you don’t like it over there any more than your father did when he had to go there. 1986. He didn’t like it one bit. All olive oil and raw meat. Really, it’s no way to enjoy yourself, is it now?”
“Mum, I have to go.”
“Yes, you said. Work. Well, hurry home. And stay in well-lit areas with lots of people around. You always hear such terrible stories of people who travel to these foreign places.”
“It’s France. It’s closer than Scotland.”
“And that’s supposed to recommend the place?”
Piers sighed. “I’ve got to go. Bye, mum.”
Piers held the phone away from his ear until his mother’s goodbyes trailed off. When he ended the call, he saw an envelope icon glowing on the display. He clicked it and a message opened up.
French want software update delayed to Saturday. Travel office rescheduling tickets. Hotel Lafayette booked under company name. Get a taxi. Per Diem is 107 euros but don’t spend it all. I’ll tell the guys Xbox is off tonight.
Piers sighed. Changing his plans was a bummer, but an extra day in Paris would be good. If only he’d brought his camera.
He stepped out of line. He needed to check into his hotel before taking in the sights. Stuffing his phone in his pocket, he crossed the square outside Notre Dame and waved at a passing taxi.
Chapter 3
For the first time in weeks, Sidney Roux felt hopeful as she threaded her way through the early morning crowd and crossed the Seine. Her stomach growled at the scent of freshly baked bread drifting from a corner café, and she wanted to stop, but she didn’t dare be late for her interview.
An interview. Her muscles tingled with adrenaline at the thought. She’d finally done it, landed an interview at a fashion house.
She tucked her portfolio tightly under her arm. She had no shortage of designs to show off. Paris had proved to be a fire hose of inspiration. She had searched every alleyway for handmade clothes in hole-in-the-wall shops. She’d studied the vintage pieces she’d discovered at flea markets. She toured department stores so often she could name every single designer they stocked. It had done wonders for her creativity, and now was her chance to shine.
The polished black and white facade of the fashion house loomed. She adjusted her jacket and smoothed the wrinkles out of a skirt of her own design. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to her future.
A fashionably dressed girl raised her eyebrows expectantly at her.
“Sidney Roux. I have an interview. Monsieur Charbonneau, the