Diva. Carrie Duffy
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was oblivious to his odd behaviour.
As she turned round, she realized Aidan was right – the pub was emptying out, and there was no longer a queue at the bar. Only a few customers were left now – a couple of English girls, giggling as they studied the happy hour cocktail menu; an old Irish guy, one of the Chez Paddy regulars, watching RTÉ on a wall-mounted flat screen; a smart-looking man in an expensive suit, taking his time over a whiskey and soda on the rocks.
‘Busy day?’
Alyson was collecting empty glasses, and didn’t hear the man speak.
‘Busy day?’ he tried again.
She turned, startled, breaking into a self-conscious smile. ‘You could say that.’
It was the guy in the suit who had spoken to her. He was tall, well built and Gallic-looking, with handsome features and penetrating brown eyes. His hair was dark, flecked with grey; Alyson aged him at late thirties.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked, spreading his hands in an open gesture.
Alyson took in his expensive clothes and immaculate appearance. He didn’t look as though he’d ever done a menial job in his life.
‘Have you worked in a bar before?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
His lips twitched, aware he was being teased. ‘No, but I … I know a lot of people who do,’ he finished with a smile, aware of how ridiculous that sounded. When he laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkled into fine lines.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Alyson assured him, feeling caught off-guard somehow. She continued to clear away the leftover plates, aware that he was watching her.
As she carried them over to the bar, he got up from his seat and joined her, settling his empty glass on the counter.
‘Would you like another?’ Alyson asked.
He nodded. ‘Please. Whiskey soda, with ice.’ He had a French accent, and Alyson was surprised. They didn’t get many natives in Chez Paddy, especially not ones who looked like him – executives, in hand-tailored suits.
‘Your accent is very unusual,’ he commented. ‘Where are you from?’
Alyson hesitated. She didn’t like talking about her background. ‘I’m from Manchester,’ she replied eventually, answering with only the bare facts. ‘The north of England.’
‘Ah,’ he explained passionately. ‘Yes, I know it! You have a wonderful football team, of course.’
Alyson smiled in amusement. ‘So I’m told.’
‘But it is a beautiful part of the country,’ he added quickly, sensing her lack of interest in the subject. ‘There is the Peak District, no?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Alyson replied in surprise, not expecting him to know the area so well.
‘I have been to the north, two, perhaps three times. Manchester, the countryside, the Lake District … so beautiful,’ he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as though to re-live the memory.
‘Were you there on holiday?’ Alyson asked, slipping into the easy rhythm she’d learned at Chez Paddy – if the customer wanted to talk, ask them lots of questions about themselves.
‘No, I visited for work. I am very lucky with my job – it allows me to travel often.’
Alyson pushed the whiskey and soda across the counter towards him. ‘What do you do?’
There was a slight pause and she glanced up at him, worried that she’d overstepped the boundaries. ‘I’m in business,’ he told her, taking a slug from his glass. ‘And you?’ He changed the subject. ‘Have you travelled much?’
Alyson looked down at the counter and shook her head. ‘This is the first time I’ve left England.’
‘Yes?’ The man raised his dark eyebrows, seeming surprised. ‘And now you are living here? That is a big decision – when you have never travelled overseas before, to move somewhere completely different … You have friends here?’
‘No,’ Alyson confessed, her voice growing quieter. ‘I didn’t know anyone before I came.’
The man seemed to sense that something was wrong, smoothly changing the subject. ‘And now you are here, what do you think of Paris?’
‘Oh, I love it!’ Alyson exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘I knew I would. I love the language, the architecture, the sense of freedom. It just seems like the most beautiful, romantic place in the world.’
‘It is,’ the man agreed, enjoying her enthusiasm. ‘It is very beautiful. And very romantic.’
He stared hard at her, and Alyson suddenly found that she couldn’t meet his gaze. There was something about the way he was looking at her with those intense brown eyes. It made her heart beat faster and she suddenly had the overwhelming urge to run away in terror, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in—
‘Philippe.’ He reached out across the counter, offering his hand.
It took Alyson a second to realize what he meant. ‘Oh! Alyson,’ she burst out, feeling stupid.
‘Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.’
‘Et vous aussi.’
‘You speak excellent French,’ Philippe complimented her.
‘Thank you,’ Alyson managed to stammer. He still hadn’t let go of her hand.
‘Man, this place is a mess!’ Aidan exclaimed as he emerged from the back. He stopped short as he took in the scene before him – Alyson, flushed and breathless, shaking the hand of some sleazy-looking guy almost twice her age.
His eyes narrowed and Alyson instinctively pulled back, as though caught doing something she shouldn’t. She didn’t know why she felt so guilty – Aidan never minded her talking to the customers.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized quickly. ‘I started tidying up but then …’ She stopped, unsure of what to say next.
Philippe stood up and turned to Aidan. ‘It is all my fault,’ he said easily. ‘I have been distracting your staff, and I apologize.’
Aidan stared at him coolly for a moment, taking an instant dislike to this arrogant prick. ‘No problem,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Alyson watched the two men nervously, sensing the animosity that crackled between them.
Philippe knocked back his drink then threw a twenty-euro note on the counter. ‘Keep the change. Nice to speak with you, Alyson.’
He walked out of the door without looking back.
Music pounded from the stereo speakers, a David Guetta track that was storming the charts all over Europe. The volume was turned up to max and the tiny apartment began to vibrate like a nightclub.
Alyson was sitting at the dining table eating her dinner, surrounded by piles of CeCe’s sketches and half-finished garments.
Dionne and CeCe were getting ready for yet another night out in their usual flamboyant fashion. As Alyson ate, Dionne let out a whoop and grabbed a deodorant can from where it had been flung on the coffee table before mounting the sofa, her legs wide apart in an attempt to keep her balance on the squashy cushions. She was fresh out of the shower and naked apart from a black lace thong that left nothing to the imagination. Using the can as a microphone she posed like a rock star, waving her arms in the air and thrusting out her crotch as she sang along with the music, her breasts swaying as she danced.
Alyson looked down at her plate. She tried to avoid seeing her own body naked, and had no desire to see anyone else’s grinding in front of her.
‘Why don’t you come out with us tonight?’ Dionne suggested, as she jumped down from the sofa and poured herself