Free A Week in Paris by Rachel Hore Page A

another of those unexpected déjà vu memories. After what had happened the last time they’d met, he’d think her really peculiar.
    They idled against the balustrade for a while, looking down at the people passing in the silvery evening, young men riding noisy scooters, a sleek car disgorging two women in gorgeous evening dresses and fur stoles, some brightly dressed teenagers, the girls with fringed hair and false eyelashes. Their infectious laughter rose from the street.
    ‘I can still hear music,’ she said. The tune had changed now, to something lighter and lilting. Another song that Edith Piaf liked to sing.
    He heard it too, a distant smile passing across his mobile features.
‘Sous le ciel de Paris, dum de dum,’
he sang.
    ‘You’re out of tune,’ she teased.
    ‘I’ll have you know I was a church choirboy before my voice broke.’
    ‘I believe you.’ She gave him a sideways smile. ‘This might sound corny, but I think Paris tonight is exactly as it should be. This reception, the music, the chandeliers.’
    ‘I know what you mean. The sense of fun and mystery, the
allure
.’
    ‘I didn’t see you here earlier. Had you just arrived?’
    ‘No. There was a press call with your conductor I had to attend. When it finished I came to look for you. I was terrified you’d gone.’
    ‘I’m glad you spotted me.’
    ‘I’m afraid I’m not able to stay for the dinner tonight, but you’re here for a few days, aren’t you? You must let me show you around. There’s quite a lot more to Paris than Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, you know. I might not be as knowledgeable as your teacher was . . .’
    ‘Oh, I’m sure you are. We’re here until Sunday afternoon, so thank you, I’d like that.’ She felt herself grow light with happiness. ‘We’re rehearsing most mornings for the concerts, but otherwise . . .’
    ‘Would tomorrow be suitable for you? I’ll see if I can wangle the afternoon off. It shouldn’t be a problem unless some crisis strikes.’
    ‘Tomorrow, why not?’
    ‘Where are you staying? I could telephone and leave a message.’
    She told him about the Hôtel Marguerite, which he didn’t seem to know, then she felt the warm firmness of his hand in hers, and met his smiling eyes, before his graceful figure vanished into the crowd.
    She could hardly believe that they’d come across one another again like this. It felt like a tremendous coincidence, but she also accepted his rational explanation. By luck or logic, the magic of Paris had drawn them both, and once he’d known she was there he’d come to seek her out. The fact that he was living here made her feel less of a stranger herself. It gave her a solid connection that strengthened the fanciful one she felt. She was already looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow.
    Perhaps, her thoughts ran on, he’d be able to help her in her search. Even if she found the convent and this Mère Marie, what would she ask? Whether there was someone who knew her as a child, who could tell her the story of the little rucksack and the label with her name on it. Or even remember her mother.
    She was still puzzling about this when the soft boom of a gong sounded for dinner.

Chapter 7
     
    Wednesday
    Before stepping out after breakfast the following morning, Fay asked the matronly hotel receptionist with hair in a perfect pleat if there were any messages, but on being told no, reassured herself that it was too early to have heard from Adam. She then asked in her hesitant French about the other matter on her mind, how she might find the whereabouts of the convent. ‘I have tried the post office,’ she explained.
    The woman arched her painted eyebrows then shrugged. ‘
L’église?
’ she suggested. ‘Ask at the Madeleine?’ and pointed a manicured finger.
    ‘
Merci
,’ Fay replied, thinking this as good an idea as any. Surely the priests there would know about convents in the city. There wouldn’t be time before the rehearsal to ask now, but