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‘Didyou knowIwas s’posed to get engaged tomorrow night?Ha!’ slurred the blondeEnglishwoman.Shewas sitting alone in the empty bistro, gulping red wine at an alarming pace.
Gabriel, the only other customer, watched from his usual spot in the opposite corner of the outdoor patio.Somebodywas going to have a nasty hangover in the morning.Heswirled his amber cognac, served appropriately in a balloon snifter, as he reflected on how theBritishdrank like heathens.
Asidefrom the woman’s outbursts, the only other sound was the repetitive scraping of a broom against the pavement.Michel, the skinny, buck-toothed waiter, was sweeping up that evening’s rubbish.Hehad been on the receiving end of the woman’s monologue for quite a while now.CatchingGabriel’seye,Michelgave him a desperate look that said, ‘Mymistress is waiting for me.Whenis this anglaise going to leave?’Asa regular diner,Gabrielhad heard plenty over the years aboutMichel’spost-shift antics.Theman had questionable morals, but thesteak friteswere good and the bistro was close toGabriel’sapartment building.
Heoffered a noncommittal shrug in response.Michelrolled his eyes and continued sweeping.Returningto his book,Gabrielre-read the paragraph he had marked with his index finger.
‘Twoyears, down the drain!’ she exclaimed, jolting him off the page again.Atthis rate, he’d never finish this chapter on restoring rotting woodwork.
Sheseemed determined to draw attention, so he decided to give it to her momentarily.Thewoman was obviously in pain—he empathised with that.Eventhough she was fall-down drunk and slumped at her table with streaks of mascara running down her face,Gabrielrecognised beauty when he saw it.Hertanned skin glowed with natural, outdoorsy health.Despiteall the wine, her perfectly straight teeth dazzled in their whiteness—a poster child for proper dental care in defiance ofBritain’sreputation for horrible teeth.Longblonde ringlets fell to halfway down her back, reminding him of the woman in the shell inBotticelli’sBirthofVenus.UnlikeVenus, this woman was clothed in a blue, off-the-shoulder summer dress printed with small white flowers.Pity…his photographer’s eye imagined she’d look great posing nude in a shell.
Ashe studied her, she accidentally spilled her wine on the white tablecloth, the red tentacles extending like blood.Hestared as it drip, drip, dripped onto the patio floor.Gabrielshivered.
‘You!’
Ittook him a moment to realise she was speaking to him.Hepointed to himself.
‘Yes, you!You’rea man, right?’
‘LasttimeIchecked,’Gabrielsaid in his flawlessAmerican-Englishaccent.
‘Whyare men such wankers?’
Gabrielfrowned and glanced atMichel, who definitely fit that description. ‘Notall of us are…wankers, as you say.’
‘Whatabout you?Areyou a wanker?’
Heimagined a few people might think so. ‘Isuppose it would depend on who you ask.Everybodyis a wanker to somebody.’
Shenodded as though he wereJean-PaulSartre, and he had just defined existentialism for the first time. ‘Wow!Huh.That’sso true.Well,Krishis a wanker to me!Ithought he was one of the good ones, you know?Butthen—poof—he tells me he’s in love with his ex-girlfriend.Andjust like that, it’s all over.’
Whoeverthis man was, he must be an idiot.
‘Garçon!Anotherbottlesee-voo-play!’Shewaved atMichellike drunken royalty.HerFrenchwas truly terrible.
Michelleaned on his broom and slapped on his practicedSympatheticWaiterface.Clickinghis tongue three times, he said in accentedEnglish, ‘Iam afraid that we are closing for the night.’
‘What?No!Isssoearly.’
‘It’safter midnight.’
Michelreached into his apron for her bill, placed it onto a round silver tray, and left it on her table.Hescurried inside to retrieve the card machine.
‘Nounicorn stickers for you!’ she called after him.Gabrielwondered whyMichelwould want unicorn stickers.
Andthen she began to cry again.
Sighing,Gabrielslammed his book closed.Michelwas right to cut her off.Itwas dangerous to drink so much as a woman travelling alone in a foreign city.Somebodywould need to protect her from herself and, annoyingly, as the only gentleman left in the bistro, it would have to be him.
Hedropped the book into his satchel along with his reading glasses and left twenty euros on the table forMichel, who returned to take payment from the woman.Shewiped at her face and blew her nose on one of the cloth napkins before fumbling around in her mammoth handbag for her wallet.Gabrielhadalways wondered how women found anything inside such big bags.Hepreferred an orderly bag with lots of compartments.
Gabrielstood and approachedMichel, who was still waiting.
Michelflubbed his generous lips and said inFrench, ‘WhatamIgoing to do with her?Sheis too drunk, andIhave no idea where she’s staying.’
‘Well, then, today is your lucky day,’ saidGabrielas he slapped him on the back, ‘becauseIdo.’
