Harry Potter and the Dreaming Spires

I needed to escape the madness of Paris. Julien, Lucien, Etienne, all of them. Fortunately a knight - Sir Alistair, in fact, for it was he – arrived to save this damsel in distress.

Alistair has this great idea that I should join him in Oxford for the weekend. He’s often promised to give me a whistle stop tour of the city. Now’s his chance – under cover of a business meeting – to do so.

Alistair is an authoritative guide, taking me through the highlights – the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, Blackwells bookshop, then down towards the river for a visit to his old college, Christ Church. The cathedral is very impressive, the detail of the stained glass windows amazing. Unfortunately the dining hall, where they made the Harry Potter films, is closed while the students take lunch. The sun is shining on the meadow and we sit outside the pub for a quick glass of beer. Alistair glances at his watch, says he has another appointment this afternoon, but has booked us a table for tonight, at Browns.

I spend the afternoon at my hotel, have a swim and a sauna, and feel refreshed when the taxi arrives just before eight. I’m wearing a tight fitting turquoise dress, nicely distressed hair, heavy make up, expensive perfume from Paris, and the six-inch heels. I feel ready for anything.

The restaurant we’re going to, Browns, is apparently renowned for it’s atmosphere. I can see why, it’s very popular. The place is crowded, mainly young people, the tables close together. Alistair and I are ushered to our table and I start to feel good. Four girls on the table next to us are drinking and laughing. Everywhere the sound of chatter fills the air. Waiters buzz past with plates of great smelling food.

Alistair orders a bottle of champagne. The waiter takes our orders, I opt for a crab and avocado salad to start. I tell him about my being head hunted in Paris, and my uncertainty surrounding that.
Oddly enough, he was about to suggest something similar himself, so he says.
You want me to work for you?
Maybe, but there’s something else. Caroline has demanded a divorce.
I tell him I’m sorry, if I’ve caused him any problems.
He smiles. No, it was going to happen anyway, he says. Actually, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me for years.
He squeezes my thigh, leans closer. I’m feeling high.
But won’t a divorce be costly, I say.
He shrugs. Money isn’t everything, you know. Besides, she deserves a decent settlement. But I won’t be destitute.
That’s good, I’d hate to see you cleaned out.
The thing is Sandrine, he takes my hand in his, I don’t want you to work for me. I’d offer you an equal partnership.
Are we talking business here, or something else?
It could be anything you want, he says.
That’s very generous.
He looks me right in the eye.
I’m in love with you, he says. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I need to think about it though, I say.
I get up and walk slowly to the toilet, taking care not to fall off my heels. The vertigo is making my head swoon. I think he just asked me to marry him. Lady Ella. Sounds good.

In the taxi we hold hands and Alistair has his arm around me. I don’t want the night to end, he whispers, stay at my place. I nod absently, the drink has taken hold.

Alistair’s hotel is sumptuous, far grander than mine. The four poster bed has silk sheets and another bottle of champagne awaits us. He lifts me onto the bed and pushes my dress up, and soon I feel his tongue between my legs, tickling me. Trouble is, I've had too much too drink, and I just don't feel good.
After a minute or two I roll onto my side.
Alistair tells me to wait while he goes for a piss. His erection is quite huge.
I lie back and think of England, Harry Potter, and the dreaming Oxford spires. I’d be crazy to turn him down, wouldn’t I?
But there's this nagging doubt - would it still be the same, if I weren't his mistress, his femme fatale?
I tell him that I'm sorry, I'm just too tired. Tomorrow morning, I promise. He looks disappointed, but concedes defeat.

I wake up first, naturally. The windows are open and a warm breeze flutters the curtains. It's only half light, and the only sound is the rain falling steadily outside. I pull off the covers and shiver, then cross to the balcony, to light my first cigarette of the day. I'm thinking about Alistair, and whether it'd work, me being his partner. The problem is, I don't find men that attractive - I'll never love a man the way I love Helene, for instance.

I dress quickly and sneak out via the fire escape, taking care to carry my heels for fear of the noise they might make. Half an hour later I'm sitting on a train bound for London. I'm thinking about Alistair, and how he'll react to my note - the one that says thanks for a great night, but it's better this way.

I imagine him screaming and swearing, and I struggle to suppress a giggle. The guy in a suit opposite looks up from his paper, glances at my legs.I pout at him and pull my knees up.
Alistair is right, I'm a naughty girl, and I deserve to be spanked.

The wine merchant

Later that afternoon, I turn up for my appointment at the wine merchants. I’ve decided to play it safe. Not too much cleavage, not too much leg. Just a nice classic suit.

The address is in a fashionable area of the Marais district. The décor suggests money, and class. I’m impressed, but try not to show it.

The dealer’s name is Julien. He’s about forty, tanned, with a crop of fair curly hair. His eyes are steely blue. He wears an expensive pale Armani suit, with a deep blue open necked shirt. He smiles politely and shakes my hand warmly.

Mademoiselle Krantz. Enchante.
Sandrine, please.
Your surname, It’s not very French, but you sound local?
I was born in Paris, but my late father was from New York.
An interesting background. But right now, we don’t have much time. Let’s talk business.

We sit at a sofa in front of a low glass table. There are two glasses of wine. Julien pours from a bottle of pink wine on the table. I can’t see the label but I’m guessing it’s one of Etiennes.

And how may I be of assistance, Sandrine.
I tell him that I represent ET, that he’s a cousin of mine, so it’s a family business. We’re trying to expand our business, so we’ve sent him a sample of our wines. We chat about the wine trade in general, how the economic climate is affecting it, the usual small talk. He’s friendly, but businesslike.

He sniffs the glass.
And your vineyards, they’re in the south?
In Vaucluse, I say. Close to Avignon.
It’s very pink, he says. Of course, Rose wines are not so frowned upon these days.
How big is the estate?
Several thousand hectares, monsieur.
I must admit I didn’t know of your cousin’s name. But this wine, is okay. And you are so enthusiastic. And charming.

He stands up. Sadly that’s all I’ve time for. Another appointment in five minutes.
I get up, and we shake hands.
Are you going to buy some of our wine? I ask.
Perhaps. Look, can we make a deal, Sandrine. If I agree to buy some of your family’s wines, will you have dinner with me tonight?
I’m feeling like absolute shite. I think my period’s coming on. But there’s something about him.
That would be my pleasure, I say, smiling.
Au contraire, mademoiselle, I think the pleasure will be all mine.


By the time evening comes around I feel slightly better. At least I clinched the deal, so Etienne will be satisfied. My rendezvous with Julien at the restaurant, is planned for 9pm, so I make sure I’m fifteen minutes late. That seems about right, don’t you agree?

Tonight I’ve been more adventurous. Bright scarlet dress, plenty of cleavage, hemline above the knee. Strongest perfume I could find. Julien is impressed.
Ravishing, is his verdict.
You could sell wine to the arabs, he jokes.

We are escorted to a candlelit table, great view of the city. He orders an extravagant bottle of champagne. The menu is sumptuous, beyond mere mortals.

You know, this feels special, tonight. It feels like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
You’ve been watching too many films, I say.
He looks bewildered, then the penny drops. He laughs.
I see what you mean, Casablanca. Very romantic also. Of all the joints in all the world, she had to crawl into mine.

His smile is friendly, but there’s something dangerous, something sinister there. I feel a tingle of excitement.
We clink glasses, drink to success. And Etienne wines. He laughs, but his laugh seems cruel, reckless.

When the hors d’ovres have been finished, Julien wipes his mouth and takes a sip from his champagne. He looks me in the eye, until I can’t bear it any longer. I pick up my own glass and sniff the alcohol.

Tell me, Sandrine, where do you see yourself in say five years from now?
I don’t really think about the future, Julien.
But you should, a beautiful and intelligent young lady like you. Could go a long way. You could be very rich.
I’m already rich, monsieur. Well, comfortable. By the standards of ordinary people. I had an inheritance, you see.
So why are you selling wine for your cousin?
I know, it seems ridiculous. But when my parents died…. Let’s just say I owe Etienne a lot.
Sounds like he has some hold over you. That’s not healthy.
I’ve been trying to think of a way round that. But my conscience won’t let me.
Sandrine, you must be more selfish. I sense that you enjoy the good things in life. Good food, good wine, good company. And you have good taste. Frankly, you’re wasted in this line of work.

I’m feeling very hot. I excuse myself to go to the lavatory. I’m feeling nauseous.
When I return, Julien goes on the attack again.
So, tell me, who’s looking after your investments. Sandrine?
I blush.
Etienne, of course. I have property in Paris, and in Bordeaux. Some of it’s rented out. I don’t really need anywhere to live, I’m always on the road. I’m probably worth millions of euros, I don’t really know.
He laughs again, but his laughter seems to mock me.
Beautiful, intelligent, and rich. You have it all.

Tears are running down my face. I dab at them with my serviette. I’m sorry monsieur.
What is it Sandrine? If I’ve offended you, I’m so sorry.
No, it’s not your fault. Everything you say is true. I’ve been a fool. It’s a long story, a sad story. I’m not sure you want to hear it.
He takes my hand.
Sandrine, I want to help you. And I’d love to hear your story.
Maybe now is not the time though. I’m feeling a little jaded. It’s been a long day.

He takes my hand in his, preventing me from getting up.
I’ve got a business proposition that just might interest you.
I seriously doubt it.
Look, how much is Etienne paying you?
I take a sip from my glass. I can hardly tell him the truth, that Etienne doesn’t pay me anything. He’d just laugh at me.
That’s between Etienne and me, I say.
Come on, what’s the going rate for a wine trader?
Here goes.
If you must know, Etienne and I have an arrangement. He lets me stay rent free in his London flat in lieu of payment.
That sounds quite generous. Except that you’re not in London all the time.
But he foots the bill. All my expenses are paid.
Normal procedure, I’m sure. Entertaining clients, that sort of thing.
The flat is in central London. The rent would be about ten thousand. A week.
I get the picture. What if I said id match that.

My eyebrows might have raised at this point.
You want to pay me ten grand a week? To do what?
I lean my head on my palm and stare at him, amused.
I’ll think of something, he says. My business needs people like you – young, intelligent, and dare I say it, sexy.
There’s only one snag. Even if I agreed to work for you, Etienne would never let me go, I’m too valuable to him. He trusts me implicitly. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty. Family loyalty. It’s in our blood.
Very admirable, Sandrine. but don’t you want to better yourself. The world could be your oyster. Etienne is a small operator. My company sells wine all over the world.

I’m playing with my fork. I can’t deny that his offer is tempting.
You don’t know me, I say. Behind this façade, I’m not who you think I am.
Okay. Don’t make a decision right now. Just promise me you’ll think about it.
It’s a big decision, I say. I might need some time. I need to consult Etienne.
You don’t, he says. Don’t consult anyone.

I sit with my head in my hands, my brain is bursting. Julien is calling the waiter over. He tells him to put the meal on the company tab, and we’re leaving. He escorts me to a taxi, and asks me where I’m staying.
A friends, apartment. It’s in the 17th. Rue truffaut.
He smiles. How very charming. But you deserve better, Sandrine. The top tables, the most elegant clothes, the finest perfume. Although, you smell gorgeous tonight. He stretches an arm round my shoulders. I’m too drunk to shake him off. He whispers in my ear.
I want you, he says, and I always get what I want.
I look up at him, his eyes seem to bore into me. His lips are ready to close in on mine.
What if I told you I was gay, I say.
He laughs. His laughter fills the taxi. His hands run through my hair, fondle my bosom. I feel tired, but intoxicated. He stops.
I don’t think so, he says.

The taxi grinds to a halt. Rue Truffaut, monsieur. Julien looks annoyed, like he wishes the journey would take a little longer.
I’d ask you in for coffee, I say, but my friend will be waiting for me.
Goodnight Sandrine, don’t forget my offer.
I wave goodbye as the cab door closes. It’s raining again, and I suddenly realise I have no coat. For the second time that day, I get soaked as I hobble in six inch heels down Rue Truffaut towards Lucien’s.

Chez Lucien

Woke up early again. Another strange dream. As usual have to write it all down before I forget it. Later on I’ll send a report to Gerhard – my shrink.

The dream? This time I’m being pursued through a city at night. Sirens everywhere, police dogs. I’ m dressed totally in black, and with my long dark hair I blend into the darkness. The chase is relentless, and I’m getting out of breath. Just as the dogs gain on me I scream out. This jars me out of sleep.

The digital numbers on the alarm clock read 0400. I won’t get back to sleep now, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep doesn’t interest me. I put on a robe and get out of bed. Soon it’ll be dawn. I pick up my cigarettes and head for the balcony. In the kitchen I stop to put some coffee on. Strong, black coffee.

Soon I’m outside, leaning over the balcony, smoking a gauloise. Not that there’s much to see from here, just the street. Rue Truffaut. Lucien is still asleep, in the other bedroom. Although we’ve become occasional lovers, we don’t sleep together. My dreams would disturb him. Our love making is more spontaneous, wilder.

Lucien’s apartment is on the 2nd floor of a fin de siecle Art Deco building. The second floor is where the wealthiest residents lived, so Lucien tells me. This floor has the highest ceilings, the largest rooms. Two arched French windows open onto the balcony, opening wide to let the sun in and closing tight to block out the light at night. With windows facing in all four directions, the apartment is often bathed in light.

Back in the kitchen I glance through the window. From here you can see the top of the Eiffel Tower peeping above the rooftops and chimneys of Paris. I take the coffee into the living room.

Light floods the spacious living area, casting a warm glow on the original parquet floors. The entire apartment has been delicately furnished, the walls hung with 19th century prints. Lucien has impeccable taste.

I pick up a newspaper that’s been left lying around. It’s a few days old. I glance at the headlines. Berlusconi has put his foot in it again…..some farmers are protesting at Sarkozy’s plan to run a railway through Cezanne country…..both PSG and Marseille failed to win in Europe.

On the stereo lies the sleeve of the LP Lucien played to me last night. Chet Baker Sings. We sat listening to the cool jazz for an hour, whilst eating a romantic dinner. Then we made love on the sofa, fully clothed, like it was the end of the world. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I abandoned my plan to tell Lucien. That I might be leaving.

Today I feel refreshed. When I’ve finished the second coffee and fed up with old news, I throw on a pair of shorts and a faded t shirt, tie my hair in a ponytail. Then I’m outside, pounding the pavement. This morning I turn left into Rue des Dames, then head for Place Clichy, en route for the Cimetiere de Montmartre. I rest here for a few minutes, sheltering from the drizzle which has become heavier. On the run home my hair becomes plastered to my face, and my nipples are visible through the wet fabric of my clinging t shirt. I get some smiles, some looks, even some whistles.

Back at the apartment, all is quiet. I walk into the kitchen and Lucien surprises me, pinning me against the wall. He runs his hands over my bosom, then down into my pants. I pull my shirt over my head and he licks my wet skin. His erection is impatient, his desire urgent. We do it there, in the doorway, the rain now teeming outside the window.

I shower and dry my hair. I’m sitting checking the messages on my phone when Lucien wanders in again. There’s one from Etienne, looks like he’s having marital problems again. Frankie is a feisty girl. Another one from Jules, the guy I met at the fashion week party. He thinks I’m cool and we should get together. I recall he knew Sandrine, so I might say yes.

I’m relaxing, looking forward to an uneventful stress-free day, when I get this call. It’s from the secretary of an important wine merchant in the Marais. The managing director has a free appointment this afternoon, if it's convenient. Did I sigh? No, of course not, I accepted, otherwise Etienne would never forgive me.

So here I am, looking like death warmed up. I’ve just run ten kilometres, had sex twice in the last seven hours, only four hours sleep, and I’m still hungover. This had better be worth it.

Girl from the banlieue

Is this Real Life? Or is this just fantasy? What's the difference anyway?

I need time, and space. So I'm taking a rain check on the rat race at present.Here in the banlieues, holed out with a friend. It's me in the photo, taken by Lucien.

You want her name, I guess? You always want detail, don't you? Kind of nosy like that.

Okay, the name is Ella - like the singer Ella Fitzgerald. Whoever Gerald is - Lucien thinks it's funny anyhow.

A photographic model, in fact. I got to know Lucien through posing, and now we've become quite close. She's very beautiful, don't you think?But then, he's a great artist, could make anyone look good.

Ella is from Paris, though you wouldn't guess that from her name. She used to live out in the banlieue with just her cat for company. Lately however she's been staying with Lucien here in the city. Maybe it'll pan out, who knows. For now, she really turns him on. I get the feeling it's mutual.

Lucien has a great apartment. Did I tell you about it? No, I didn't think so, not in detail.
It's on the second floor - known as l'etage nobile - of this art deco building in the old village of Batignolles. Lucien has great taste, as befits a photographic artist.

Soon though, it'll be time to move on. I'd like to stay, really, I would, but there's too many bad vibes here. Too much history. Paris itself is a curse, and the memories crowd in on me when I walk the boulevards. I can't go near St Germain. Sandrine in my head, telling me what to do, driving me crazy. I need to get somewhere she doesn't know about.

Is David right about me? Looking at that photo, maybe I'm a fantasy. An object of desire, perhaps that's all I am, just like Sandrine before me. It hurts though, that he doesn't believe in me.I'm going crazy again, I can feel it. If I didn't have other people - ones who believe in me, I'd cave in.

Here's to you Lucien, Helene, Etienne, Gerhard,and the rest. You know who you are. Je t'aime.

Haute Couture

There’s a man watching me. Men are always watching me, but this is different. He’s staring, intently. A tall man, in his late fifties I’d say. Distinguished, possibly aristocratic. Sophisticated. Why’s he looking at me?

I’m in Paris. It’s fashion week, and Helene has sneaked us into an after show party. I’m not sure who’s paying – possibly Balmain? Whatever, Helene and I are surrounded by fashionistas. Every other word is darling, cherie, love. Sickening, really. The champagne’s good though.

Helene is looking good in her little black dress. I’m dressed to kill in a scarlet outfit bought that very morning on the Boulevard Malesherbes. The tide of faces parts like the red sea. The man in the grey suit is coming. I nudge Helene but she’s too busy chatting up a dark skinned man in claret. Now he’s here, towering over me.

I know the face, he says, just can’t put a name to it.
I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, monsieur, I say.
It’s uncanny, he says, but you remind me of someone. Someone I used to know. A long time ago, he says. When I was young.
He looks wistful. I’m wondering when someone is going to refill my glass.
I’m not in the business, I say, I’m a gatecrasher.
He laughs. Aren’t we all. But you look like a model, he says.
Very flattering, but I’m not taken in.
My mother was in the trade, I tell him. She worked for Balmain too. In the 70’s .
He nods. Ah, those were the days. Balmain was the king of fashion, he says. He costumed Bardot, you know. Classic designs.
What about now, I ask.
It’s different. Christophe is talented, no doubt. But it’s not my taste. Too brash, too modern.
He taps the waiter and pours me another glass. We drink to Balmain.

He tells me about the YSL auction week, what a marvellous collection of art. I tell him that a friend of mine is an artist, and has met Dali, de Chirico, among others. He seems impressed.
Do you live in Paris, he asks casually.
I tell him no, I’m from the banlieue and I’ve lived in Batignolles. Which is where I’m currently staying.
He raises an eyebrow. I imagined you more on the left bank. St Germain, St Michel, somewhere like that.
I tell him I prefer Batigniolles. More down to earth.
He smiles. Your mother, what was her name, cherie.
I tell him, and his eyes light up in recognition.
Sandrine, he says. Of course. You’re very alike. Very beautiful.
You knew my mother?
Not intimately, of course. But yes, we moved in the same circles.
I’m excited, but try desperately to hide it.
I always wondered what became of her, he says.
I stare at him, sadly.
She’s not here anymore, I say.
My eyes are watering, and out of focus. The room seems hot. Maybe I’ve drunk too much champagne. I excuse myself.

Retour a Batignolles

They say you shouldn’t ever go back. Revisit the scene of the crime. That sort of thing. They’re right, of course. But I can’t help myself.

Finding myself back in Paris for the first time in many years, I just have to take the metro out to Batignolles. It’s only a few metro stops Gare du Nord to Clichy. It’s been nearly ten years, but I’m hoping it hasn’t changed too much.

Walking down the Rue des Dames I pass the Bistro des dames – one of my old haunts. Eerily, my English friend David tells me he’s stayed at the adjoining Hotel Eldorado – our paths may even have crossed? Life is full of such intricacies and strange coincidences. My life is, anyway.

The road veers to the right and just around the bend is the narrow Rue Truffaut, where I lived for almost two years. I pass my old apartment block and carry on towards the Square des Batignolles. Lucien used to have his studio here, in the Place Fillion.

Soon I’m standing before the door of his apartment. Only now it’s probably someone else’s apartment. I can hear music coming from inside, heavy drum and bass. I ring the bell and wait a few minutes. I'm about to ring it again when the door is opened. A young teenage girl, sullen, cigarette dangling from her mouth, is glaring at me. I tell her I’m looking for Lucien , the photographer.
You need an appointment, she says.
I’m a friend, I tell her, I don’t need an appointment.
He doesn’t work here right now, she says.
He used to live up in Montmartre, I say, maybe I’ll go there.
The girl is shaking her mane of dark hair. The house is empty, up for sale, she tells me. Try the immobilier.

I retrace my steps to the Agence des Batignolles, on Rue des dames. In the same block as the Eldorado, in fact. I could’ve saved myself some legwork if only I’d known. The guy behind the front desk is about forty, with stubble and an open necked shirt.
You have a property for sale, I say. I tell him the address.
He checks on his computer screen, then looks up. Yes, it’s empty, he says. I can show you around today, if you want.
That’s not necessary, I say, I’m already familiar with the property. But I’m more interested in the vendor, monsieur leblanc? D’you have his current address?
The guy is shaking his head. No, only a mobile phone number. But mademoiselle, you must realise that we have a duty of confidentiality. Whatever your business is with this gentleman, under no circumstances could we give you this information.
Under no circumstances? I give him my best pout. I cross my legs seductively.
He sighs. I suppose I could arrange for you to meet him at the house, he says.

So later that afternoon, at 4pm to be precise, I arrive at Lucien’s former home, in Montmartre. The occupant is dishevelled, unshaven, scruffy. The same old Lucien, except there’s something missing. It’s the smile, of course.
Then he recognises me, and gives me a big hug.
I can’t live here anymore, he explains, since Amy and I separated.
I’m sorry, I say, I didn’t know. That certainly explains the absence of his normal bonhomie.
yes, he says, she’s moved back to England, with our daughter.
He shrugs. But you look marvellous he says, are you back in Paris?
Only for the fashion week, I explain.
Of course, where are you staying?
Maybe with my friend, Helene, you remember. He nods, scratches his head.
So what are you doing now? I went to your old studio.
Oh, I moved out of there too. I’m renting an apartment in Rue Truffaut. Didn’t you live there for a while?
That’s right. On the top floor. All those stairs.
We laugh together, awkwardly, as old friends do when reintroduced.
I’d love you to see my place, he says. I’ve got the whole floor. My studio is also there.
I don’t know, I say. I’m here with my friend Helene, I repeat.
D’accord, he says. Maybe tomorrow?
As usual with Lucien, I can’t resist.

Erotic Amy

The Musee d’Erotisme is on Boulevard Clichy, roughly half way between my old apartment in Batignolles and Lucien's house in Montmartre. I first came here almost ten years ago, fired with enthusiasm by his wife, Amy.

After dinner that first evening, when all the guests had left and Lucien was snoring loudly on the sofa, we sat together in the darkness. Amy said she’d got some gear from Morocco that we should try, to end the evening on a high. Amy raised her eyebrows but I didn’t protest. Soon I could feel myself floating across the room towards her. I remember Amy asking if I wanted to see her photos – she’d been a glamour model, she said, that was how she’d met Lucien.

The photos were quite explicit, one could say erotic. They were mostly taken by Lucien, she told me. That’s why I now refer to her as Erotic Amy. That, and the denouement to our evening, when she became an Erotic Amie. With Lucien dozing less than ten feet away, Amy casually asked if he was screwing me. When I denied it she just tossed her mane of hair and smiled.
I didn’t think so. In fact, something tells me you’re not that bothered by him.
What are you suggesting?
You rather enjoyed my photos, I could tell.
She was staring at me, and her hair shimmered in the dim light coming through the open window.
Well, what do we do now?
At the first touch of her hand on my hair, I felt a tingle of excitement. She was so beautiful, and very gentle. My mind flashed back to my only previous sexual encounter with a female.
You’re very beautiful, she whispered.
Then Amy’s tongue was pushing deep into my mouth, and her hands stroking my thigh. I responded, despite myself. She’d opened a door that had been closed too long. Suddenly I was outside myself, watching as I gave in to long suppressed desires. Her lips were on my own, and our arms entangled as we rolled over.

Later we sat watching the dawn enfold over the city, a gorgeous sight from the hill of Montmartre. Amy passed me a gauloise and exhaled.
You weren’t joking last night, were you she said. You really killed your family.
I coughed on the nicotine, choked on her words.
In a manner of speaking, I said. I mean, if it wasn’t for me, they’d still be around.
You want to tell me about it?
I nodded. Not now, but maybe sometime. When I can trust you.
She laughed.
We just made love, Sandrine. You’ve given me your body. Now I want your soul.
Her eyes flashed. I’d seen that look before somewhere. Why do I always attract crazy people?
But I was intoxicated. I fell under her spell, for a while anyway.