Dinner with Tamara

So we have dinner, Tamara and I.

Her restaurant is in the main thoroughfare that stretches alongside the River Sorgue. Here there are many restaurants cafes and bars – perhaps too many for them all to succeed? When I arrive it’s early evening and the place is deserted. Tables are laid in anticipation, menus are chalked up, but as yet no customers. I venture into the adjacent building and find Tamara seated at the bar reading the latest Midi Libre.

We sit outside consulting the wine list. I tell her of my experience in the wine trade, and she is quite impressed.
I could do with somebody who knows their wine, she says, suggesting I order the drinks. I choose a bottle of rose from Bandol. I also recommend Etienne’s vineyard, which she has heard of, but not done business with.

Soon the wine has loosened our tongues. She’s giving me a potted history. The story so far.
Like me, Tamara never graduated from university, but dropped out from classics studies to spend time drifting around the Med with her boyfriend. They married at twenty, too early says Tamara, and it soon turned sour.

The husband stayed in England, but Tamara returned to the Midi, looking for a job in catering. It was, she says, the turning point. She discovered she loved cooking, and worked her way up from the bottom.Now she’s in her late thirties, and her second marriage seems to be less than secure. But it’s difficult to leave, she explains, because of Sebastian, her son.

Normally, I’m a bit reticent, with people I’ve just met. Yet for some reason, I’m inclined to be totally honest with her.

I tell her about Sandrine, and Krantz, and what happened to them. How Etienne took over my life, after the accident. About my love affair with Helene. I even tell her about Batignolles – Anouk, Erotic Amy, Lucien, things I’d buried deep. How Gerhard helped me during my mental breakdown, and subsequent recovery.

I even tell her about David, the English painter I met on the internet, a few years back. She seems genuinely interested, and uncannily, she has a page on the same website. I suggest she writes to him.

Tamara covers the bill and we walk across to her car. She leans back in her seat.
I glance at the steering wheel, wondering how far over the limit she is. The needle is hitting speeds of over one hundred along the road towards Apt.
You’re so pretty Sandrine. How come you never married?
Haven’t you guessed yet, I say.
She just sighs. Come on, let’s get you home. Where is it?
Next right, just follow the signs for Menerbes. Keep going past the village and I'll tell you when to stop.
Soon we’re hurtling along the tree lined roads and the wind is playing havoc with my hair.
Tamara glances at me and smiles.
I’m so glad we met, she says.
Tears are streaking my face as the car takes a bend too fast. She laughs.
Whoops, good job there’s no traffic.
For the first time in years, I feel great. I’d be quite happy if it ended right here, right now, on this stretch of road, with the wind in my hair and Tamara next to me.
That night, I dream of Sandrine, and her wonderful smile. I realise, that’s what Tamara’s smile reminds me of. It all comes back to that, in the end. Sandrine.
I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream. A terrible, beautiful dream.

The Brooding Silence

The afternoon sun beats down. The surface of the pool is undisturbed, for the moment. There are two of us on the terrace, myself and Etienne. Etienne et moi.

We’re alone because Francine, Etienne’s wife of almost two years, has moved out to live with her family in Marseille. One argument too many, is how Etienne explained it. He doesn’t seem concerned that she may not return. Not now I’m here to keep him company, at least. His muse is back, and he seems relaxed.

Apart from the background hum of the cicadas, it's eerily quiet here. The silence is almost menacing. I know what Camus meant when he referred to the Luberon as “an enormous block of silence” The mountain seems to be waiting – for what I don’t know. But it sits there like a slumbering giant.

There is also a silence between Etienne and I, tension in the air. We are suddenly uncomfortable with each other. There are looks exchanged that say more than mere words. Behind his sunglasses I feel his eyes boring into me, observing my body as I prepare to dive into the still waters of the piscine. After my swim, I sense his eyes lingering on my wet swimsuit, on the nipples almost piercing the stretched lycra.

Inside the house, we pass each other in the narrow spaces, almost touching. We take meals together, we sit in the lounge together, we are civil. I read magazines whilst Etienne is absorbed in the cycling on TV. He rejoices as a French rider, Voeckler, wins the stage to Perpignan.
You sure he’s French, I ask, with a name like Voeckler?
From Alsace, apparently, Etienne informs me. May I also point out that your name is hardly French, Mademoiselle Krantz, he adds.
I have to admit, he’s got a point.
It’s Jewish, I reply. The Jews are from everywhere, we don’t have a country.
That must be confusing.
Liberating actually, I tell him.

Then I describe to him in vivid detail my dream, from last night.
I’m in a dress shop in Paris, on the Avenue de Liberation, I tell him. I don’t even know if there is such a street.
I wouldn’t know he says, you’re the Parisian.
Anyway, I’m with Sandrine, and she’s modelling clothes, asking for my opinion, the way she used to. She looks wonderful in a short scarlet summer dress.
Somebody is tapping on the window of the shop behind me. I turn round and its you, smiling at me. Did we ever meet, I ask, while mama was alive?
Etienne rubs his stubble. Maybe once. But it wouldn’t have been in Paris. Maybe in Bordeaux, he suggests.
So we leave the shop, and we’re crossing the street, the three of us. Suddenly this car comes hurtling round the corner, heading straight for Sandrine. And as it comes nearer, I glimpse the driver’s face. It’s definitely Krantz.
Etienne shrugs. And then what?
I don’t know. I woke up right there. His face frozen in my mind.
Did you tell Gerhard?
Of course, I send him all my dreams.
What did he think?
He hasn’t replied yet.
It was only last night, Sandrine. I’m sure he’s not seen the message yet.
He reaches out and takes my hand subtly. I withdraw it quickly.

The funny thing is, I’d started to rationalise it in my brain. I was getting over it.
I was thinking about this the other day. What if she hadn’t died?
Well, my life would’ve been completely different. Almost certainly I wouldn’t have gone to Montaigne – which is where I met Helene. I doubt if Etienne would’ve been such a big influence on my life. Probably I’d have gone to University in Paris, like Sandrine. I might now be a safe suburban bourgeois housewife in some dull provincial town.
I might never have met anyone in my subsequent life – and I started thinking, maybe there was a reason for her death. There is a silver lining. Helene alone was almost worth it.

Later that evening, after drinking a bottle of wine from Etienne’s own vineyard, we’re in the tiny kitchen together. He’s staring at me as he finishes his glass. Then he snakes an arm round my wait and pulls me toward him. I try to resist but he’s too strong. He holds me tight, so close I can feel his erection against my stomach. He whispers my secret name, my birth name. He hasn’t called me that for ages.

Don’t worry, he’s saying. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
I look up at him. I know he means well, but he’s part of the problem.
I need to move on, Etienne, I say. This is part of the past, don’t you see?
He nods. Please, he says, just tonight, for old times?
He strokes my hair, then kisses the nape of my neck. I’m fighting it, but another part of me wants him. Once he has lowered the straps on my dress it’ll be too late, as his tongue rolls down my cleavage. I remember how it used to be, when Etienne and I were lovers, back in Bordeaux. Before Helene came along and made things complicated.

The next morning it’s still quiet. I’m watching the sunrise over the Luberon. It’s the same every day but I don’t get tired of it. Am I tired of Etienne? I’m not sure any more. In the end we'd slept together, but without going all the way. I just lay in his arms for hours, curled up. Now he lies asleep, less powerful, more innocent than I’d seen him for years. His breathing the only sound in the echoing void of the Luberon dawn.

The English Rose

Tamara – never Tammy, she hates the shortened version – is Gil's wife. I’d spoken to her briefly on the phone to arrange our meeting. She told me she’d sacked the immobilier, whom she said was incompetent. She's English, but her French is pretty good, now she’s lived over here for a number of years.

When we meet that evening at their house, it feels strange - I'm wearing her dress, for a start. But she’s very gracious and charming. Taller than I’d imagined, with a mane of glossy golden hair, deep brown eyes, and a slender physique. She speaks in the polished tones of a newsreader, and her voice makes me tingle. [The photo is taken from her web page]

Gil has already given me a tour of the house, but Tamara insists on showing me her pride and joy, the garden. As we walk I learn something of her life here. She's lived in the Midi for many years, and worked her way up from the bottom in the catering trade. When she met Gil, he already ran a successful business [selling cars]. Then she became pregnant with Sebastian, and they married and bought the little restaurant she now runs on the banks of the Sorgue.

I ask why they’re selling the house, and she looks sad for the first time.
Business is not so good, she says, maybe we need somewhere smaller?
It’s almost dark now, we’re sitting in the garden but its still quite warm.
How about you Sandrine, she asks. I don’t know anything about you, are you married, what do you do for a living?
Some other time, I say. I'd better get back. Etienne will wonder where I am.
That’s your husband?
No, he's my cousin. It's a long story.
She stands and pulls me up by both hands.
It’s been so nice meeting you, she says. We must have dinner, at my place.
I smile. That would be nice, I say.
She kisses me on both cheeks.
Keep the dress she says, it looks better on you anyway.
As I get in the car my heart is pounding. Tamara has made a deep impression on me. As she waves goodbye I feel excited at the thought of seeing her again. Maybe this is the start of a beautiful friendship?

House Hunting

It’s been a long day house hunting. I’m late for my final appointment, a detached maison in the Pays Sorgues. When I arrive there’s no sign of life. No response to my knock on the heavy oak front door. Nobody in the garden when I walk round the side of the property.

At the bottom of the garden, past the olive trees and the beautiful piscine, is a small cottage. It looks uninhabited, but when I try the door, to my surprise it opens. Inside, there are two main rooms. One is a kitchen dinner, the other a small bedroom, with an en suite bathroom. It’s all been beautifully decorated.

I’m standing before the large patio doors, looking out onto the veranda, when I’m startled by a voice, close to me, from behind.
Hands up. Don’t turn round, you’re under arrest, it threatens. A young voice, a boy’s voice, I reckon.
I turn round anyway, hands raised. I’m confronted by a menacing dwarf in combat fatigues, armed with a gun. The gun is loaded with water, and its owner is a boy of about 11 or 12.
I told you not turn round, he barks. You’re not supposed to be here.
He comes closer, affecting a snarl.
I’ve only come to look round your house, I tell him. Are your parents home?
I’m going to get my dad, he shouts.
Then the little beast fires a volley of water at me. From such close range, he could hardly miss. So I’m standing there, in this gite, my dress is saturated, and this man walks in. He’s very tall, tanned, balding, wearing shorts and sandals. He looks faintly amused by the situation, whereas I am not.
I’m sorry, he says, but Sebastian, my son, is trained to protect his property. He thought you were an intruder.
He’s very well trained, I say.
I didn’t know you were coming, mademoiselle….
Krantz. Sandrine Krantz. I arranged the appointment with your wife. I’m a little late though.
He nods.
I see, well, she’s at the restaurant right now.
He’s standing too close for my liking, staring at me.
You ought to get out of those wet clothes, he says.
It’s okay, I say, I don’t live far. It doesn’t matter.
Don’t be silly, I’m sure Tamara would love to meet you.
I hesitate for a moment. It would only take a flicker of weakness, and I sense he’s interested in me. His eyes are boring into mine, and his hands rest on his hips.
I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind you borrowing one of her dresses? She’s about the same size. I imagine.
He’s looking me up and down. I feel uncomfortable.
You know I could have you arrested, he laughs. He leans forward, placing his hand on the wall above my shoulder. I can smell his breath. Faint traces of alcohol, and cigarettes.
I’m shivering now, it’s cool and my dress is sticking to my body. I try to stay calm, but he’s making me nervous.
I’m still waiting, he hisses, for you to take that dress off.
I look over his shoulder, to where a small figure stands still armed with his gun.
Papa, he shouts, are you going to torture her?
He looks angry, and his erection subsides quickly. Now it’s my turn to smile.
The man turns round laughing. It’s okay, son, he says, it’s just a misunderstanding. This lady is here to view our house.
He throws me a look.
You can use the shower, and there are some clothes in the wardrobe. Help yourself. Come up to the house when you’re ready.
Merci, I manage to stutter.

The Golden Triangle

I’m back at last. I’ve returned to the triangle d’or – the so-called golden triangle: Gordes, Menerbes, Bonnieux. It feels good to be here again. Etienne v. pleased to see me, naturally. Taking a well-earned rest from that business in London and Paris. I told him what Julien said about his small time operation – Etienne just snorted. We can’t all be conglomerates, was all he said.

Life is on hold for the moment. I’m in a dreamlike state. All that travelling has unsettled me. I decide I need a foothold – somewhere to call home. Etienne has some places lined up for me, and even lends me his wheels – well, his wife’s vehicle actually – for the purpose.

It feels like I’ve been drifting for the last couple of years. Trying to find myself, also trying to bury the past. Paris was a mistake, too many memories, too many ghosts. Down here I can relax, unwind, maybe even get some poetry going?

I've seen quite a few properties this week, a tour of the Luberon - from Apt in the east all the way to Avignon. One place in particular stood out, though not for aesthetic reasons. That'll be the subject of my next blog.

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.