She should have taken a room in a hotel, of course. Taken time to find her bearings, assimilated for a week at least but she was in a frivolous mood. A three-hour wait at Heathrow, relaxing in the Swiss Air Alpine Room, browing her tablet while sippng complimentary champagne, she fell into conversation with a French-speaking businessman. The bubbles had loosened her tongue. She found herself telling him about her recent financial luck and her somewhat vague plans.
He had offered advice about places to rent. He seemed well-connected and was soon making calls that her rusty school French could not quite catch. Voilà, he cried. A serviced apartment was all arranged. This is the stuff of movies she thought. This doesn’t happen to me. In for a penny … the expression made her giggle … in for a Frank, she replied. The man eyed her curiously. She felt gauche.
When their flight was called, she was disappointed to find that they were not seated together. Nevertheless, she was aware of him in her peripheral vision, to her right one row back and still watching her.
In the arrivals lounge, they parted. He said, Bon chance and was gone. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind. She glanced at the business card in her hand. Who was he? What had she agreed to? She had not signed anything, even digitally. It had all happened so fast. He said the concierge would have the papers. C’est normal. Was it? Really? Maybe money does talk here, she thought. Only one way to find out … but that flicker was there.
And now the taxi was pulling up. Two tall and heavy set men in sharp suits and dark glasses stood guarding the door of the building. A small crowd of excited people were being held back by a police cordon. She spotted press photographers. Who else lived here? What was about to happen?
