'I'm glad to hear it. And no need to wait for "one day". I'm about to visit your place of employ. You can make good on your account by slipping me an extra plump cream cake. Put a little note in it "du Frere was here" so I can admire your handiwork.'

'You're going in there?' Gui felt his stomach plummet.

'Certainly am,' Jim said cheerfully. 'Meeting a friend, an English chap I know from the emba.s.sy. He has a notorious sweet tooth, so I thought I'd look your establishment up. It's quite the place to be seen of an afternoon, from what I gather.'

Jim was laughing, but Gui felt sick. Jeanne was inside, at the best table in the house, seated next to Burnett. His brain was whirring, trying to think of something, anything, to dissuade Jim.

'You can't-'

'Can't what, pay? Christ no, I'm leaving that to Lionel. He's taken me under his wing, rather.'

A squeal of brakes interrupted, as a taxi cab pulled up and drifted past the alleyway.

'Speaking of which ...' Jim took a deep drag on his cigarette and threw it to one side. 'Good to see you, Gui. Come over to the Left Bank again soon, you and Jeanne. We'll get horribly drunk on cheap brandy and dance till we drop.'

He was already striding away.

'Jim, wait.' Gui scrambled after him. 'Jeanne is in there.'

'Is she? How extraordinary. I shall have to say h.e.l.lo.'

'No, please-'

'Don't worry, du Frere, I won't embarra.s.s you.'

'You don't understand.' Gui pulled roughly on his arm. 'She's Jeanne Clermont, Mademoiselle Clermont.'

Jim halted, an inch from the street.

'Her father owns the business,' Gui continued shakily, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. 'I told you, he promised her to another man, but she won't go through with it. I'm the one who's going to marry her. As soon as she can get some money-'

'Some money?'

'Yes, she said she has a little of her own, some jewellery, too. It's enough to live on, for a while.'

Jim was turning pale. 'You told me you loved her ...' he accused.

Before Gui could protest, voices sounded on the street, horribly familiar. In two strides, Jim was gone. Gui clutched at empty air, too late. He could not see around the corner to witness the scene. There was a silence, too long by a beat.

'Jim,' Jeanne stammered, 'I mean, Monsieur Stevenson, what a pleasure. This is Leonard Burnett, my ... fiance.'

'A pleasure to meet you, sir.'

'Likewise, Mr Stevenson.'

Gui edged along the wall as far as he dared. He caught a glimpse of the two men shaking hands. Jim looked over his shoulder, back down the alleyway. Gui met his hard gaze, then let his head fall back against the wall, eyes clenched to the sky.

'Mademoiselle,' he heard the writer murmur, 'I believe I see my friend. If you will excuse me?'

Chapter Thirty-Seven.

May 1988 'You are mad,' Alex complains, fishing a helmet out from under the cracked seat. 'I'm mad for even considering this.' He surveys the old motorbike with a mixture of pain and affection. 'I don't even know if she'll make it. I haven't ridden her since the start of term.'

'Her?' I laugh. 'Your moped is a girl?'

'It's not a moped.' He picks a spider from the handlebar, depositing it on a nearby bush. 'It's a motorbike, a CB 400 Hawk.'

'Fine. Will it get us to Dover?'

For the hundredth time that evening, Alex rubs at his forehead. He is not a spontaneous person.

'Petra, what if you don't find anything? What if there isn't any record of Mademoiselle Clermont's marriage? Then what happens if you get stuck in France? How will you be back in time for the review on Monday?'

I reach up and grab Alex's face between my hands. He stops speaking instantly. I smile, strangely calm. All of my anxieties and fears have distilled into a fine beam of light, pointing inexorably through the next three days. All I have to do is follow.

Eventually Alex sighs, a long, resigned sound.

'OK,' he concedes, placing his hands on my shoulders, 'but don't blame me if we break down in the middle of Kent.'

Alex's thumb brushes my cheek, as if smoothing away something there.

'You know I wouldn't do this for anyone else, don't you, P?' he murmurs.

A few minutes later, he kicks the bike into life. It snorts and splutters, smells strongly of oil, then settles into a disgruntled wheeze.

'All right, jump on!' he shouts over the noise.

Several residents of the street are peering through windows, looking for the source of the commotion.

'Are you sure?' I yell back, adjusting my rucksack.

'This was your idea. Do that helmet up properly.'

Grimacing, I tighten the strap, trying not to think about where it's been. It smells like damp foam and petrol. Satisfied, Alex nods and I climb on. He is wearing a leather bike jacket, sungla.s.ses. The jacket is a little short at the wrists, but even so, it suits him. He looks like a messy James Dean, if James Dean had ever decided to change career and study for a Physics Ph.D. I close my arms around his waist, and feel him jump. A second later he revs the accelerator.

We shoot through the streets of Cambridge. Landmarks pa.s.s in a blur, made unfamiliar by speed. Instead of heading for the motorway, Alex turns instead towards the centre of town, slowing to a halt outside a familiar faculty.

Ca.s.s bounds down the steps, wearing an expression that is more than a little mischievous.

'Thanks for stopping by, Al.' She leans against the railings, grinning. 'As for you, you were going to run off to France without even a word?'

I stammer an apology, mortified. In all the excitement, it hadn't even occurred to me to call her.

'I forgive you,' Ca.s.s tells me solemnly. 'Here's something to help you on your way.' From her pocket, she pulls a brown envelope that rustles. I rip open the paper. For a moment, I can't speak.

'Fifty pounds,' Ca.s.s nudges. 'Thank your fella here for calling me. He said it was an emergency. Luckily the banks were still open.'

Alex is flushing. 'It'll get you across the Channel, at least.'

'I can't take this,' I tell the pair of them, swallowing emotion.

'Think of it as a business loan, interest free,' Ca.s.s says, taking the envelope and shoving it into my bag. 'Also, your birthday and Christmas presents. Now, you two better get moving. You're going to have a long night.'

The ancient stone walls and narrow bridges of the city give way to suburbs, wide roads where the traffic moves at a faster pace. We hurtle past the sign that marks the edge of town and I feel a thrill, as if we are sneaking out of school.

The sun sinks behind us, trailing orange and pink through the sky. I can't help but glance in the wing mirror to see Alex's face. It's difficult to tell, but I think he smiles back. Resettling my hands around his waist, I lean against his back to wait out the journey.

With a jolt, I feel the bike slowing. My hands are almost frozen solid.

'I fell asleep!' I yelp as we pull into a dingy service station.

'Try not to do that,' he warns.

I clamber off with some difficulty and very little coordination. My legs have locked into position as well.

'We need a break,' Alex murmurs, eyes on the fuel pump as he fills the tank. 'And directions from here.'

We perch on plastic stools in the window of the service station, nursing cups of weak coffee and perusing a foldout map. Alex adds yet another sugar to his.

'We've still got a way to go,' he says, 'but I reckon we'll be at the port by midnight. That'll give you time to buy a ticket for the early sailing and wait for boarding.'

'What will you do?' I ask, taking another sip.

'Got an uncle who lives outside Canterbury. I'll drive up to him after you leave and get a few hours' sleep.'

'That's not far from my mum's house.' I smile. 'When this is all over you could come and stay, in the holidays.'

'I would, um ...' Alex hurriedly drains his cup, nearly choking on the sludge of sugar at the bottom. 'What will you do, once you've made it to France?'

I take a deep breath. The same question has been going through my mind.

'Get a train to Paris,' I tell him, 'wait for the library to open. Search the papers for Mademoiselle Clermont's wedding announcement. Then hopefully I'll be able to say conclusively what happened to her, whether Grandpa Jim was right or not.'

'What if you don't find anything?'

I don't answer. There are too many 'what ifs' to consider, too many fears, and any one of them could send me scurrying home.

The rest of the journey pa.s.ses without event. The night is clear and still, which bodes well for a smooth crossing in the morning. Finally, signs begin to read 'Dover' in the motorbike's feeble headlight. The cold is the only thing keeping me awake. If Alex is as tired as me, he doesn't let on. By the time we arrive at the ferry port it is nearly one in the morning, the place deserted.

'Do you think it's open?' I hiss into the silence.

Huge freight trucks loom like monoliths across the tarmac. Behind them is a low, square building, yellow light illuminating an entrance sign.

'Come on,' Alex says.

There's a seedy feeling to arriving somewhere this late and I'm immensely glad that Alex is with me. Inside, the terminal is sickly bright and empty. One or two people lie across benches, coats over their heads. At the counter we stand uncertainly. Alex spots a plastic buzzer and rings it.

After an eternity, a large man shuffles out of a back room. He is wearing a shirt with 'Hoverspeed' emblazoned across it, almost hidden by a hairy brown cardigan.

Grimly, he tells me the price of a return ticket. It is more expensive than I thought. The cash in the envelope covers it with a little to spare. Without it, I would have been stuck.

'Boarding is at three,' he grunts, 'through the immigration gate.'

There is nothing to do but wait, and eventually I drift into a doze. Dimly, I feel the weight of Alex's leather jacket settle over me. The terminal grows louder around us, until finally, there is a great rattling clank. Across the way, the cafeteria is raising its grill.

Alex smiles down, pale and tired.

'They've opened boarding,' he tells me, handing over my rucksack. 'Will you be OK? I feel like I should come with you.'

'I'll be fine.' I yawn. 'And you've done so much already. I can't drag you any further.'

'I would do it, though,' he tells me, eyes on the linoleum floor. 'If you asked.'

'I know. Thanks, Al.'

We pause at the entrance to immigration control, pa.s.sengers stepping past us.

'Bon voyage,' Alex offers with a mock salute.

'I'll call you later,' I promise.

'You'd better.'

Unexpectedly, he pulls me into a hug. I grip the shoulder of his jacket, feel his breath, warm on my neck. My heart is thudding beneath my shirt, so much so, that I'm sure he can feel it. I lean away an inch, and look up, breathless.

His mouth meets mine. The last call for pa.s.sengers to board echoes around us and I have to tear myself away. I don't risk another glance back from the gate, but hand over my ticket and walk out of sight, the pressure of his lips imprinted across mine like a word.

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

May 1910 Gui spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of high anxiety. He had not been able to see Jeanne since the disastrous confrontation with Jim. Every time he thought about how his friend had a.s.sumed the worst, his stomach contracted with nausea.

He almost tried to send a message to him at La Rotonde, but Jeanne was on his mind, first and foremost. Their entire future seemed poised on a knife-edge.