Paris Love Match

Chapter 2





Piers Chapman gazed across the river to Notre Dame cathedral and cursed to himself. In his rush to catch his train, he’d left his Nikon in the kitchen of his London apartment. On the opposite bank, the morning light mixed with a faint mist and wrapped the centuries-old Gothic masterpiece in a heartbreakingly beautiful bleakness. The French and the tourists, on the other hand, wrapped the place in trash and graffiti. Nothing, he grinned, that Photoshop couldn’t fix.

His phone buzzed. Despite having the latest in mobiles, he couldn’t bear its stupid musical ring tones. He’d hacked into it the night he had bought it and replaced the lot.

A French number glowed on the display. He pressed talk. “Bonjour.”

“Monsieur Chapman?”

“Oui.”

“You are ready to update the software in our cranes, yes?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Bon. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”

“But I’m supposed to do it today.”

“Non. This is not possible. I have a schedule.”

Piers looked up at the vista of Notre Dame. “So do I. I have a ticket home tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”

“Monsieur, if Waterloo Large Construction had brought the correct equipment, no software update would be required.”

Piers sighed. “I can’t change my plans, and the update will only take a minute.”

“Then I shall talk to your superiors, and see you tomorrow. Good day, monsieur.” There was a click and the phone went dead.

He sighed. Waterloo Large didn’t like upsetting the people who paid for their services. He made a bet with himself that the project office would call within two minutes. But two minutes was two minutes, so he crossed the river and joined the line for Notre Dame tours.

On the far bank, he could see the pair of cranes he was to update was stationary. As he debated sneaking onto the building site and updating them without permission, his phone rang. It wasn’t the office number he expected but, then again, it was the number he always expected. He took a deep breath and pressed talk. “Hi, mum.”

“Piers, you didn’t answer.”

“Didn’t answer when?”

“Three hours ago, when I called.”

“I must have been in the Chunnel. Out of range.”

“Well you need to keep in touch, dear. You know how your father worries about you when you travel.”

Piers gave a wry smile. “If he’s that worried, get him to send a text next time.”

“Oh, no, dear. Your father and I aren’t teenagers.”

“Mum, it’s just a way to communicate.”

“I don’t want to communicate. I want to talk to you.”

“Right. Look, I’ve got to go. Work and all that.”

“Of course. But you will keep in touch, won’t you? You’re not staying long, are you? Over there, I mean. Course you aren’t. I’m sure you don’t like it over there any more than your father did when he had to go there. 1986. He didn’t like it one bit. All olive oil and raw meat. Really, it’s no way to enjoy yourself, is it now?”

“Mum, I have to go.”

“Yes, you said. Work. Well, hurry home. And stay in well-lit areas with lots of people around. You always hear such terrible stories of people who travel to these foreign places.”

“It’s France. It’s closer than Scotland.”

“And that’s supposed to recommend the place?”

Piers sighed. “I’ve got to go. Bye, mum.”

Piers held the phone away from his ear until his mother’s goodbyes trailed off. When he ended the call, he saw an envelope icon glowing on the display. He clicked it and a message opened up.



French want software update delayed to Saturday. Travel office rescheduling tickets. Hotel Lafayette booked under company name. Get a taxi. Per Diem is 107 euros but don’t spend it all. I’ll tell the guys Xbox is off tonight.



Piers sighed. Changing his plans was a bummer, but an extra day in Paris would be good. If only he’d brought his camera.

He stepped out of line. He needed to check into his hotel before taking in the sights. Stuffing his phone in his pocket, he crossed the square outside Notre Dame and waved at a passing taxi.