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Page 21.
 They rose, together, now a couple. They walked out holding hands like a man and woman who belonged together. The verbal ping pong was over. The net was discarded, the table folded. The die was cast. The Rubicon glittered ahead, or actually the rain, which was letting up.
They walked out into glowering twilight and drizzle arm in arm like two twenty-three-year-olds—her blonde hair flying, his shoulders spread proudly like a sailor’s. Behind them, bottles made chinking noises. Piano music welled up from the Venetian-style windows of the music school. Dribbles drabbled as they huddled, dashing. Envious looks followed their departure into the dripping and fresh spring and mossy evening. He knew she knew he knew now what it was like to have a woman like her holding your cigar. Not such a bad feeling; like being intoxicated with all that Chaillot money and fire and first-class Scotch. Those smiles, like thrown snowballs. That skin like sweet caramel wanting to be licked.
Better yet, remove the wrapper and stare, but don’t spoil by touching.
“Do you have a car?” she asked.
Silly question.
“Yes, in Creteil, parked at my parents’ house.”
“Oh,” she said making wide eyes. Caught again. He guessed that she’d have maybe an expensive Porsche parked somewhere at greater expense than his tiny apartment when he could afford one. It would be a dark wine color, with plush interiors, charcoal probably, smelling faintly of brand-new leather gloves and expensive Japanese perfume and new-car smell to boot. “Well,” she said diplomatically, “Mine is in the garage. Let’s walk. I know where you mean. It’s not far.”
“The garage? Not a garage?”
“You’ll learn what you need to know. My family owns buildings in the area. With or without Jérôme.”
“Which one of you is wealthier?” He wanted to know things like this, and he really didn’t care much what he asked. “You can always tell me to shut up if you don’t like my questions.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s the case. I’m old money. He’s a little old money and a lot nouveau riche because his father divorced his mother to run away with a Turkish actress, and his mother took revenge by remarrying into a real estate fortune. Whatever.”
“You’re not hurting.”
“Only my soul.” She looked at him sincerely. “Only my aching heart. Remember, I promise you this: I would die before I hurt you.”
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