But back at my flat later that afternoon, a particular one pops into my head when Jean-Paul calls, though it has nothing to do with life and death.
He tells me that because Annalise has been put on bed rest, he has an assignment to fill. An American chemist needs a translator who can handle on-site work, and someone familiar with scientific lingo. The job as this woman’s personal translator will last for at least three months as she transitions from the US to France. The company wants a translator for four hours a day, leaving the rest of the time free for me to work on written translations for other clients, spanning a variety of industries. Most gigs are short-term, lasting only a few days, resulting in occasional days off without pay. But this assignment is plum. Three-month jobs don’t come around often, and the regularity, coupled with the chance to keep up with afternoon work, means I can sock away the rest of the money I need for my trip.
When one door closes, another opens.
Plus, the pay is higher than average since it requires special knowledge. I’m not a scientist. Not even close. But I have a ridiculously handy degree in my pocket that helps immensely when it comes to scientific terminology—marine biology.
When I finished school, I didn’t have a sodding clue what I wanted to study at university, so I picked something that might transport me to interesting places. To all the spots around the globe that I’d earmarked to visit someday. The sapphire waters along the coast of Greece. The islands that make up Indonesia. Belize, a scuba diver’s paradise. Growing up outside London, we didn’t partake in scuba too often, but that sounded precisely like what a marine biologist ought to be doing all day long—exploring warm waters.
My choice of study might also have come from the weather. That winter was an unusually cold one in England when I selected my major subject, and marine biology sounded tropical.
So, yeah. My reasons were clearly thorough.
I never wound up exploring coral reefs off the coast of Australia or swimming with the sea turtles in the Cayman Islands. But after university I landed a gig at an aquarium, translating its descriptions of exhibits. The degree has helped me nab many sweet translation gigs since I’ve kept up my fluency in scientific names and terminology.
This new job sounds promising.
“The client knows only enough French to be dangerous,” Jean-Paul says.
“I know the kind.”
“Indeed. The kind who orders in French then thinks she can sustain an entire conversation about politics because she managed to correctly ask for salmon.”
I laugh. “Well, you know the saying. It’s a big upstream jump from salmon to politics.”
Her name is Joy, and my first order of business will be to help her sort out some confusion with the apartment rental company. That should be a breeze, and a chance to impress her so she’ll happily keep me around for the entirety of the contract.
The next morning, I head out early, and since I’m not due to meet the client for another twenty minutes, I grab a table at a café near the place she’s going to be renting. As I drink my tea, I work through a French crossword puzzle that requires some seriously intense linguistic gymnastics. But I like this kind of mental stretching—it keeps my mind limber and ready for whatever challenges a job might throw my way. As I fill in each clue, I make note of the words in other languages I know—Spanish, Italian, some Portuguese—so I don’t forget the ones I’m not actively working in.
When I finish, I close the app and drain the rest of the tea. As I do, two thoughts occur to me. The first is that tea has rapidly improved in this country and can finally hold a candle to what I grew up drinking. The second is that another door is reopening right now.
A sexy-as-hell door.
I rub my eyes.
It’s a mirage.
But it’s not a mirage. It’s real, and it’s brilliant luck.
Judy is strolling down the street, heading in my direction. She wears huge green sunglasses, with lenses the size of pizza pies. Her hair is twisted high on her head, with several loose strands escaping to curl over her shoulders. Dark jeans are lucky again to embrace those long legs of hers, and a ruby-red V-neck blouse completes the I-want-her-number-right-fucking-now look.
I set down my cup, raise a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and call out, “Good morning, Judy. Are you following me now?”
She startles, stops in her tracks, and looks around.
“Over here. I’m five feet in front of you.”
She spins, and her eyes land on me. She blinks, then a smile crosses her lips. “Perhaps you’re following me. You did look like a stalker, Archie.”
I stand and offer her the chair next to mine. I’m not letting her go this time. I have fifteen minutes before I meet the scientist lady, and I’m going to get Judy’s number and land a date with her. Nothing less. “Would you like to join me?”
She peers into the white ceramic cup in front of me. “Of course you drink tea.”
“As if there’s anything else to drink in the morning.”
“I only drink coffee.”
“Funny, they have that here, too,” I say, nodding at the red awning over Café Rousillon.
She checks her watch, and the furrow in her brow tells me she’s adding up the minutes.
Time to press onward.
“This place is fast. And it’s good coffee, I’m told,” I say, determined to convince her. I shoot her a grin, finishing with the real reason I want her to pull up a chair. “Besides, if you join me for coffee, there’s a good chance I can convince you to tell me your real name and give me your phone number.”
She laughs. “You’re a determined one.”
“When I want something, I can be.”
Her smile widens. “Since I’m
